seventeen ✰ rodrick heffley x reader

✰ chapter four

It's raining. The sky had been cloudy and gray all day, a storm only seconds from breaking through the atmosphere. You're sitting in the living room with your sister, some dumb kids' movie playing quietly on the TV. Neither of you are really paying attention.

"They said they'd be home at ten, Jess," you mumble worriedly. "Where are they?"

"You worry too much." Your sister replies serenely, grabbing your hand. "It's okay."

Despite her reassurances, a knot of anxiety is forming in your stomach, growing bigger every time another minute ticks by. The grandfather clock standing in the foyer is threatening to become your worst enemy.

You lay your head on her shoulder and let your mind wander. What if something bad happened? What if they don't come back?

Thunder cracks from outside, a flash of lightning following suit. You wince as you watch it light up the darkness outside your living room windows.

It's ten forty-five. Then it's eleven. Then it's past midnight, and still your parents aren't back. No calls, no texts. Radio silence. You're terrified.

Your sister tells you to go to bed. You lay awake in the dark instead. You're wracked with nerves. It's nearly four in the morning when you recognize the heavy footfalls of your mother on the stairs, finally home. You flip on the light and go to meet her.

Your dad isn't with her.

Standing in the middle of the hallway, she looks like she's seen a ghost. Her face is pale and her eyes puffy. She's obviously been crying. Your sister stands behind her, steadying her.

"Mom?"

Jess shakes her head numbly, and you feel your face go slack.

"Where's-"

Your voice breaks before you can finish. Your mother opens her arms and you fall into them. She doesn't need to say what's happened.

It hangs, heavy and unspoken, between the three of you as you stand in the hallway.

✰

You wake with a start, only minutes before your alarm goes off. You're feverish and sweaty and almost nauseous from your dream (though it felt more like a memory).

The sunlight is bright and warm, filtering through your window and casting a yellow glow around the room. You want nothing more than to wrap yourself in blankets and never leave your bed, but it's the first day of your junior year.

You force yourself to roll out of bed, groaning, pretending you're not dreading the first day. It's only six-thirty, but your bones ache like you're getting up at the crack of dawn.

Ignoring the first-day-related anxiety wreaking havoc in your brain, you throw on your favorite shirt and the least-dirty pair of sweatpants you can find on your warzone of a floor. When you get into the kitchen, your sister is standing at the stove, making what appears to be scrambled eggs.

She's trying to make scrambled eggs, at least. You're not sure what's wrong with the eggs in the pan, but they look both burnt and undercooked at the same time.

"Jess, you're hopeless," you mumble as you breeze past her, opening the fridge and grabbing a carton of orange juice.

"Cooking isn't my strong suit, (Y/N). You know that."

You laugh lightly and pour yourself a glass of juice. Jess groans and scrapes the eggs out of the pan. "I give up. I'm never cooking again."

"Don't be so dramatic, Jess," you say, biting back a laugh. "You make a mean grilled cheese, after all."