All The Noise Between Us

Chapter Three: Provocation

Rodrick POV

The classroom smells like paper, chalk dust, and pretension. He hates it already.
Regina's there, perfectly poised at the back, notebook open, pen ready, eyes scanning like she's dissecting him piece by piece.

He plops into the seat across from her. "Ready for round two, princess?"

Her eyebrow quirks. "Do you ever shut up?"

"Only when I'm playing drums," he says. "And that's rare."

She's quiet for a moment, studying him. Too quiet. That's when he knows she's plotting. He doesn't need to read her notes—he can feel the intensity radiating off her.

"Your coping mechanisms," she says finally, "are... obvious."

"Which ones?" he teases, leaning back. "The sarcasm, the self-deprecation, the eyeliner? Or all three at once?"

She flicks her pen at him. "You're insufferable."

He laughs, because he knows. He loves it. Every jab, every critique, every perfectly aimed insult—he lives for it.

Regina POV

He grins, smug and irritating, as if he knows exactly how much control he's stealing from her with each word.

She writes it down anyway:

Reacts to criticism with humor

Uses sarcasm to deflect vulnerability

Delights in verbal sparring

Her hand tightens around her pen. This project is supposed to be academic. Clinical. Observational. She's supposed to be the one in control.

But every time he smirks at her, laughs at her, pushes her buttons, she feels it—the pull. That dangerous magnetic pull she has spent years avoiding.

And it scares her.

"Stop smiling," she snaps.

"Why?" he counters. "It suits me."

It infuriates her that he's right.

Rodrick POV

After class, he drags her down the hall to the practice room. He wants her to see where the real noise comes from. Not the classroom, not the project—him.

He sets up, headphones clamped around his head, sticks in hand. The bass thumps low, drums rattling, guitar feedback screaming.

"You're doing this for your notes, right?" he asks over the chaos.

"I am documenting emotional patterns," she says, trying to keep her tone formal.

"Cool. Then document this," he says, pounding the drums like he's trying to make the walls implode.

She flinches slightly at the volume. He notices and grins. "You're too quiet back there. Let me see the real reaction."

She folds her arms. "I'm not reacting to you."

He laughs. "Good. Pretend you're not melting a little."

Regina POV

He's impossible. Loud, arrogant, infuriating, and... intoxicating. Every strike of the drum is like a challenge. Every smirk aimed at her is a dare.

She tells herself she's in control. She's observing, documenting, analyzing. This is just a project. And yet, part of her wants to lean forward, push back, fight fire with fire, see what happens if she doesn't stay calm.

And so she does.

"Do you ever stop performing?" she asks, voice clipped, pen ready to jot every flinch, every grin.

"Performing?" he echoes, cocking his head. "I think you mean existing. And no—I don't exist quietly."

She jots that down. Defiance as a coping mechanism. Provocative intentionally.

And secretly, she's thrilled.

Rodrick POV

By the end of practice, both of them are tense, charged, their notes and thoughts overlapping like feedback loops. He watches her pack up, lips pressed together in that impossible way, eyes flashing.

"You're obsessed with analyzing me," he says.

"Not obsessed," she fires back. "Focused."

"Same difference," he says, smirking.

She glares. "You're impossible."

"And you love it," he mutters under his breath.

And he's right. She does.

Because for the first time in years, neither of them is playing safe. And the world outside this tiny practice room? It doesn't matter.

They're caught in the rhythm of each other now, sharp edges and drumsticks, verbal sparring and magnetic tension—and neither is willing to back down.