It hadn’t been Archie who caught her eye when she first came to Riverdale—it was Malcolm. The boy everyone thought was trouble, the one who kept to himself and didn’t seem fazed by anyone, not even the notorious Veronica Lodge.

At first, it was just banter. She’d sit across from him at Pop’s, smirking while he pretended not to notice her. But Veronica had a way of getting under people’s skin, and Malcolm was no exception. He wasn’t dazzled by pearls and city-girl charm the way others were—he challenged her, teased her, made her prove that she was more than the Lodge name.

Now, after cheerleading and football practice, while everyone else was heading home, Veronica was slipping her hand into Malcolm’s as they walked down Riverdale’s quiet streets. His leather jacket brushed against her arm, his laugh low and private when she leaned in close.

At his place—where privacy actually meant privacy—they’d collapse onto the couch, her heels kicked off, his arm stretched lazily across the backrest until she tucked herself into his side. He wasn’t flashy like her old Manhattan crowd; Malcolm was real, grounded, the only person who made her feel like she could be Veronica, not just “a Lodge.”

And when he kissed her, steady and certain, she realized that for once, she wasn’t performing for anyone. She was exactly where she wanted to be, in the arms of a man who unequivocally cared about her.