8

The next few days were weird.

Weird because Rodrick wasn’t being Rodrick.

He still made sarcastic comments, still rolled his eyes, still wore too much black for a tropical island — but every time Y/N caught him looking at her, it wasn’t with smugness anymore.

It was something else.

Something dangerous.

~The Second Party~

When someone announced another party — this time at the beach with torches, music, and way too much rum punch — Sam dragged Y/N out with no room for discussion.

“You need to let go,” Sam said, adjusting his sunglasses. “Tonight, we drink like the hot messes we are.”

Y/N had barely touched alcohol since the first party. She told herself it was because she was being smart. Truthfully, she was scared she might do something stupid around him again.

But tonight… she gave in.

Three red cups in, her limbs felt loose. Her laughter was louder. Her cheeks were flushed.

And Rodrick?

He was watching her from across the sand, leaning against a tree, drink in hand, jaw tense.

Heather had tried to cozy up to him earlier. He shrugged her off like she was an annoying fly.

Now, his eyes were only on Y/N.

She swayed closer to the fire, dancing with Sam, hair wild and glowing in the light.

When their eyes met — something in her cracked.

She smiled.

At him.

Not mocking. Not smug.

Just soft.

Inviting.

And Rodrick almost dropped his drink.

~Hours Later~

He found her after midnight, sitting barefoot on the stairs outside their cabin, heels in her hand, mascara slightly smudged.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

She looked up, smile lazy. “Heffley.”

“You good?”

She held up two fingers. “Slightly drunk. Possibly dying.”

Rodrick laughed. “You wanna sleep on the stairs or…?”

She reached up. “Help me.”

He pulled her up — and she wobbled into him, hands pressed to his chest.

“You smell good,” she mumbled.

He blinked. “You’re hammered.”

“Not too hammered to notice you’re hot.”

His breath caught.

She looked up at him, lips slightly parted, eyes glassy but locked on his like they knew what they were doing.

“Y/N,” he said low. “Careful.”

“Why?” she whispered. “You scared you’ll kiss me again?”

Rodrick didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

He just said: “No.”

“I’m scared I’ll let you.”

And that was it.

She leaned in — slow, soft, hesitant. But Rodrick met her halfway.

Their lips touched.

And it was nothing like the first time.

This wasn’t a dare. This wasn’t a tease.

This was real.

Hot and aching and slow — like they were trying to figure each other out in the dark, piece by careful piece.

Rodrick’s hands slid around her waist, holding her like she might float away.

Y/N’s fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt, fisting the fabric like she didn’t want him to stop.

“You taste like rum,” he murmured against her mouth.

“You taste like trouble,” she whispered back.

He chuckled. “Same thing.”

She kissed him again — deeper this time — until she staggered a little and he caught her.

“Okay, okay,” he said gently, pulling back. “Let’s get you to bed.”

~Later That Night~

Y/N was curled under the covers, hair sprawled across her pillow, face peaceful in the moonlight.

Rodrick sat beside her bed, a glass of water and painkillers waiting on the nightstand.

He hadn’t even changed out of his party clothes.

He just… watched her sleep.

Because for the first time, he wasn’t thinking about how to win the next fight.

He was thinking about how close she came to breaking through every wall he’d built around himself.

And how he didn’t want to stop her.

Before he turned off the light, he leaned down — just enough to whisper:

“You’re driving me crazy, sunshine.”

Then he kissed her forehead — soft, barely there.

And when she stirred in her sleep and whispered, “Rodrick…” in the smallest voice—

He knew he was completely screwed.