The Loud House was, as always, a cacophony of chaos. Eleven kids meant eleven different levels of pandemonium, from Luan’s bad puns echoing down the hall to Lana’s pet frog croaking in protest from somewhere under the couch. In the midst of it all, the living room was a temporary war zone of strewn toys, half-finished board games, and Lincoln Loud’s latest obsession—his stack of Ace Savvy comics, which he was currently hunched over like a monk studying sacred texts.
Rusty Spokes, Lincoln’s gangly, freckle-faced friend, sat awkwardly on the edge of the sagging couch, his lanky limbs folded like a broken lawn chair. His voice, a grating squeak that sounded like a rusty hinge desperately in need of oil, cut through the din as he tried to feign interest in their so-called school project—a poster on the Industrial Revolution. “So, uh, Lincoln, d’ya think we should, like, draw a train or somethin’? You know, for the... uh, revolution part?”
Lincoln didn’t even look up from his comic, his white hair flopping over his forehead as he muttered, “Yeah, sure, Rusty. Trains are cool. Whatever.”
Rusty’s hazel eyes, however, weren’t on the poster board propped against the coffee table. They were darting—shamelessly, hopelessly—toward the kitchen, where Rita Loud, Lincoln’s mother, was a vision of domestic divinity. Her form-fitting salmon shirt hugged her curves like it was painted on, and those mauve pants? They were a cruel masterpiece, accentuating every sway of her hips as she bustled between the counter and the stove, whipping up what smelled like her famous lasagna. Her blonde hair was swept into a practical yet somehow seductive ponytail, and every time she bent over to grab a pot or a spoon, Rusty’s brain short-circuited.
“Uh, Rusty? You okay, man?” Lincoln finally glanced up, squinting at his friend’s glazed expression. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or one of Lisa’s weird experiments.”
Rusty jolted, his voice cracking as he stammered, “W-what? Nah, I’m fine! Just, uh, thinkin’ ‘bout... trains! Yeah, big ol’ steam engines. Choo-choo, am I right?” He forced a laugh that sounded more like a dying kazoo.
Lincoln rolled his eyes and went back to his comic. “Whatever, dude.”
Emboldened by Lincoln’s disinterest, Rusty slid off the couch, his sneakers scuffing the worn carpet as he shuffled toward the kitchen. His heart was pounding like a jackhammer, but he squared his bony shoulders, trying to channel some kind of swagger. He leaned against the doorframe, one hand awkwardly shoved in his pocket, the other giving a shaky wave. “H-hey, Mrs. Loud! Need any help in there? I’m, uh, real good with... pots. And stuff.”
Rita turned, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised as she held a wooden spoon mid-stir. Her lips curved into a smirk, and her blue eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and something dangerously playful. “Oh, Rusty, aren’t you sweet? But I’ve got this under control. Though I must say, I didn’t realize pots were your specialty. What’s your secret—do you whisper sweet nothings to them until they boil over?”
Rusty’s face turned a shade of red that could’ve stopped traffic. His voice hit a new octave as he sputtered, “N-no! I mean, I could! I mean—uh, I just thought, y’know, you’re workin’ so hard, and I’m just sittin’ there, and... wow, that shirt looks real nice on you. Like, super nice. Salmon’s my favorite... fish.”
Rita’s smirk widened as she set the spoon down and crossed her arms, leaning casually against the counter. The motion did things to her figure that Rusty’s teenage brain couldn’t process without risk of implosion. “Salmon’s your favorite fish, huh? That’s a bold statement for a boy who’s staring at me like I’m the catch of the day. Eyes up here, Spokes.”
Rusty’s gaze snapped up from where it had very obviously lingered, his freckles practically glowing with embarrassment. “I-I wasn’t—! I mean, I was just—! Uh, sorry, Mrs. Loud, I didn’t mean to—!”
She laughed, a rich, throaty sound that made Rusty’s knees wobble. “Relax, kiddo. I’m flattered. But you’ve got to work on your game if you’re gonna come in here throwing lines like that. ‘Salmon’s my favorite fish’? Really? I’ve heard smoother talk from my blender.”
Rusty rubbed the back of his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “Y-yeah, that was pretty bad, huh? I’m just... I’m not used to talkin’ to someone as, uh, cool as you. You’re like... Wonder Woman, but with better lasagna.”
Rita tilted her head, her smirk never wavering as she picked up a dish towel and slung it over her shoulder with a casual grace that made Rusty’s heart skip. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Rusty, but only if you’ve got the guts to back it up. Tell you what—since you’re so eager to help, why don’t you grab that colander from the top shelf? Let’s see if you’ve got any reach to go with that charm.”
Desperate to redeem himself, Rusty practically tripped over his own feet as he hurried to the shelf she pointed at. He stretched up on his tiptoes, his gangly frame wobbling as he fumbled for the colander. “I got it, Mrs. Loud! I’m, uh, real tall. Kinda. Sorta. Almost—”
The colander slipped, clattering to the counter with a metallic clang, and Rusty winced as if he’d just dropped a priceless artifact. Rita didn’t miss a beat, stepping closer—close enough that he could smell the faint vanilla of her shampoo—and picked it up with a teasing tsk. “Nice try, champ. But maybe stick to admiring from a safe distance next time. Wouldn’t want you breaking anything... or anyone’s heart.”
Rusty’s jaw dropped, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. Was she flirting with him? No, she couldn’t be. Could she? His mind raced, conjuring up wild fantasies of sweeping her off her feet—maybe with a better line about salmon, or by fixing her sink, or... something. Anything. He had to figure out a way to impress her, to make her see him as more than just Lincoln’s awkward friend with a voice like a dying foghorn.
“Uh, Mrs. Loud, I’m real sorry ‘bout that. I swear I’m usually better with... stuff. If you ever need help with anything—like, anything at all—I’m your guy. I’m real handy. Like, Bob the Builder handy. Can I build it? Yes, I can!” He punctuated it with a dorky grin, immediately regretting every life choice that led to this moment.
Rita chuckled, shaking her head as she turned back to the stove, her hips swaying just enough to keep Rusty’s eyes glued to her. “Oh, Rusty, you’re a riot. I’ll keep that in mind next time I need a builder... or a comedian. Now, shouldn’t you be getting back to that project with Lincoln? I’d hate to derail your train of thought.”
The double entendre wasn’t lost on him, and Rusty’s blush deepened as he mumbled, “Y-yeah, right. Train. Project. Got it. I’ll just... go. But, uh, if you change your mind about that help—”
“I know where to find you, Casanova,” she cut in, tossing him a wink over her shoulder that nearly sent him stumbling into the fridge.
As Rusty shuffled back to the living room, his mind was a whirlwind of half-baked plans. He had to win her over. Maybe he could learn to cook—lasagna, specifically. Or fix something around the house to show off his (nonexistent) skills. Or write her a poem about salmon. Okay, maybe not that last one. But one thing was clear: Rita Loud had him hooked, and he was willing to make a complete fool of himself to reel her in.
Lincoln looked up as Rusty collapsed onto the couch, his face still flaming. “Dude, what’s with you? You look like you just ran a marathon.”
Rusty forced a grin, his voice cracking worse than ever. “Nothin’, man. Just... thinkin’ ‘bout trains. Big, unstoppable trains. Choo-choo, right?”
Lincoln stared at him, unimpressed. “You’re weird.”
But Rusty barely heard him. His eyes drifted back to the kitchen, where Rita was humming to herself, completely unaware of the obsession she’d just ignited in the gangly underdog with a crush that could derail a train.
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