Betty cuts open a beet gnocchi filled with goat cheese.

She coats the dumpling in artichoke cream sauce, smiling up at Adam as he tells her about his family.

He sketches the basics. They hail from a wealthy suburb of Boston. His father is a renowned cardiologist. His mother runs an arts non-profit. He has one younger brother who works in high-tech in Silicon Valley.

She listens with practiced interest, asking if he and his brother are close.

Betty sneaks a bite as Adam answers, chewing slowly.

Her mind can't help but flit back to Jughead's obnoxious interjection during her conversation with Kevin.

The food is good. Really good. But the portion is small.

She's been trying to stretch it out. Carving each gnocchi ball into quarters as Adam twirls a fork through his dish of salmon and asparagus fettuccine alfredo.

At least they'd split a Sicilian salad and focaccia as a first course.

Or else she'd be really tipsy from barely eating all day.

Already the bottle of chardonnay they're sharing is going to her head.

On the plus side, it keeps the conversation smooth and flowing, never boring.

So far, they've talked about the dynamics at the office and how Adam's adjusting.

He tells her about the insane hours and competition of working at a corporate law firm. How despite being on the partner track, his heart wasn't really in it. His interest in publishing prompted him to make the jump to assistant corporate counsel at The New York Times three years before and then eventually the promotion to head counsel at The Easterner.

When it's her turn to spill, she glosses over her time at Chic, explaining she learned a lot. She's happy where she is now.

He asks about her hobbies next, laughing when she jokes the subjects of her articles give her away. Feminist literature, old Hollywood, true-crime documentaries.

She happily discovers they both like to run. He prefers the Reservoir loop in Central Park, while she takes the path along the East River, always stopping for a few moments on her way home to admire the greenery of Carl Schurz Park.

"I really adore the Peter Pan statue," she tells him, her cheeks dusting a rosy pink.

It's her favorite spot in the city. Located between a thicket of trees, stone steps descending from the waterfront greenway. Pale white and purplish pink flowers that always seem to be in bloom.

Standing there makes her feel romantic, whimsical. Filled with possibilities.

"Oh, I think I know where that is," Adam remarks. "Close to Gracie Mansion, right?"

Betty nods, taking a sip from her water glass.

She's a little deflated he seems more interested in determining the exact location than unearthing what she likes about the spot. But that's minor.

They quickly move onto a discussion of books.

The fact he reads is a major plus. True, mostly history and legal non-fiction. But it's better than nothing.

He recommends a new chronicle of revolutionary England, which actually doesn't sound terribly dull.

She likes Adam, she decides. She's attracted to him, too. He's tall and handsome, but non-threateningly so. With the same clean-cut hair and even smile as her previous boyfriends.

There's an easy familiarity to him.

But still something feels off. Like a tickle in her nose. She can't put her finger on what exactly.

"What about your family?" Adam asks, before her thoughts meander.

"One older sister," Betty tells him. "She's around your brother's age, actually, and also lives in San Francisco. She's a TV broadcaster."

Adam chuckles. "It would be funny if they knew each other."

"It would," Betty agrees. "We should call and find out."

"Ambush them at work on Monday?" Adam proposes.

"Absolutely," she says, giggling.

"And your parents?" he asks next. "What do they do?"

"They own and manage the newspaper in my hometown upstate. The Greendale Register."

"So you're carrying on the family tradition?" Adam teases, with a broad grin.

Betty blushes, her face soon turning contemplative. "In a way."

"What?" he asks, curious.

"No, it's nothing," she says, emitting a soft sigh. "It's just, sometimes I think it might have been better to do something else. Rebel a little. But I love writing too much."

"Rebelling is overrated," he intones. He's smiling, but his brown eyes are serious. "There's something to be said about not going too far against the grain."

She nods back. She thinks that, too, for the most part. It's why she's always been so afraid of pushing buttons, of creating friction.

And yet the innermost part of her longs to be called out for this cowardice.

To meet someone who forces her to be more adventurous, or spontaneous.

Bold even.

She's not looking for a torrid love affair, by any means. Just a spark of fire. An ember.

And as good-humored and intelligent as Adam is, she finds she can't stop herself from likening him to a perfectly bland glass of dry white wine.

When maybe what she's really craving is the tartness of a campari shot mixed with gin.

Stop it, Betty, she scolds. It's just the nerves talking. You like him.

They certainly get along well. They look good sitting together, too. In her frilly dress and his starched blazer. Like a vintage wedding cake topper.

She can envision her mother's usually disapproving eyes murmuring the same.

It all feels right on paper. And yet.

Betty fingers her wine glass. "You never had a nonconformist phase then?" she asks.

Adam laughs. "We got into some pretty drunken shenanigans at my frat in Princeton, but nothing seriously unruly."

She leans forward in anticipation. "Like what?"

He starts to regale her with a silly anecdote about shaving off a fellow brother's eyebrow and then hiding all the mirrors in the house.

It's funny enough, but relatively tame. Hardly the edge of danger.

For tales of real rebellion, she's better off asking Jughead. He's the most disaffected person she knows.

Not to mention the rudest, she reminds herself.

Betty squirms a little in her seat. Just the thought of his insolence is enough to make her skin crawl.

Yet, there's also the other side of that coin. He does challenge her.

She secretly appreciates it.

He's one of the few people who doesn't treat her like a mechanical doll.

Even when he took care of her earlier, it seemed borne of concern, not her being helpless.

Her mind lingers on the encounter.

How unexpectedly he'd acted—making sure she ate something and listening to her embarrassing confessions without mocking. And yet how genuine that thoughtfulness had also felt.

It's a mindfuck she's afraid to parse.

She lets her brain wander instead to the ex-girlfriend he mentioned.

Betty wonders what she's like.

Probably a sarcastic brunette who wears heavy black eyeliner and too much silver jewelry. Who's heroin-chic thin and mean on purpose.

Betty gulps down the sour taste of jealousy rising on her tongue.

Why does she care? She shouldn't care.

Except, maybe Jughead had really wanted to kiss her.

Her cheeks flush at the thought. She feels a pulse between her legs. She squeezes her thighs together.

"Betty?"

"Hmm?" she asks, distracted. She blinks to regain her bearings.

"Do you want to get dessert?"

"Oh, sure." She looks up into Adam's affable brown eyes. "Do you want to try the tartufo?"

"Maybe tiramisu?" he suggests.

"Sounds perfect," she compromises.

He grins at her and makes the order.

His smile is so inviting that it's enough for Betty to at least pretend she's brushed aside all the little bubbles of doubt.

It's Friday night and he's alone. Again.

Normally, he wouldn't mind. But tonight is different.

Jughead slams shut the marble composition notebook he's been attempting to scribble draft ideas in. It's just a bunch of chicken scratch even he can't decipher.

He sighs and glances around the subway car.

The Q train is packed with commuters heading home from work in Manhattan. Bundled in fall coats, scrolling through their phones. Faces a mix of impatience and exhaustion.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots two teenagers. Tucked into the periwinkle bucket seats across from him. Sharing a pair of headphones and giggling. The girl's head falls on the boy's shoulder. Snuggling into his neck.

Jughead looks away.

He's been fighting a lump in his throat since hailing a cab for Betty outside their office building.

As the taxi screeched to a halt, he'd wanted to grab the door handle and tell her not to go on her date. To spend the night with him instead. He almost had.

Just like he'd come this close to kissing her in the kitchenette. Before stopping himself.

His mind swims back to less than two hours before.

Her shallow breaths when they'd stood inches apart against the counter. The curve of her palm in his as he led her to the table. The way her eyes flickered with gratitude when he'd shared something personal, too.

The ice had broken between them. He hadn't imagined it.

But instead of diving into the freezing water and taking his chance, he'd let her skate away.

He sighs and adjusts the strap of his messenger bag against his shoulder. Only a few more stops. Maybe then he'll find a better way to distract himself.

The air is frigid when he gets off at the Park Place station.

He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and heads to Family Pizza, his go-to spot.

He's a burger guy through and through, but nothing is better comfort food on a chilly fall night than a piping hot slice of New York pizza. It had been nothing short of a trial the six years he'd lived in Iowa listening to endless mid-westerners claim deep-dish Chicago style was better. As if.

Jughead huddles under the pizza joint's hunter green awning to eat. He folds the slice in half, munching it down in a minute flat.

He stares at the grease-stained paper plate in his hands when he finishes.

He should go home.

Put on an old jazz record and sit in front of his Olivetti typewriter with a cup of coffee. Make actual headway on his novel.

But he feels too sorry for himself to write.

And he could really use a drink.

The Whyte Wyrm it is.

Jughead walks a few blocks up Flatbush Avenue to reach his cozy neighborhood tavern. He ignores the bustling tables of young, loud Brooklynites, and beelines for a seat at one of the barstools.

He slings his bag over the back of the stool and nods at the bartender.

"Rough week?" Joaquin asks sympathetically, filling him up a draught of dark ale, his usual order.

"Best week of my life," he charges back, handing him a ten-dollar bill. "Keep the change, Quin."

Joaquin laughs. "Thanks, man."

Jughead shrugs off his jacket. He grabs the glass, and downs a large swig.

The liquid is cold and bitter on his tongue.

He exhales and sits back in the stool, concentrating on the lyrics to the 90s rock medley playing in the background. It helps to drown thoughts of Betty out.

Nursing the beer for however long works, too.

When he swallows his final sip, he hears a feminine voice behind him.

"I'm sorry if this is brazen of me," she says. "But are you J. Jones, the writer?"

"Depends who's asking," he cracks automatically.

The voice's owner smiles and climbs into the stool beside him. "I'm Cora," she tells him. "I'm an MFA student at NYU."

Jughead cocks an eyebrow up. Brazen is right.

He turns to examine the woman now seated next to him. She's young. Early 20s probably. Conventionally pretty. With long strawberry-blonde hair and an innocent gaze that almost obscures the cunning in her overeager blue eyes.

It's a type Jughead recognizes. But he'll play along. He allows himself to smirk at her. "I prefer Jughead."

Cora's smile widens in response. "So you are him?" she presses.

"In the flesh," he admits.

"I loved The Lonely Highway," she gushes, naming his book of short stories. "We just finished reading it in my fiction workshop."

Jughead nods, fingering the wooden coaster under his beer glass. "Glad you enjoyed it."

Cora rests her chin on her fist and looks at him expectantly. "When's the next one coming?"

Jughead barks out a laugh. "Who are you, my editor?"

Cora giggles. A little too hard. But still it strokes his ego.

"No, just a fan," she remarks coyly. "I love your book reviews in The Easterner too."

He tips his mostly empty glass to her. "Thanks."

Her lips twitch as she notices only the remnants of beer froth in his glass. She glances back to a rowdy table behind them. Probably her friends.

Jughead assumes the conversation is over. He hasn't given her much to work with. But this girl seems a little relentless.

Instead of getting up, she leans in closer to him, her shoulder grazing his upper arm.

"What's that like?" she questions. "Working at a magazine reading other people's books when you really want to be writing your own?"

He wrinkles his nose, aware of what she's angling for. To needle him into a position of vulnerability so he'll open up to her. Her attempt is amusing, but he's not that gullible.

"It pays the bills," he deflects with a smirk.

"So you're saying a writer shouldn't quit her day job?" she continues.

"Not unless she has rich parents to fall back on," he quips.

Cora laughs again, slipping a credit card out of the front pocket of her stylish baggy jeans.

"On that note," she proposes with a coquettish smile, "let me buy you another?"

Jughead considers. It wouldn't be a bad way to spend an evening. In fact, an attractive fan plying him with free drinks and peppering him with compliments might be exactly what he needs tonight.

"You know what?" he tells her, the corners of his lips creasing up. "Why not?"

Cora grins and orders them a second round, plus two double tequila shots. Jughead follows along, ignoring Joaquin's knowing expression as he brings them lemon wedges and salt.

He's not sure how long they sit there talking, but he's pretty buzzed by the time he's halfway through his third beer.

Cora has been flirting with him hard, waxing poetic about his writing and not-so-subtly complaining about how juvenile most guys her age are.

He knows what she's interested in, and he can't deny the notion is tempting. He's not immune to willing female attention, even from a girl giving lowkey Misery vibes.

Mostly, though, he could use a night of no-strings-attached sex.

Not that he's been a monk in the two years since breaking up with Jess, but still. It's been a while.

Cora seems to intuit it's the right time to strike.

She curls her hand around his thigh and whispers into his ear. "Want to get out of here?"

Jughead weighs taking her back to his apartment.

He pictures her running her fingers over the books on his shelf, spouting something highbrow but unoriginal. How he'd pin her to the nearby wall and silence her attempts at literary intellectualism by biting her lips.

He doesn't see much of a con.

And yet, when he looks back at her to agree, he finds he can't get the words out. His stomach clenches.

There's something about the glints of gold in Cora's hair under the dim bar lights that remind him too much of Betty. The wide, pretty doe eyes, too.

And once Betty Cooper's in his head, he can't get her out.

Whatever urge he may have felt for meaningless sex quickly evaporates. Honestly, he'd rather be alone.

Jughead takes Cora's hand and places it gently but firmly back on the bar.

"Maybe some other time," he says, offering her his most charming smile to soften the blow. "I've got an early morning."

"Really?" she asks, disbelief ringing in her voice.

He just winks. "Thanks for the drink."

Cora huffs behind him as he grabs his things and wanders out of the bar, walking the length of the block until he reaches the Lebanese bodega on the corner.

He buys a copious amount of junk food before heading home. Collapsing on his worn gray couch with a bag of Snyder's sourdough pretzels for company.

His eyelids soon grow heavy, a copy of Betty's latest article open on his phone. Pretending it's her lilting voice singing him to sleep.

Betty manages to avoid her most intrusive thoughts for the rest of the date.

It helps that Adam is the perfect gentleman. He asks if it's alright for him to pay for dinner. He helps her into her coat. He walks her home.

Under her apartment building's gray awning, he leans in to tell her he had a great time and would like to do it again. She blushes and agrees.

He takes a step closer and angles his chin toward her.

Her heart doesn't pitter-patter quite like it did in the kitchenette hours earlier, but she inches forward as well.

Kissing him is nice.

It feels safe, familiar.

Maybe not fireworks just yet, but a low simmer. Potential.

Adam's hand brushes tentatively against her waist, and she sinks into his touch, parting her lips slightly to allow him to deepen the kiss.

As he exerts the faintest bit more pressure on her lips, Betty contemplates being forward and asking him up for a drink.

She wouldn't mind this night ending in more than just a brief makeout session. Maybe not sex quite yet, but something.

A little relief for the dull ache she's felt between her legs since fantasizing about Jughead's lips on hers at the restaurant.

No, she commands, refusing to let her thoughts stray there. Because you really like Adam. Because you're excited to keep exploring things physically with him.

But then, since the universe must be laughing at her, comes another interruption.

"Bettykins, is that you?" she hears from afar.

Startled, she breaks the embrace, turning her head to catch sight of Veronica approaching from First Avenue in a fur-collared maroon coat.

Betty smoothes down her own coat, hoping the pale moonlight hides the flush crawling up her neck. "Hi V," she calls weakly.

"I thought that was your luscious golden mane, B," Veronica teases, strolling toward the awning. "Back from your date so soon?"

Betty tilts her head in Adam's direction, and Veronica's mouth makes a small "o" shape before relaxing into a cat-like grin. Her brown eyes sparkle as she appraises him.

"Ooh, I see you're still with the young man in question," Veronica says gleefully. "Hello, man."

"Hi," Adam replies with a faint chuckle.

"Don't mind me," Veronica trills, shooting Betty a pointed glance. "I'll make myself scarce."

"See you later, V," Betty mumbles, as Adam offers a polite, "Nice to meet you."

With a toss of her perfectly coiffed brunette locks, Veronica disappears through the building's automatic doors. Betty turns back to Adam.

"Sorry about that," she says, her cheeks glowing beet red. "Veronica is a bit much."

Adam laughs good-naturedly. He leans in to peck her lips, but doesn't intensify the kiss, despite the way her body curls into his.

"It's okay," he tells her. "It's getting late anyway."

Betty feels a chill go through her. And not the good kind.

He's being courteous, but also too formal. It's disappointing. Can't he see she longs to be wanted? To buck expectations of what type of girl she's supposed to be.

It doubly stings that it's the second time tonight her body's been denied.

But she doesn't protest.

"I'll call you tomorrow," Adam promises.

"Sure," Betty says, with a strangled smile.

He squeezes her hand goodbye and disappears up 81st Street.

Betty exhales, her breath forming wisps in the cold night air. She walks into the building, nodding hello to Smithers, the doorman. She folds her arms around herself as she rides the elevator to the sixth floor.

Safely inside the door, she unbuttons her coat and hangs it in the front closet. She heads straight into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. The room is the size of a train car and is the only part of the apartment she doesn't adore.

A big kitchen, however, was less of a priority for Veronica than a palatial living room and two large bedrooms. So Betty makes do, even if it means the refrigerator door frequently bumps against the cabinets under the sink.

She gulps down a sip of water as she exits from the other side of the kitchen, nearly jumping out of her skin when she hears Veronica's bright chirp.

"Hello there, B," Veronica says gaily, " How was your date?"

The woman is bathed in yellow lamplight, sitting on the ivory floral armchair that faces away from the wall-length windows overlooking the street. She's placed her phone down gingerly on the marble and gold-plated end table beside her and is peering at Betty with wide, inquiring eyes.

"Oh my god, V, you scared me," Betty grumbles.

Veronica harrumphs. She crosses her legs, one high-heel-clad foot tapping impatiently against the armchair's leg. "Come on, B, spill."

"It was good," Betty tells her. She leans against one of the white cushioned dining room chairs that surround the glass-topped dining room table with a sculptural wooden base. "I liked him."

Veronica quirks an eyebrow up. "But?"

"No, buts, V," Betty insists. "I had a fun time."

Veronica scrunches her face into a frown. "Then where is he? Why didn't you invite him up?"

"We were both tired," she fibs.

"Right…" Veronica says, stretching out the syllable.

Betty sighs. Veronica is like a dog with a bone. She'll keep up this little interrogation until she gets what she wants. "What?"

A devious smile crosses over Veronica's face. "So you weren't thinking about someone else? Your work nemesis, maybe?"

Betty groans. Inevitably, they've arrived at "Veronica Lodge dating theory time."

While Betty's all in favor of romance novels, Veronica maybe reads too many. She's convinced there's something more going on between her and Jughead. Beyond just thinly veiled hatred.

But as much as Betty swoons over Mr. Darcy—and would love to find her own, especially after the Mr. Wickham-like Glen—enemies to lovers is pure literary make-believe.

Isn't it?

Yes, it is, she chastises herself, digging the toe of her tan ankle boot into the carpet.

Their almost kiss was a fluke. A purely physical reaction to his proximity.

She was woozy and hungry and nervous. And he got too close. That's all.

Not wanting to prove her best friend right, Betty holds back this juicy tidbit and attempts to deflect.

"V," she says, gritting her teeth determinedly. "I've told you a thousand times. There's no underlying sexual tension there. The guy really just is a tool."

Veronica tuts, looking even more disbelieving than usual. Betty sighs again and drags herself to sit down on the beige upholstered sofa. Her overly defensive posture has betrayed her. She may as well let it out. Give Veronica an inch.

"Although—" she concedes.

"Yes?" Veronica interrupts eagerly.

"He was nice to me earlier," she admits, rushing the next words out. "He kind of took care of me after I almost fainted."

Veronica's brown eyes go wide. "Are you okay?" she demands.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Betty reassures her. "I just didn't eat or drink enough."

Veronica studies her, but seems to accept this answer. "Okay, good," she says. "Can't have my precious B getting sick on me."

"Never, V," Betty quips back.

Veronica's lips curl up as a thought occurs to her. "Did he know you were going on a date?"

Betty blooms red. "What does that matter?"

"So that's a yes," Veronica says, flashing Betty a victorious smile. "Interesting timing, don't you think?"

"Veronica…" she warns. Her friend is pushing her.

There's no connection, she tells herself. All it proves is that Jughead Jones isn't a total asshole. That's it.

Veronica throws her hands up in defeat. "I didn't say anything."

Betty rolls her eyes and settles back against the couch cushions. "How was your night, V?"

"Oh, you know," she says, examining her stiletto, plum-painted nails. "Drinking with the boys. Always a pleasure."

Veronica's referring to Reggie, Elio, and Heraldo, her bevy of stockbroker colleagues. Each of them fits the finance bro stereotype to a T, but at least they were friendly enough the few times Betty's hung out with them.

"Are they all still vying to get in your pants?" she asks.

"Of course," Veronica declares, with a frisky grin. "As if they have a chance."

It's so easy for Veronica, she thinks. She's naturally sophisticated and confident. Not impulsive, but operating on gut instinct, without a care as to how others may interpret it. Betty wishes she could be like that.

She laughs, but it morphs into a deep yawn. She's more tired than she thought.

"I'm pretty beat," she says, standing up and collecting the water glass from off the marble-topped coffee table. "I think I'm going to head to bed."

"Night, B," Veronica trills, picking up her phone. "Sweet dreams."

But with the sudden roil of anxiety in her stomach as she overthinks the night's many events, Betty is sure she'll have anything but.