𓆦Unraveling𓆦

Rodrick perched on the worn armrest of a recliner in the living room, a half-empty beer in his hand and his bandmates shouting over each other in the background. He wasn't paying attention to the game of flip cup they were engrossed in. His eyes wandered over the crowded room, and though there were plenty of faces, his focus kept drifting back to her.

Manon Gray.

She wasn't flashy like the other girls at the party. She didn't have that bold confidence they wore like perfume, the kind that made them stand out in a room. No, Manon was different—quiet, tucked into the edges of the chaos, as if she were more observer than participant. But somehow, Rodrick noticed her more than anyone else.

The oversized sweater and baggy jeans she'd been wearing tonight weren't the kind of clothes most girls wore to parties. They didn't cling or flaunt. They didn't try to scream "look at me." And maybe that was why he had looked at her—because she wasn't trying.

Something about that sweater stayed in his mind. The way it fell on her frame, how it didn't bother her that it didn't look "girly." Hell, nothing about her screamed "girly." And Rodrick couldn't figure out why that didn't throw him off.

He took a long drink, the beer bitter as it slid down his throat. When he'd called her "he" earlier at the table, it had been an accident, yeah—but it hadn't felt wrong, either. The slip hadn't even registered until later. And now that he thought about it, he couldn't shake how natural it had felt in the moment.

"Yo, Rodrick!" Jamie, one of his friends, smacked his shoulder hard enough to make him sway. "You good, man? You've been zoning out like crazy tonight."

Rodrick shoved him off with a grin. "Yeah, I'm good. Just chillin'."

"You sure? You've been staring into space for, like, twenty minutes," Jamie said, looking skeptical. "You thinkin' about someone?"

The question hit a nerve Rodrick didn't want to acknowledge. He laughed it off, shrugging. "Nah, just the music. You know me—always got beats in my head."

Jamie bought the excuse, nodding before he wandered off toward the kitchen, but Rodrick stayed put, leaning back and tipping his head against the chair.

Thinking about her.

Not in the way he thought about most girls.

Manon wasn't hot in the traditional sense. She wasn't curvy or polished or rocking anything tight and revealing. She wasn't the kind of girl who flirted for fun or knew how to work a room. But there was something about her that made him look twice.

Maybe it was the way she didn't seem to care. Like when he teased her earlier and called her "Baby." She hadn't blushed or rolled her eyes or tried to flirt back. She'd just stood there, calm and a little distant, like she didn't need his approval.

Or maybe it was the way her voice sounded—low and soft, not sugary or high-pitched like most girls he knew. It was steady, like she didn't talk much but chose her words carefully when she did.

And then there was the way she carried herself, not like a girl trying to impress anyone, but like someone who had their own thing going on, even if they were still figuring it out.

Rodrick let out a breath, running a hand through his messy hair. "What the hell is your deal, Gray?" he muttered under his breath.

Because the more he thought about her, the more he realized she didn't fit into the usual boxes. She wasn't like the girls he'd crushed on before, but she wasn't exactly like the guys he hung out with, either. She was just... her.

And for some reason, Rodrick liked that.

He didn't know what it meant or what to do about it, but one thing was clear: Manon Gray wasn't going to fade into the background for him anytime soon.

---

Rodrick stayed at the party longer than usual, surrounded by the usual chaos of his bandmates and their friends. But even as he laughed and played along, a part of him stayed locked on that earlier conversation.

Manon.

He didn't know why she stuck in his head, but she did. And as the night wore on, the thought of her—her voice, her clothes, her quiet confidence—lingered like a melody he couldn't shake.

Something about her made him curious.

And Rodrick Heffley was never one to leave a question unanswered.

---

Dakota stumbled through the front door, the faint scent of alcohol and weed clinging to his oversized sweater. His cheeks were flushed, his hair a mess from the crowded party, but for once, the chaos hadn't left him drained. If anything, he felt alive. The music, the laughter, even the sharp sting of beer sliding down his throat—it was so different from the suffocating silence of his usual routine. 

For a moment, he let himself dream: maybe he could have a life beyond these four walls, a life where he wasn't "Manon," where he wasn't just a disappointment in his father's eyes or a lost soul to be saved. 

But his dream shattered as soon as he stepped into the living room. 

The TV flickered with some late-night preacher ranting about sin, the volume low, but the tension in the room screamed louder than anything. His father sat in his recliner, one hand gripping the armrest and the other clutching a half-empty bottle of whiskey. His mother was perched on the couch, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her face pale and drawn. 

"Where have you been?" his father's voice cut through the air like a whip. 

Dakota froze, the fleeting happiness draining from his body. He could see the redness in his father's face, the way his eyes were bloodshot and wild. His mother didn't look at him, but her lips were pressed into a thin line—a clear sign she wasn't going to intervene. 

"I... I was at a friend's house," Dakota said, trying to keep his voice steady. 

"A friend's house?" His father's voice rose, and he stood, swaying slightly as the alcohol coursed through his system. "Do you think I'm stupid, Manon?" He spat the name like it burned his tongue. "You come in here smelling like a goddamn bar. What were you doing? Drinking? Smoking? Whoring yourself out?" 

Dakota flinched as if the words had physically struck him. "No! I wasn't—" 

"Don't you lie to me!" His father's voice was a roar now, and he slammed the bottle down on the coffee table, causing his mother to jump. "You think this is how a good Christian girl behaves? You think this is what God wants for you?" 

"I'm not a girl," Dakota said softly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. 

"What did you just say to me?" His father's eyes narrowed, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. 

Dakota's heart pounded in his chest. He didn't mean to say it, but now that the words were out there, he couldn't take them back. "I'm not... I'm not a girl," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. 

The room went deathly silent. His mother's eyes darted up to him for the first time, wide and full of panic. 

His father took a step closer, looming over him. "Don't you dare say that again," he growled. "You're my daughter, whether you like it or not. God made you a girl, and I won't have you spitting in His face with this... this nonsense." 

"It's not nonsense," Dakota said, his voice shaking but stronger this time. "It's who I am." 

His father's hand shot out, grabbing Dakota by the collar of his sweater. "Who you are?" he sneered. "Who you are is a mistake. You've been poisoned by the devil, and I won't let him take you from me." 

"Let him go!" His mother's voice rang out, high-pitched and trembling. 

His father hesitated, his grip loosening just enough for Dakota to pull away. He stumbled back, clutching the fabric of his sweater as if it could shield him from the venom in his father's words. 

"You listen to me, Manon," his father said, his voice low and full of menace. "You will not disgrace this family. You will not disgrace me. You will get down on your knees and pray for forgiveness, or so help me, I will make sure you understand what it means to respect God's will." 

Tears stung Dakota's eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He turned and bolted up the stairs, his father's voice still ringing in his ears. 

"Don't you dare think this is over, young lady! You're going to church tomorrow, and you're going to show God you're still worth saving!" 

Dakota slammed his bedroom door shut and collapsed onto his bed, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His hands shook, and the faint, lingering warmth from the party was now just a distant memory. 

For a moment, he let himself cry—silent, angry tears that soaked into his pillow. But as the minutes ticked by, he wiped them away, his jaw tightening. 

He wouldn't pray for forgiveness. 

Not tonight. 

Not ever. 

----

A/n: WE FINALLY GOT RODRICKS POV!! also ugh we hate Mr Gray... I'm so sick rn y'all I can barely run without having shortness of breath 😭😭 being sick always effects my asthma 🙁