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Watching Jughead's dad walk away from him—again—drunk—again—Betty understood more than she ever had before about what his life had been like. She had known, of course she had known, about his family, and his mother and sister leaving, but Jughead kept so much of that to himself, holding his emotions inside, that she had never seen how deeply it cut him, or how alone in the world he was. Betty felt alone, too, but she had Polly—she had never doubted Polly's love—and for all the things her parents weren't, they were at least always there, dependable.

Her heart ached for him, and she went to him, glad to feel his easy acceptance of her touch, glad to be able to be there for him.

"Do you … want to talk about it?"

He shook his head.

"Do you … want to go someplace and make out?"

That got one of his half-smiles, which Betty suddenly realized she found adorable … and even a little bit sexy. "Not right now. But thanks."

She reached for his hand, feeling his fingers close around hers. "Of course."

He walked her home again the next night after a late milkshake at the Chock'lit Shoppe. It was easier now that he lived next door at Archie's.

They walked in silence that started out comfortable and slowly became something else. Betty wondered if Jughead was thinking what she was thinking—that they had come to this place where they were essentially together but without ever talking about it. And for two people who traded on words, who used words to center and manage their lives, that felt … odd. But she didn't know how to start the conversation that she suddenly knew she needed to have.

What she did know was that she couldn't have it at her front door under the sharp eyes of Alice Cooper.

"Jug." She pulled him to a stop under a tree, around the corner from her house.

"What is it?"

"I … What are we doing?"

"Walking home?"

She gave him a withering look. "You know what I mean."

"Oh. We. This we." He shook their joined hands lightly.

"Yeah. I mean …"

"Right. We should … um …"

They stood there, staring at each other. "Oh, this is ridiculous!" Betty said at last, laughing a little. "Why can't we talk about this?"

"Because if we don't want the same things, I don't— I mean—" The first words had tumbled out as though he couldn't have stopped them, but then it was as if he ran into a wall.

"Jug." She stepped closer. "Don't you know what I want?"

"No. I need you to tell me. I need you to say it, Betty."

"What if I showed you?" she whispered, and kissed him.

The kiss went on for a long time, his arms around her, her hands on the lapels of his jacket holding him there, her knees weakening.

Jughead pulled away first, his dark eyes looking at her, into her. "Tell me, Betty. Please."

"I want you, Jughead. I want to be with you."

He cupped her chin in his hand, lifting it so he could look at her face. "Really?"

"Really."

A smile crossed his face, brighter than any she thought she'd ever seen there before. "Good." And he kissed her again.

After he left her at her house—at a discreet distance to avoid attracting her mother's attention—Jughead walked alone through the dark and silent streets of Riverdale. If anyone had noticed him, doubtless they would have called the police. But all the good citizens of the North Side were fast asleep, and the presence of a solitary teenager outside their windows went unnoticed.

He stopped and looked up at the stars, tracing the constellations.

Betty Cooper wanted to be with him.

The thought appeared in his mind in big letters. It didn't seem possible. There still seemed to be two different Bettys—the perfect one he had grown up with, who carefully measured every movement and word to be sure it was right, and the daring detective he was coming to know, who didn't let anyone get in her way. He really liked that one, and it thrilled him in a way that felt seductively dangerous to know that she liked him, too. But he couldn't help wondering where prim and proper Betty Cooper had gone, and if she was going to come back just when he got comfortable with the adventurous and brave version.

Still. Jughead kept walking, letting his fingers trail along the bars of a metal fence, reliving Betty's kisses. After all the years when she had eyes for no one but Archie, now she wanted him. Jughead Jones, son of the leader of the South Side Serpents, weirdo and oddball.

Maybe, sometimes, dreams you didn't even know you had came true when you least expected it. Granted, it had never happened before—but there was a first time for everything.

He hadn't wanted the truth about his dad and the South Side Serpents to come out at all, much less in the middle of Polly's baby shower. Damn Archie, anyway, and his inability to hold onto a thought for more than a second, Jughead thought in irritation, and then immediately felt guilty. Archie couldn't help it—he was a hopeless white knight, with all the humorless sincerity required for the role.

Betty avoided him for the rest of the shower, including the shouting match between her mother and sister. Only once the guests had left and Polly had gone to sleep and Veronica and her mother had quietly, discreetly withdrawn were Jughead and Betty left alone.

"What a mess," she said quietly, and he didn't know if she meant her family or his or them or all of it.

He was at a loss, wanting to speak and not wanting to. Eventually, he managed to say, "I should have told you about my dad when I had the chance."

"So why didn't you?"

"I was ashamed."

To his relief, Betty reached for his hand. "Jughead. If we're going to be together, I want to know who you are. All of it." Her other hand closed over his as well.

No one had ever wanted to know who he was—not all or even most of it. He didn't know if he knew how to be open like that. But … for her, he was willing to try. "Okay."

"Okay."

And it was okay—at least for now.

He took her to his dad's trailer. Even as she reached with automatic politeness to shake Mr. Jones's hand, Betty could feel Jughead's reluctance to have her here, rolling off him like a fog. Beer bottles were everywhere, the furniture broken, the counters dirty … the contrast between his home and her mother's castle of immaculate perfection couldn't be more obvious. She understood why he hadn't told her more about his family, why he had ducked the conversation every time it came up since they were little—why they never played at his house, or hers, but always at Archie's. Neutral ground.

His father denied being involved in the murder of Jason Blossom, and Betty could practically hear how hard Jughead was trying to believe it. As they left the trailer, she stopped him to ask.

"Do you believe him?"

He took the time to give the question quiet consideration, and when he nodded, she could see he truly did. "I do." And then he fixed her with those dark eyes of his, that somehow could always see when she lied, and asked, "Do you?"

Betty couldn't, not quite, but she also couldn't say so out loud, knowing it would break Jughead's heart. Instead, she took his face in her hands and said, "I believe you, Jughead."

He kissed her, slow and sweet, and Betty knew their parents didn't matter. The two of them, together, was what mattered. Everything else was just … noise.

Betty paced back and forth, unable to stop the flood of thoughts filling her mind, making it hard to think. "My parents are unbelievable, Jug. Polly is locked up in that house like a character out of Jane Eyre and what are they doing? Changing each other's login accounts and throwing bricks through windows."

"I wish I'd seen that," Jughead muttered. She glared at him, and he made a face of apology. "Okay. I'm sorry. It's not funny."

She searched for words that would follow a single line through her thoughts and straighten them out. "'Cause, like, you know how in a time of crisis people either come together or fall apart? It feels like we're falling apart." Tears stung the back of her eyes. "And the way things are going, pretty soon, the Coopers, we're not going to exist anymore, and there's nothing I can do to stop that—" The words were falling out of her and she wasn't sure how to stem the tide, but Jughead stood up, cutting through the flow.

"Betty, don't do that. Don't give up." When she quieted and he was sure he had her attention, he said intensely, "Your family is definitely splintering right now, but it won't fall apart because of you. Because you're holding them together. You're so much stronger than all of the white noise. You're stronger than your mother; you're stronger than your father. You're holding this family together. So don't. Don't let go."

"I won't," she promised.

All her life, her mother had told her how weak she was, how much help she needed, how often she failed to measure up. No one had ever seen the inner core of strength she had always been sure she had—no one until Jughead. She went into his arms, holding him tight, feeling his support like a tangible thing.