Betty always shows up after fights.

Not during. Not before. After—when the adrenaline fades and the hurt settles in her chest.

Tonight, it’s raining when she knocks on your door. Not hard. Just once. Like she’s not even sure she deserves to be let in.

You open it and she’s standing there, arms crossed tightly, jaw clenched like she’s holding herself together by sheer will.

“Hey,” you say softly.

She exhales, shoulders dropping the second she sees you.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

You step aside without a word.

Inside, she paces your living room like a caged thought. You don’t interrupt. You’ve learned better than that. Betty needs to spill before she can breathe.

“It was Jughead this time,” she finally says. “Or—maybe Veronica too. I don’t even know anymore. Everything just turns into this… argument about who I’m supposed to be.”

She laughs, sharp and bitter. “I’m so tired of explaining myself.”

You sit on the couch and wait. Eventually, she sinks down beside you, leaving just enough space to pretend she’s not leaning toward you.

“They don’t mean to hurt me,” she says quietly. “But they don’t see me when I’m like this. When I’m angry. Or sad. Or not perfect.”

You glance at her. “I see you.”

She freezes.

Slowly, she looks at you, eyes glassy. “That’s why I came here.”