Chapter Text
He didn’t stay much longer after that talk.
Just left. Quietly. Like the conversation hadn’t just rearranged my entire head.
And then I just... stopped.
Two days of lying in bed, ignoring texts, skipping school, barely eating.
My brain kept looping the same reel — the way he looked at me, the way he said things like he didn’t think he was enough.
That word stuck to my ribs. Enough.
Somewhere between his stupid jokes, the ukulele lessons, and him calling me princess like it was a fact and not a nickname — I had already fallen. Hard.
And apparently, I was the last one to know.
So, fine. He thought he wasn’t worthy.
That’s his mistake.
And I don’t let mistakes sit around. I fix them.
the dance
Fall dance night.
Everyone pretending it’s the social event of the century when really, it’s paper streamers, fairy lights, and punch that tastes suspiciously fermented.
I wore pink and white — soft but not too soft. My friends screamed and took pictures like they were paid to.
And then I saw him.
Rodrick Heffley.
Wearing actual clean clothes and… eyeliner? Subtle, smudged, not bad.
He caught me staring. I rolled my eyes, but he smiled anyway — that stupid, wide grin that makes him look like he won something.
I tried to care about snacks, or photos, or the DJ’s playlist. Didn’t work.
So I walked up to him.
“Photo booth,” I said, like it wasn’t a big deal.
He blinked. “You want me in your photo?”
I shrugged. “Relax. It’s for the scrapbook. I need at least one charity shot.”
He grinned. “Thanks for blessing my photo with your royal presence, your highness.”
I hated that I blushed.
I also hated that I didn’t hate it.
Ten minutes later, mic feedback screeched through the gym.
Everyone flinched.
Rodrick was on stage — holding a ukulele.
“Uh, hey,” he said, scratching his neck. “Sorry, this isn’t part of the program. Just wanted to… do something before I graduate. No regrets and all that.”
Then he started playing.
The song wasn’t perfect, but it was him — raw, awkward, too honest.
It mentioned late nights, tutoring, a girl who has a R necklace and hides behind sarcasm and drinks iced coffee in the winter.
He didn’t say my name.
He didn’t have to.
When he finished, people clapped, laughed, recorded.
He looked like he wanted to vanish into the floor.
Classic Rodrick — grand gesture, zero exit plan.
And me? Standing there thinking, Great, now my plan feels dumb.
Later, they announced the King and Queen.
Shockingly, I won. (Try to contain your surprise.)
Aaron from football got King.
He reached for my hand, and I… didn’t take it.
“Sorry,” I said into the mic, heart hammering but smile steady. “I don’t want to dance with the king.”
People gasped like I’d declared war.
“It’s not that Aaron isn’t worthy,” I went on. “He’s just not my choice. I want to dance with the person who actually knows me. The one who sees past the lipstick and attitude. Who teases me but still shows up. Who calls me princess and means it.”
My eyes found him in the crowd.
“Rodrick Heffley,” I said. “Get up here, raccoon boy.”
He froze, then stumbled toward the stage like he’d rather face a firing squad.
Everyone was whispering, phones out, but I didn’t care.
The music started. We danced.
It was awkward. Off-beat. Weirdly perfect.
“See?” I said quietly. “Not scared to be seen with you.”
He smiled, eyes crinkling. “Guess I really was wrong about you.”
“You usually are,” I said. “But thanks for the song. Never been anyone’s muse before.”
He smirked. “Who says it was about you? You know how many girls wear ‘R’ necklaces?”
I smacked his arm. He laughed.
“So… just clarifying,” he said. “You’re basically asking me out, right?”
I gave him a look. “You’re the best B-plus student in our grade and it took you this long to get that?”
He grinned like the idiot he is. “Just making sure.”
Then — because subtlety isn’t his strength — he shouted,
“REGINA GEORGE IS MY GIRLFRIEND!”
The crowd lost it. My friends screamed. I wanted to disappear, but also… I was smiling.
He throws his head back, voice cracking the silence of the world itself. “Regina George is my girlfriend!” he shouts—to no one, to everyone, to the stars that seem to freeze just to listen. His arms spread wide, open to the universe, wild with disbelief and joy.
Then he turns to her. His grin softens. A kiss lands on her cheek, then another. His breath catches between each whisper—“my girlfriend’s cheek… the other cheek… her forehead…”—like he can’t quite believe the words are real on his tongue.
She stops him gently, palms cradling his face as if holding something fragile. “I know you’re excited,” she murmurs, a smile flickering across her lips. “But you get to do this any time you want.”
He stares at her, eyes glassy, voice small. “I still think I’m dreaming.”
Her hands are still warm against his skin. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans in, heart first, and brushes her lips against his—soft, fleeting, but enough to set his world on fire. For him, that small spark is everything—a pulse, an awakening, the elixir he didn’t know he was thirsting for. He catches her instinctively, one hand behind her neck, the other around her back, grounding himself in the one truth that finally feels real: she’s his.
He turned back to me, still half-disbelieving.
“Can’t believe this is real.”
“Believe it,” I said. “And don’t let it go to your head.”
He leaned closer, voice softer. “Too late for that, princess.”