The hallway of Riverdale High was its usual chaos—students rushing to class, lockers slamming, gossip spilling like confetti. But Cheryl Blossom walked through it like a queen gliding down a runway, heels sharp, hair perfect, confidence lethal.

You were walking beside her, as usual. The two of you had been “friends”—if friends constantly flirted, teased, and held eye contact a little too long. Everyone whispered, but Cheryl always brushed the rumors off with a toss of her hair.

Today, she was going on about some Vixen drama when you saw an opportunity. A crowd was watching—football players leaning on lockers, cheerleaders giggling, a cluster of students pretending not to stare at Cheryl Blossom in all her glory.

You leaned in. And gently kissed her cheek.

Time stopped.

Cheryl froze, mid-sentence, mid-step, eyes widening just enough for you to notice. Her perfectly painted lips parted in shock—Cheryl Blossom, actual goddess of control, caught off guard.

She recovered fast. Or… she tried.

“Oh,” she said, lifting her chin in what she clearly hoped was regal nonchalance. “How adorably bold of you.”

But her ears were pink. Her heartbeat? You could feel it racing when your shoulders brushed. The gloss on her cheek still warmed from your lips.

People stared. A few whispered. Someone dropped their books.

Cheryl tossed her hair, forcing confidence back into her posture. “If you were trying to fluster me,” she said quietly, leaning closer so only you could hear, “you’ll have to do better than that.”

But the tremble in her voice betrayed her.