You hadn’t meant to cross paths with him—at least not today. But there he was, tucked into his usual booth at Pop’s, same as always, back hunched over his laptop like the weight of Riverdale’s corruption rested solely on his narrow shoulders.

Jughead Jones: resident cynic, semi-professional brooder, and eternal wearer of that ridiculous gray beanie. The boy practically radiated sarcasm and self-righteous mystery.

And you? You were in full uniform, fresh off a late Vixens practice, the glitter from your cheekbones still catching the glow of the neon lights. You slid up to the counter to grab your milkshake and fries—the usual—and you could feel his eyes lift from his screen before you even turned around.

He wasn’t subtle. Not really.

“Didn’t think Pop’s served glitter now,” he muttered, dry as ever, eyes flicking back to his screen like he hadn’t been caught staring.

You turned, resting your elbow on the counter. “Didn’t think Pop’s served brooding existentialism either, but here you are. Weekly special?”

He looked up this time. Just for a second. Long enough to let the corner of his mouth twitch, almost-smile, before he pushed his laptop closed with a dramatic sigh.

“I was writing a scathing expose on school spirit. You just ruined my inspiration.”

You grabbed your shake, slow and unbothered. “I’m flattered.”

He studied you for a moment, really studied you—like he was trying to figure out what your angle was. Like maybe, if he looked long enough, he’d find some hidden edge beneath the gloss and the ponytail.

You just looked back, unfazed. You’d seen the way he watched you at school. Like he didn’t want to be intrigued, but couldn’t help it anyway. The mysterious, angsty boy with ink-stained fingers had a soft spot for the school’s sweetheart, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

“I’ll let you write your brooding manifesto in peace,” you said, popping a fry in your mouth as you backed away. “But if you quote me, at least spell my name right.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back, arms crossed, smirk barely there.

“I always spell the interesting ones right.”

You didn’t look back.

But if you had, you might’ve caught the way he watched you walk away—like someone who knew he was about to get in trouble, and kind of wanted to anyway.