Betty's eyes open slowly.

She's in her queen-size bed, under the floral mauve comforter. It's early morning. A beam of lilac light shines through the window. The start of sunrise over the East River.

A satin pink camisole and shorts set adorns her body. She relishes in its silky feel against her skin.

And yet she was sure she'd worn her long-sleeve flannel blue pajamas to bed. It's nearly winter after all.

Betty sits up, her confusion rising as she notices the glow from the matching ceramic lamps standing on the low, wide dresser of her bedroom's two-piece white wicker set.

Hadn't she switched them off before going to sleep?

She begins to scan the interior of the room, gasping aloud when she spots Jughead in the burnt orange velvet club chair a few inches from the foot of her bed.

He's dressed casually in navy striped pajama pants and a plain white t-shirt. His head is bent forward reading a book, his thick raven locks falling across his brow.

At the sound of her rustling, he looks up, offering Betty a mischievous grin.

"What are you doing here?" she screeches, grabbing the comforter and pulling it back up to cover her skimpily clad body.

"Hello to you, too, Betts."

The nickname is new to her. No one's ever called her that. She hates it. No, she likes it. Her mind see-saws. She shakes her head vigorously from side to side, the loose strands of her blonde hair tickling her bare shoulders. This isn't real. He can't be here.

But he is.

"How did you get in?" she demands.

Jughead closes the book and places it on the white accent table with a metal frame beside the armchair. He sits back and smirks at her. "You were thinking about me. So I came."

"I wasn't thinking about you," she denies.

Jughead crosses his legs, his smirk growing wider, cockier. His blue eyes gleam with amusement. "Then why am I in your bedroom, Betty?"

Betty doesn't know. None of this makes sense. It must be a nightmare.

"Can you please leave?" she huffs.

Jughead laughs aloud. "It's your dream," he says with a playful shrug.

Betty lets out an aggravated sigh. She can make him leave. It's only a question of willpower.

She rolls over onto her stomach, scrunching herself into a ball under the blanket. Commanding herself to fall back asleep. It's quiet for a few minutes. She thinks he's gone.

But then she hears a low whistle.

"I'm still here," he sing-songs.

A shower of goosebumps rises on Betty's skin. His voice is close. Too close. She opens her eyelids to see him lying next to her under the covers, a cheshire cat grin on his face.

"What are you doing?" she yelps, scrambling to pull the comforter off him and onto her entirely. Wrapping herself in it from the neck down like a sushi roll.

Jughead chuckles at her antics.

"Stop it," she says, her heart racing with anxiety. "Go away."

Jughead smirks again and shakes his head. "Why am I here, Betty?"

"I don't know," she yells. "You tell me."

"I'll give you a hint," Jughead says, pulling himself upright against her headboard. "Maybe because you like me?"

"No," Betty protests, pulling the comforter tighter around herself. "I hate you."

"Such a strong word," he teases, scooting in closer. "You don't mean that."

Betty's body starts to vibrate as he invades her space. The words "I do" bubble on her tongue, but she can't get them out.

"You don't like me a little?" Jughead says, shyly tilting his head to her. He smiles sweetly, his blue eyes softening. "Just a little?"

"No," she mutters. Her arms go slack under the blanket, her defensive posture melting away at the tenderness of his gaze. Her voice wavers, less sure of herself. "Maybe."

"I like you," he discloses.

Betty scoffs, the blanket loosening around her shoulders. "Please. You detest me. You're so mean to me."

Jughead cocks his head to the side, one lip curving up. "You're smarter than that, Cooper," he tuts.

Her mind is fuzzy. She doesn't believe him. But she wants to. She can feel a tingle running down her spine.

"No," she objects weakly. "You're lying. This isn't real."

Jughead appraises her. He stretches his fingers out to pull the blanket down, exposing her bare arms. He caresses the skin lightly. Betty whimpers. His touch is a flash of electricity.

His hand reaches up to cradle her neck. His lips a breath away from hers.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers.

Betty shivers, looking up at him in anticipation. Her silence says everything.

Jughead's mouth crinkles up.

He leans in slowly, each millisecond an eternity, until he presses his lips gently to hers.

Betty's eyes flutter shut. His kiss is light, gossamer, a small wisp of air. She needs more. But when she parts her lips for him, he's gone.

She opens her eyes frantically. They dart around the room until she spots Jughead next to the door. It's the elevator from their office building and he's holding it open.

"Are you coming with me?" he asks, reaching his palm out to her.

Betty can only nod. She stands up and stumbles toward him in a stupor, accepting his hand.

He pulls her into the elevator and hits the button for the 21st floor. The door closes behind them.

They drift apart to opposite sides of the car, and when Betty looks down next, she sees she's dressed in her gray sweater and mustard corduroy skirt.

She stares over at Jughead, clad in his motorcycle jacket and carrying the Samm's to-go bag.

"We're going to the same floor," she notes dumbly.

"We are," he acknowledges.

Betty pinches her lip between her teeth. She glances between him and the bag in his hand. "Are you sure you're not a delivery guy?" she questions.

He laughs, his eyes drinking her in. "Maybe I am."

"Maybe?"

"Do you want to find out?" he asks.

He drops the bag to the floor and marches toward her, boxing her into the back corner of the elevator. Betty's entire body starts to tremble as he takes her face in his hands.

"Yes," she all but whimpers.

This time when he kisses her, there's no gentleness. Only wet, hot intensity. His mouth seizes control of hers, consuming her in its possessiveness. She can barely breathe, let alone think. She spiders her arms around his waist, afraid of losing her balance. He kisses her harder, his teeth nipping at her lips, prying them open. His tongue brushes against hers. Stroking, teasing, tasting.

Betty moans into his mouth, her fingernails digging into the back of his worn leather jacket. She guides the length of his body directly over hers. She wants to feel all of him. Every last part.

He hisses against her lips, breaking the kiss to begin nibbling down her neck. His hands wander over her curves as he trails featherlight kisses into the sensitive skin, each one setting off a fresh spark to her core.

She can feel the heat blooming between her legs. Desperate and aching. She needs him.

"Please touch me," she breathes.

"Gladly," he murmurs, one hand abandoning her hip to trace a delicious squiggle up the length of her thigh.

He cups her over her underwear, kneading her clit softly. Betty mewls in pleasure, her back arching against the elevator mirror. Jughead smiles into her neck.

"Do you like that?" he asks, the tip of his thumb reaching up to nudge the elastic of her underwear.

"Yes," she pants, squirming against his palm. "Don't stop."

He lifts her skirt and pulls her panties down until they fall just above her knees. He skims his middle finger over her entrance, cursing under his breath at the feel of how wet she is.

Betty's head lolls back when he finally enters her, slowly pumping two fingers in and out before slipping in a third. Her breath hitches in her throat at the tight fit.

He curls his fingers up, stroking at just the right spot, his thumb simultaneously circling over her clit.

She moans, her hips stuttering forward against his fingers. They feel so good buried inside her. She can't get enough.

Jughead presses a delicate kiss into her collarbone, rubbing her clit harder. A shudder runs through her. And then another.

"Jug, please," she sighs, already near the edge.

"Come for me," he growls in her ear.

"For you," she repeats, her head spinning.

She's so close, she can almost taste her release. She clenches around Jughead's fingers. Yes, she thinks, yes yes yes

A car alarm blares from the street and Betty shoots up in bed with a start. She's sweaty and panting, the crotch of her pajama pants uncomfortably sticky.

Her stomach thrums from remaining unfulfilled, her legs quaking in annoyance. I was so close, she whines to herself.

Until her brain catches up. And she realizes who exactly she'd been dreaming about getting her off.

Oh, fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Betty inhales and exhales several times in rapid succession, lowering herself back down against the pale pink bedsheet. She lies very still, in hopes of calming herself.

Why the hell is she dreaming of Jughead?

She'd managed to put any lingering thoughts of him out of her mind for the rest of the weekend. Enjoying a girls' day brunch on Saturday with Veronica and their friends Cheryl and Midge. Running errands and doing meal prep for the upcoming week on Sunday. Adam had called that evening, too, as promised. Their conversation had been fun and flirty. He'd suggested dinner again this week.

Which means there is absolutely no reason for her to be thinking of Jughead Jones at all. Whatsoever. Especially not like this.

And yet, he seems lodged into her subconscious like a wad of gum.

Betty groans at the notion and reaches for her phone on the night table.

Her bleary eyes sting from the bright LED light, and she blinks several times. It's not even 5:30 AM, a full two hours before her alarm clock for work will go off.

She yawns and curls back under the covers. It's nothing, she attempts to rationalize. Just a stupid, meaningless sex dream. Nothing more. She shouldn't let it interrupt her sleep.

But trying to doze off yields only tossing and turning.

After a few minutes, it becomes so hot and clammy under the thick, heavy comforter that she starts to feel feverish.

Irritated, Betty pulls the blanket off her. She fumbles with the buttons of her pajama shirt, tossing it to the floor. She pulls her pants down next.

All that's left is a damp pair of white cotton bikini briefs.

She absently fingers the hem of her panties.

Would Jughead like them? Dream Jughead or real Jughead?

The question instantly has her throbbing. The perspiration on her skin making her shiver.

No, she orders her body. No.

She modulates her breathing, willing her unwanted arousal away. It works, but she's wide awake now.

Staying in bed is no use. She won't fall back asleep. She's too worked up.

Sighing aloud, Betty rises from the mattress. She tiptoes quietly out the door of her bedroom into the adjacent bathroom.

Stepping into a warm shower is enough to relax some of her shakiness. She begins to lather her body with vanilla body wash, keeping her mind centered on cleaning the sweat off her skin.

But as the water cascades around her, drowning away the soapy suds, she finally processes for real that it's Monday morning.

A wave of nausea overtakes her and she jabs her fists into the shower's ceramic tiles to brace herself.

This is bad. Very bad. How is she supposed to face Jughead at work in four hours after having this dream?

How is she supposed to sit next to him all day and not imagine him touching her?

His soft lips on hers, his lean body pressed against her breasts, his calloused fingers inside her.

Fuck, she thinks again.

She's so screwed.

Jughead pulls the headphones from his ears as he walks through the doors of The Easterner's offices, stringing the black wire around his neck.

It's quite possible he's the only New Yorker of his generation who hasn't succumbed to innovation and bought a pair of EarPods. But he hates tech trends. They make him as itchy as poison ivy.

Music off, his ears adjust to the noise around him. The office is filling up with people. Creating a frenzied cacophony of clacking keyboards and impatient telephone calls.

But he only cares if one person is there.

He walks deeper into the bullpen, grinning to himself when he notices Betty's ponytail swishing between her shoulder blades.

Even the back of her head makes him feel some type of way, the lovesick dope he is.

All weekend he'd been kicking himself for not attempting some kind of move the previous Friday. Or at the very least being honest about his feelings.

Either way, he decides, it's high time he play nice with her. Leave the sarcasm aside and lean into the sensitivity underneath.

He doesn't want to ruin the fragile breakthrough they seem to have made. The solid ground that will hopefully lead to more.

But when he slings his bag over his chair, Betty's wrists very clearly tense. Jughead's not sure why. He thought they had moved past the other's presence stoking annoyance.

"Morning," he says, carefully.

Betty peers at him briefly. Her face is pale, her green eyes wide and fidgety as she squeaks out a barely audible "hi." She hurriedly glances back at her computer screen.

Jughead's heart sinks in his chest. He thought she'd be friendlier than that, especially with him acting semi-polite for once.

He gives her the benefit of the doubt, though. Maybe she's tired or cranky, or both. It is a Monday after all.

But her skittishness with him lasts all morning. Worse than usual.

Just before the pitch meeting, and after nearly two hours of silence, he mocks her good-naturedly for not offering her usual barbs about his smelly breakfast.

"What, Cooper, you don't mind the fish today?" he says with an impish grin.

Betty purses her lips to respond, before her gaze falls on the strip of bagel he pops into his mouth. She clamps her jaw shut and swallows. Looking away with a slight shake of her head.

It's weird.

As is the scarlet blush that alights on her face from across the conference table when he mindlessly taps his fingers against his notebook. Or as he glides his fountain pen along an open page.

When they return to their desks, and Betty refrains from making a jibe about him being on his third cup of coffee before noon, Jughead actually starts to worry.

He stares at her with prying eyes.

"Cooper, are you okay?"

"I'm just tired," Betty mutters in response. He can tell she doesn't really want to answer him, but is too polite not to reply when directly spoken to.

"Up late?" he asks, trying to keep the insinuation out of his voice. God knows he does not want to contemplate someone in her bed keeping her awake late into the night.

"No," Betty says primly. "I didn't sleep well."

"Bad dreams?" he presses.

Her face crimsons at the word dreams. "They weren't…." her voice trails off.

He's onto something.

"What kind of dreams then?" he questions.

"It's none of your business," she says, too quickly.

Jughead looks at her searchingly, his stare intense. Betty turns even redder under his microscopic gaze, not quite meeting his eyes. She bites the corner of her lower lip and tugs at the jeweled Peter Pan collar of her light pink sweater.

Oh, he realizes. Oh. He recognizes that half-blissed out, half-flustered expression. Because he gets it every time he zones out and has a too explicit sexual fantasy about her.

Jughead gulps, his heart starting to soar. Is there the tiniest possibility she dreamt about him?

He decides to needle her and find out.

"Was the date that bad, Cooper?" he teases. "It gave you nightmares all weekend?"

"No," she barks, finally looking at him. "For your information, it was great. The food at the restaurant was delicious."

"But the company?" he can't help but joke.

"I liked the company just fine," she stubbornly asserts. "I'm seeing him again tonight."

Jughead's eyebrows knit together. Despite the confident jut of her chin, she's unconsciously biting the inside of her cheek. A tell she's lying. At least about the second part.

Why would she lead him to believe she has another date when she doesn't?

It seems to him there's a subtext to what Betty's saying. Like she wants him to know that Adam is the type of guy she's meant for. And someone like him doesn't stand a chance.

That, coupled with the defiance in her tone, has Jughead seeing red.

He's angry now. The spite slips out.

"Sure," he snarks. "What's not to like about a corporate Ken doll?"

Betty flinches at the notes of animosity in his voice. But she steadies herself. Jughead knows she won't concede the point easily.

"I'll take it over a Holden Caulfield wannabe," she bites back, just as withering.

The tips of Jughead's ears flame. He can tell that dig is not so subtly directed at him.

But if it's a battle of wits she wants, he'll humor her.

He shoots her a mean smirk. "At least a misanthrope isn't a phony pretending to be something he's not."

"A misanthrope is someone lonesome who really just hates himself," she retorts.

Jughead chuckles, but his laugh is devoid of mirth.

"You think you've got me all figured out, don't you, Cooper?" he mocks. "If only I loved myself a little more, everything would be sunshine and rainbows, right? Bluebirds would chirp on my window."

"You're ridiculous." She glowers at him.

He glares right back, his eyes narrowing into slits. "You don't know me."

"That's rich," she hisses. "When you presume to know me, and what I want."

There's a cruelty to his voice when he answers.

"You're right," he tells her, his eyes glittering darkly. "On second thought, Prince Charming seems perfect for a stuck-up snob like you."

Jughead has been rude to her before, but he's never actually crossed the line to name-calling or insults.

This is a new low, even for him.

But the words snarl out before he can stop them.

Betty gapes at him. "Excuse me?"

He's so infuriated that instead of retreating, he twists the knife in deeper.

"Life in plastic, it's fantastic," he deadpans. "Right, princess?"

Betty's jaw twitches. "Screw you, Jughead," she snaps.

She looks away, but he can spot the tears gathering in her eyes.

Jughead winces in shame, realizing what he's done. That was too much. And only three days after telling her he would never actually want to hurt her. He's a fucking idiot.

"Betty, I—" he starts to apologize, but she cuts him off.

"Leave me alone."

So he does. Thinking he must be the biggest asshole alive.

Betty tries to focus on the article draft on her screen. But she can't. She's too upset. All the words on the page scramble together. A sea of gibberish.

She knows Jughead is watching her. He looks properly remorseful, too. Like a pitiful puppy in a burgundy knit sweater.

It would be kind of cute if she weren't so incensed.

At least he's respected her wishes and hasn't tried to talk to her.

Not that his voice isn't already stuck in her head. His words replaying in her ear, slicing open her skin.

How dare he say those things?

Stuck-up. Plastic.

Her fingernails dig into her palm.

Snob. Superficial.

She presses harder, until the pain numbs.

They're not true. He doesn't know you.

She releases her grip.

He's just an asshole.

Although, he's not wrong. She was being snotty to Jughead. And deliberately provocative. She's not sure why. It bothers her more than she's willing to admit.

Blinking away the tears threatening, she scrabbles for a red ballpoint pen. She bites the cap open and rifles for a blank page in her notebook.

She draws a cube, and then another, stabbing each line into the paper until it starts to tear.

Anything to calm the buzz of raging energy racing through her veins.

Inevitably, the ink runs dry. Betty tosses the pen down with a sigh. It was the last red one in her cup.

She shoves her notebook aside and stalks off to the office's supply closet in search of a replacement.

Within seconds, she hears another pair of footsteps entering the enclosed space.

Obviously, it's him.

"Are you following me?" she snaps, not even bothering to turn around.

"I needed a new notebook," Jughead replies without missing a beat.

She knows that's bullshit. He only uses those marble composition notebooks that remind her of grade school. Which the office doesn't even stock.

Harrumphing, she goes back to scanning the shelves for her preferred brand of pen.

"Betty," he says.

She closes her eyes momentarily, but ignores him.

"Betty," he implores again, approaching a few feet closer. "Please."

Jughead's pleading overwhelms her resistance. It's so unlike him. She allows herself to look at him.

"I'm sorry," he says.

She can tell he means it. It's in the sincerity of his eyes. The simplicity of his message. Without excuses. The fact he's never once felt the need to apologize to her before. And now he does.

It's a small gesture, but it feels like a seismic shift.

Still, it's hard to reconcile.

She finds herself erupting at him.

"You're driving me crazy," she accuses. "You acted so nice on Friday, I thought for a second you weren't a total asshole. And then earlier you were just being a jerk. For no reason. I don't even know why you care who I go out with."

Jughead's face remains neutral as she lashes out, absorbing the blows.

"You're right," he concedes. "What I said was out of line."

She appreciates the acknowledgement, but it's not enough. It's not an explanation. She's steaming now.

"Do you hate me so much that you want me to be alone and unhappy?" she taunts, feeling herself take a step toward him. "Is that it?"

Jughead's eyes change color, darkening into a midnight blue.

They zero in on her, scanning her body like an x-ray. From the suede ankle boots on her feet to the tailored black skinny jeans covering her legs and up over her form-fitting sweater.

She inadvertently shivers.

Only when his eyes find hers does he speak, his voice husky and serious. "I don't hate you."

"Don't you?" she challenges.

He moves in on her. "No," he murmurs. "I don't."

Her hands tremble. Her stomach is in knots. She's back in her dream. Only now it's real.

Betty feels her anger shape-shifting into a feral desperation. He's so close.

"You're driving me crazy," she repeats, this time in a whisper.

His breath is hot against her lips. "You drive me crazy," he says. Present tense. Unceasing.

Betty leans forward and this time he doesn't step away. He closes the gap between them and then his lips are blessedly covering hers. It's dizzying.

Jughead is gentle at first, but there's no hesitance to his kiss. The pressure against her lips soon grows more insistent, demanding. Her knees buckle as he sucks her bottom lip, tracing it delicately with his tongue. She grabs onto his sweater and opens her mouth to him, just as eager. His tongue sweeps inside, brushing against hers. She whimpers at the sensation. He groans, using one hand to tilt her head back and deepen their kiss. The other reaches hungrily for her waist, pushing her up against the shelf.

The minute her back connects with the steel metal, something falls loose and hits the floor. They jump apart at the noise.

Betty's brain short-circuits at the abrupt end to the embrace, panic rising in her throat.

"That was…" Jughead trails off. His breath staggers as he watches her chest rise and fall. He pushes his loose hair back, his eyes wild. He looks so sexy it hurts.

She wants him this instant. She can't let this happen.

"A mistake," she rushes out.

A flash of hurt bursts across Jughead's face. But he quickly muffles it. His eyes narrow.

"An error in judgment," he flings back.

"Inappropriate," she counters.

"Unprofessional," he retaliates.

He looks angry now. But also determined.

Betty shivers again.

"We shouldn't…I should…" she stammers.

"Leave the premises?" he quips.

His sarcasm is tinged with a protective timbre and Betty feels like she's swallowing sand.

"Right," she blurts awkwardly, nearly tripping over herself as she scurries out of the room.

Her heart is beating so fast when she returns to her desk. Her whole body ablaze.

What the hell just happened?