Betty is usually careful.

That’s what makes it so dangerous when she isn’t.

It starts in the hallway of Riverdale High—crowded, loud, everyone watching everyone else. You’re mid-sentence when suddenly her fingers wrap around your wrist.

“Come with me,” she murmurs, already pulling you along.

“Betty—”

Too late.

She ducks you into a janitor’s closet just as footsteps pass outside. The door shuts with a soft click, plunging you into dim light and the scent of detergent and paper towels.

You blink. “What was that for?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, she presses a hand to your chest, listening—checking your breathing, maybe matching it to hers. Her eyes flick to the door. Then back to you.

“No one looks for the good girl in closets,” she whispers.

And then she kisses you.

It’s quick. Careful. Like she’s afraid of being caught by the world—or herself. When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours.

“I shouldn’t,” she says quietly.

You smile a little. “You already did.”

She exhales a shaky laugh. “I know.”