Betty notices it in the small moments.

With everyone else, she’s careful—choosing words, holding her posture just right, smiling when expected. She’s the good daughter, the dependable friend, the girl who always has it together.

With you?

She shows up in sweatpants. Hair a mess. No explanations.

One afternoon, you’re sitting on the steps outside the Blue & Gold office, papers scattered between you. Betty drops beside you with a sigh that sounds like relief.

“I bombed my chemistry quiz,” she says flatly.

You blink. “You? Impossible.”

She snorts. “See? That’s the problem. Everyone thinks I’m not allowed to fail.”

She leans back on her hands, staring at the sky.

“With Jughead, I try to be supportive. With Veronica, strong. With my mom, perfect.” She pauses, then glances at you. “With you, I don’t feel like I have to be anything.”

The words hang there, heavier than she expected.

She sits up slowly. “That’s… new.”

You smile gently. “Good new?”

She nods. “Terrifying new.”

Later, when something goes wrong—another mystery, another argument, another crack in Riverdale’s surface—she doesn’t retreat.

She comes to you.

Not polished. Not prepared.

Just honest.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admits one night, curled beside you on the couch. “And I don’t feel guilty for saying that.”

You glance at her. “You shouldn’t.”

She exhales, shoulders relaxing like she’s setting something down for the first time.