The house was too quiet.

The service itself had been heavy, suffocating in the way only funerals could be. The church had been filled with faces Archie knew—neighbors, friends of his father, teachers, half the town. Betty had cried, Veronica had held her hand, Jughead had kept his usual distance, trying to look steady when he wasn’t. But through all of it, Archie hadn’t pretended.

He had cried.

Not the quiet tears people try to hide, but the raw, gut-deep sobs that had shaken his shoulders. And when he couldn’t keep himself upright, it had been you he clung to. His fingers had found your sleeve, your hand, whatever he could grab, like you were the only anchor keeping him steady while the ground gave way beneath him. He hadn’t reached for Jughead. Or Betty. Or Veronica. Or even Reggie when he came to pat him on the back. It was you.

Mary had noticed. At one point, her eyes had flicked from her son to you, her face lined with grief but softened with something like relief—relief that Archie wasn’t entirely alone, that someone was there to catch him when she couldn’t.

But grief was a restless thing, and Archie never could stay still.

By the time the mourners had drifted back to the Andrews’ house, bringing casseroles and careful, murmured condolences, Archie’s edges had already begun to fray again. You saw it—the way his hands shook when he picked up his jacket, the way his eyes darted to the floor so he wouldn’t have to meet anyone else’s gaze. One moment he was standing by his mother, Vegas at her feet, and the next, he was gone. Out the back door, his shoulders rigid, his jaw set in a way that warned anyone else not to follow.

But you did.

The evening light was dimming when you reached the Andrews’ porch, the last streaks of orange and blue fading into shadows. The air smelled faintly of cut grass and the smoke of distant chimneys. Inside, the house was dark—curtains drawn, the quiet press of absence hanging heavy. Fred’s absence.

Archie stood in the middle of the living room, still in the same shirt from the funeral, his tie loose, collar wrinkled where he’d tugged at it too many times. His copper hair was mussed, damp at the temples, his face pale except for the flush along his cheekbones. He looked older tonight—not because of his suit, but because of the grief etched into every line of him.

He didn’t move when you stepped inside. Didn’t even look at you at first, just stared down at the floor, his fists curling and uncurling like he was searching for something to hold onto.

When his eyes finally lifted, they were raw, glassy under the dim light. His voice was low, hoarse, when he spoke.

“I keep waiting for him to walk through the door,” he said quietly. “Like this was just another long day at work, and he’ll be here any second. But he’s not coming back, is he?”