Late-Night Drives & Mixtapes
Rodrick Heffley x Fem!Reader | Fluff | 1.2K words
The low rumble of Rodrick’s van was the only sound in the stillness of the night. The neon glow from passing streetlights cast fleeting shadows over his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the steering wheel. You sat beside him, your legs tucked under you, basking in the comfortable silence that only came with being around him.
It was past midnight, and the world felt softer, slower, as Rodrick drove with no real destination in mind. The cool night air seeped through the cracked windows, carrying the scent of asphalt and pine. Your town always felt different at night—quieter, almost like it belonged to just the two of you.
Rodrick exhaled through his nose, tapping the dashboard with his palm. “Alright, Y/N, serious question,” he said, his voice scratchy from a mix of exhaustion and whatever energy drink he’d chugged before picking you up. “If you had to listen to only one band for the rest of your life—like, no skips, no variety—who would it be?”
You hummed, pretending to give it deep thought. “Löded Diper, obviously.”
Rodrick groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “That doesn’t count. You’re just saying that ‘cause you feel bad for us.”
“Maybe.” You grinned. “But also, I like your music, okay? So sue me.”
He side-eyed you, lips twitching like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Instead, he flicked on the stereo, and the van filled with the opening chords of a song you didn’t recognize.
“What’s this?” you asked, shifting in your seat as the steady drumbeat kicked in.
Rodrick shrugged, gripping the wheel tighter. “Just a mix. You’ll like it.”
You didn’t miss the way his knuckles flexed, how his knee bounced as if he was waiting for you to say something. His usual cocky attitude was nowhere to be found—just nerves, poorly hidden under the dim glow of the dashboard.
You leaned closer, letting the song wash over you. It was a mix of classic rock and some heavier alternative stuff, but then, a song that was unmistakably different played through the speakers—something softer, melodic, almost sweet.
You turned your head slowly. “Rodrick… did you make this?”
He snorted. “What? A playlist? Yeah, Y/N, that’s not exactly rocket science.”
Rodrick drummed his fingers against the wheel, gaze fixed on the road ahead. “I dunno,” he muttered. “Maybe.”
A warmth spread through your chest, something soft and fluttery. You had known Rodrick for years, and despite his general ‘I don’t care’ attitude, there were always these moments where he’d surprise you—where he’d let that tough exterior slip just enough to show the messy, endearing boy underneath.
“Rodrick,” you pressed, smiling despite yourself. “Did you just make me a mixtape?”
“I didn’t put it on a tape, did I?” He groaned, but you saw the tips of his ears go pink. “Just—ugh, don’t make it weird, okay?”
You let out a small laugh, watching as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was so bad at this—at being soft, at admitting when he did something thoughtful—but that just made it all the more endearing.
“I love it,” you said simply, because you did.
Rodrick peeked at you, and the tension in his shoulders eased, just a little. “Yeah?”
For a moment, there was nothing but the hum of the engine and the music filling the space between you. The city lights faded as Rodrick turned onto an empty backroad, the kind lined with trees where the only illumination came from the headlights slicing through the dark.
He ran a hand through his already-messy hair. “Alright, your turn. One band for life—not Löded Diper.”
You tapped your chin dramatically. “Hmm… Nickelback.”
Rodrick gasped, swerving the van slightly. “Take that back.”
You cackled, throwing your head back. “Make me.”
Rodrick shot you a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re lucky I don’t pull over and leave your ass on the side of the road.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” you challenged, poking his arm. “You’d miss me too much.”
Rodrick rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” But his grip on the wheel tightened, and there was something softer in the way he glanced at you, in the way his lips parted like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t quite figure out how.
The mixtape—his mixtape for you—kept playing, the tracks bleeding into each other, each one carefully picked by him. It was so painfully obvious now, what this was. He hadn’t just thrown together a bunch of songs he liked.
He’d picked songs with meaning. Songs that told you things he didn’t know how to say.
The van rolled to a stop at the edge of a hill that overlooked the town. It was a spot the two of you had come to before, but tonight, it felt different. The lights below twinkled like tiny stars, and for the first time in a while, everything felt… easy.
Rodrick leaned back in his seat, stretching his arms before resting one over the back of yours. He was pretending to be casual about it, but you could feel the warmth of his fingers, just barely brushing your shoulder.
“You wanna know something?” he asked suddenly.
You turned to him, resting your cheek against the seat. “Always.”
Rodrick licked his lips, drumming his fingers absentmindedly against the dashboard. “I, uh… I don’t really do this. Like, the whole, y’know…” He waved a hand vaguely. “Feelings thing.”
“I never would’ve guessed,” you teased.
He shot you a look. “I’m being serious.”
“I know,” you said, a little softer this time. “Go on.”
Rodrick exhaled sharply, like he was bracing himself. “I just—look, I like having you around, okay?” He squirmed, like the words physically pained him. “And not in, like, a ‘you’re cool to hang out with’ way, but in a ‘shit, I think about you all the time and it’s annoying’ way.”
Your heart stuttered, heat creeping up your neck. “Rodrick—”
“Wait, I’m not done,” he interrupted, squeezing his eyes shut for a second before forcing himself to look at you. “I made the dumb mixtape because every time I hear a song I like, I wonder if you’d like it. And I wanna know what you think about it, and—ugh, this is so lame.”
You laughed, but it wasn’t mocking—it was light, breathless, because God, he was a mess, and it was adorable.
“Rodrick.” You reached over, slipping your fingers through his. His breath hitched, and he tensed, but he didn’t pull away.
You squeezed his hand. “I think about you all the time, too.”
Rodrick blinked. “Wait, seriously?”
You grinned. “Yeah, idiot.”
For a second, all he did was stare at you like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Then, with a sudden burst of confidence, he leaned in.
The kiss was quick—just a hesitant brush of lips, warm and a little clumsy—but it made your stomach flip all the same. When he pulled back, his cheeks were red, and he was trying so hard to act cool about it.
“Well,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “That wasn’t terrible.”
You rolled your eyes and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him back in.
This time, he kissed you properly.
And if the mixtape continued playing softly in the background, with lyrics about love and late-night drives and stupid teenage feelings—well, neither of you were complaining.
