Betty Cooper liked routine.

She liked class schedules, work schedules, volunteer schedules. She liked following instructions.

It's not that she disliked the unexpected. If anything, things outside of her routine thrilled her. It was like breaking some magical rule, and running away from responsibilities and expectations and just being herself. Herself without routine. But that scared her a little.

So she tried to follow a plan. And she had a set plan every night at bedtime. It was showering, moisturizer, brushing and towel drying hair, brushing teeth, flossing, rinsing with mouthwash. It was writing in her diary, reading for ten minutes, then turning her lights out and going to bed.

It used to be checking out her window, seeing if Archie was up, in his room with his guitar, or his punching bag, or his weights, or whatever it was teenage boys did at night when 'good girls' were going to bed.

Now it was checking out her window in hopes of seeing…well, something else.

She settled into the crisp linen sheets, a pale pink flower pattern this week, wearing her slightly stiff, slightly old-fashioned nightgown, all knee-length cotton and lace trimming, her head on the pillow, cool with disuse. She closed her eyes. She couldn't sleep.

She counted backwards from 100. She couldn't sleep.

She turned her pillow over. She shifted in bed, changing her position. She pushed her sheets off. She pulled them back up.

She thought about the kiss she had shared with Jughead.

Now she really couldn't sleep.

Finally, she sat up in bed and turned her reading light back on. She reached to her nightstand, looking for where she put her book when she heard a gentle tap at her window. At first, she thought it might just be the wind, but the tapping resumed again, a little louder, a little more insistent.

Betty got out of bed, slipping her feet into her slippers, and went over to the window. The, between the bars of the frame, was Jughead Jones, balanced on her dad's ladder, knit cap askew, clutching his backpack with one hand and looking up expectantly.

Betty brushed her hair behind one ear, eyebrows crushed together in concern, looking wearily to her closed bedroom door before unlatching her window quietly, gingerly, lifting it open.

"Couldn't you have tried something a little less conspicuous?" She whispered, although she was clearly pleased to see him. "It's after midnight!"

"What, like pebbles? That's a little too romcom with a high risk of breaking your window. Which, I'm fairly certain, your parents would murder both me and you for."

"My mom will murder me regardless if she finds me with a boy in my bedroom." An uncomfortable silence settled in after Betty said the word 'murder.' She offered her hand to Jughead and helped pull him in through the window. He settled on her window seat, still smiling up at her.

"I haven't been caught yet."

"Because you do this so often, with so many other girls." She smirked at him, her eyebrows raising in a challenge.

"I could have brought a boom box." A wry smiled snaked across his lips.

"Say Anything?" He nodded, and she snorted. "Yet, somehow, I have trouble believing you own a boom box."

"I am an aficionado of all things 2017 hipster, Betty dear. Of course I have a boom box."

"Ah, yes, because the 1980's are so in right now."

"I'm certain if you asked Veronica or Kevin, they would agree. The 80's are the new 70's. Or something."

She covered her face with her hands, "oh my god, Juggie." She tried to restrain her laughter, worried about waking her parents.

He smiled crookedly, mostly to himself, glad that he could make her laugh, that he could make her relax.

She wiped a tear from her eye, "ok, but seriously, what's up? It's late. Why are you here?"

He had gone through a lot of different answers in his head: he had found something, he had clues, he had leads on Jason or Polly, he had the next big Riverdale mystery (these were all lies); he was tired, it was cold, he had nowhere to sleep, he was lonely, he just wanted to see her (these were all truths).

"I…" he couldn't lie to her. Not after this week. "I-" he stumbled over his words, "just wanted to see you, I guess." He swallowed, nerves creeping into his stomach.

Betty's cheeks colored, "wow."

"Wow?"

"Apparently you get really honest when it's late." She smiled a broad, genuine smile.

"Hey, don't act like I'm not a beacon of honesty. I am the most honest person in Riverdale."

"Sure, but…that's not saying much." They snickered together, in spite of the tragedy of it all.

After a moment of sitting in pleasant silence, Jughead turned to go back down the ladder and out into the cold. Betty grabbed his arm, but when he locked eyes with her, she let go and looked away.

"You don't have to leave…yet."

He looked at her, surprise clear on his face. She gave him a knowing look that told him she knew, even if she didn't really know.

"Well, it's not like I can crash on your couch…"

"No, you cannot." She agreed.

"So, what is it that Riverdale's the Betty Cooper proposing here?"

She rolled her eyes and closed the window before taking Jughead's hand and pulling him over to her bed. She sat down on the edge of the mattress, pulling his arm. "Get some sleep. My alarm is set early, so you can leave when it goes off." She paused, realizing her presumption; "I mean, if you want to."

Aside from the attractively soft looking bed—covered in clean sheets, thick blankets, many pillows, and a few adorably pink and brown stuffed animals—the offer was coming from Betty, who was beautiful and kind, sure, but, more important to Jughead, whip smart, sardonic, and currently his best friend. He nodded dumbly and followed Betty's lead as she lay down in her bed, scooching over to make room for him.

His head hit the pillow, the sheets came up over him, and he felt enveloped in warmth and comfort that he hadn't had for some time. "Wow," he murmured quietly. He felt like he was floating under warm bath water, sounds muffled in an embryonic calm. Betty was close, he sensed the warmth of her body. She rolled on her side to face him.

"Don't think this means I…" she faded off, biting her lip and looking down.

"H-hey, Betts." He turned and tapped under her chin, "I would never think any…I mean…" He shook his head, flustered, "I wouldn't…I just want you to be comfortable. To be you."

She smiled, her face lighting the whole room up.

"I just…" he paused. "Can I hold your hand?"

She nodded, and their fingers laced together above her covers. That was all he wanted to feel satisfied.

But even in the momentary warmth and happiness, Jughead couldn't help but snidely remark: "Let's just hope no one is up this late playing a Scottie Ferguson."

"It's two in the morning, Juggie. Who would be staring through my bedroom window at 2 am?"

"You'd be surprised…"