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One thing’s for sure, Jughead’s morning didn’t go as planned. At all.
But how did he end up in this situation? That’s the million-dollar question.
…
February 14th, 11:00am
For starters, he didn’t plan on having a job interview on Valentine’s Day.
(Well, obviously he knew it was today – if three reminders on his phone and two red post-it notes stuck on his laptop are any indication. As an aspiring writer, when one of the biggest newspapers of the country sets a date to meet you in person, the least you can do is do your best not to forget said date. Jughead didn’t forget.
He just wasn’t fully aware of what kind of day today was. Although let’s be real, it’s not like it matters in any way – as far as he knows, fourteen’s not an unlucky number and love has little to nothing to do with his writing. Today’s a day like any other.)
In all seriousness, what he really didn’t plan was to run late for his job interview. He’s never late. Never. But today, today, he is. Because of New York, because of the stupid subway and all these non-stressed people competing for the award of the slowest of slow walkers and because no matter how hard you try to plan things, in the end, if the universe wants to mess with you, then it messes with you. And just like that, what was once casual stress due to an important meeting turns into a whole new emotion that Jughead can’t quite label.
He enters (or rather bursts into) Maple News’ premises at eleven sharp. A little late he is, indeed, but it’s okay. Almost there. Almost. Yes, almost – because everybody knows that all good things come in threes, and therefore, Jughead has to face yet another situation he for sure didn’t plan – being forced to take an elevator.
He doesn’t like elevators. Why? Who cares why. He doesn’t like them. They’re small and scary and not to be trusted. But hey, at some point, when you come to the realization that it’s eleven am and you have to make it to the eighth floor for a job interview that’s scheduled at eleven am, taking the stairs doesn’t really look like the clever option. Hence, today, Jughead takes the elevator.
As he eventually (and reluctantly) steps inside, he’s stressed and nauseous and sweaty and late. What a perfect starter pack to go and try to launch your career. Though, come to think of it, there’s also good sides in all of this: one, he’s in the best conditions to practice his elevator pitch (how apt), and two, the situation couldn’t get any worse. There’s that. At least, that’s the hill Jughead chooses to die on for a hot second.
The doors start closing and he lets his guard down. Typical rookie mistake. He’s not prepared.
But who is, really, when it comes to meet the person you’re going to fall in love with?
Again, he didn’t plan on it.
Yet, there he is. There she is.
He first meets her in Maple News’ elevator, on February the 14th.
…
February 14th, 11:01am
She gets in not long after him, right before the closing of the doors. He doesn’t pay that much attention at first, for he’s busy trying to compose himself and regain any semblance of dignity while he still can. He ignores the strange wave of heat that flushes through him as her body ever so slightly brushes his, pinning the blame on his current state of being. Ding. The elevator goes up. She’s standing particularly close to him, but it’s not like she has a choice in the matter, given the obvious lack of space. Jughead stares at his feet, focused, stoic, and starts to mentally recite his elevator pitch.
What happens within the next ten seconds is quite a blur.
“Going up to the eighth floor too?” The woman on his left asks, shaking him out of his thoughts. It’s casual, nothing earth-shattering, yet for some reason there’s something in her voice that strikes him like lightning, a jolt of electricity coursing through his veins as his eyes shoot up to meet hers. Beautiful. The first word that comes to his troubled mind is beautiful.
He blinks and clears his throat before answering her. “Huh—yeah.”
She smiles then, and he turns his gaze away.
Look again, the needy voice in his head implores him. Look at her. Look at her again. He’s aware that she’s still looking at him – she’s staring, even – but he can’t bring himself to care right now. He needs to refocus.
But…
No.
Sixth, seventh, ding. Eighth floor.
With a firm step, Jughead is about to get out of the elevator.
(Nice try.)
The doors remain closed.
…
February 14th, 11:02am
“C’mon. Shit, c’mon.”
Jughead throws his head back in despair, muttering to himself whilst relentlessly hitting the eighth-floor button until it eventually dawns on him that the stubborn doors of the elevator he’s currently trapped in won’t open anytime soon. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not now. Not today. Fuck.”
Today, absolutely.
It has to be a prank. Not only did he find a way to be stuck in a goddamn elevator – which, by the way, is something that should’ve never happened in the first place because, once again, he’s a stairs guy, he always takes the stairs – it had to happen now. Today of all days. A joke.
Jughead contemplates smacking his entire self against the nearest wall (which is not that far, at least). Talk about being screwed. Now he’s stuck. Stuck, and definitely late. That’s it – he’s about to get fired before he even gets the chance to be hired. Way to go, Jones. What a time to be—
“Don’t worry, it won’t take long. We’re not really stuck.”
Jughead jumps and turns around. Silence. That voice—
Alive. What a time to be alive.
Did he forget that he wasn’t alone? No. Did he forget that she was there? For a second or so, yes. Blame it on this quite unusual scenario and the fact that he barely remembers where he is at this point. It doesn’t take long for him to get his memory back, though. Beautiful.
Ah! See? You’re finally looking at her again. Look. Look at her.
He straightens, heart pounding unnecessarily fast. “What?”
“I said don’t worry,” the woman repeats, her voice laced with a soft chuckle. “Elevators are known to be tricky around here. It just… happens, every once in a while. Let me just—”
Jughead watches, motionless, as she unlocks her phone then proceeds to type what he assumes is a text to whoever has the power to free people from tricky elevators. He blinks a few times then manages to nod. Truthfully, he’s not even sure he registered a single word she said.
He lets his gaze rake all over her a little too long, and it happens again – the electricity. All of a sudden, he realizes that he can no longer tell where the knot in his stomach comes from – the high stakes of the job interview he’s currently missing; the elevator’s walls that seem to close in on him more and more by the second; or her. He doesn’t know shit anymore.
And that is the very one situation he hasn’t considered ending up in.
Jughead thinks he’s in love.
Okay – he thinks he will be in love. Soon.
As he finds himself unable to take his sorry eyes off her, he remembers this Japanese phrase Toni told him about a few months ago – koi no yokan. It doesn’t really mean love at first sight. It’s… close to love at second sight. It’s the feeling when you meet someone that you’re going to fall in love with them, if he recalls correctly.
I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, Jones, Toni had said back then. He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.
Now he does. He does, because he can easily feel that something’s different. But this is absurd. He didn’t even know her three minutes from now and they barely talked since. He can’t predict that he’s going to fall in love with her. With anybody, for what it’s worth. He doesn’t know her. This is stupid. Right?
Yet, there’s something about this girl – scratch that, this woman – that makes him want to move closer. She’s still looking down at her phone, smiling at the screen like there’s nothing wrong with the fact that they’re currently trapped in a freaking metal cage, and Jughead would wonder what is wrong with her if only that was the real question.
But the real question is: what is right with her?
Is it the deep green of her eyes in which he immediately lost himself when he saw her for the first time? Is it the curve of her lips that he weirdly craves to mold with his own? Is it her golden hair, neatly tied in a low bun except for two curled strands framing her perfect face? Is it her smile? Her smile… there’s something about it that’s akin to coming home in winter to a log fire – warm and welcoming. It could be her smile. Or her voice. Or is it that tight black dress, putting her legs on display for the whole world to see? Those legs… Jughead thinks they should be against the law, because they are as illegal as the things he wishes he could do to her right now and then in that elevator.
Touch her. Kiss her. Fuck her.
What the hell. What. The. Hell.
This is Toni’s fault. It has to be Toni’s fault. Right? If only his heathen of a best friend wasn’t constantly and openly rambling about her wildest fantasies, his head wouldn’t be filled with lots and lots of scenarios involving a beautiful stranger and a metal stool and a goddamn full-length mirror and no, no, he can’t do that. He can’t think about that.
One hand running nervously through his dark locks, Jughead shuts his eyes close and wills his brain not to explode. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him. Sure, one could argue that he’s weird he’s a weirdo he doesn’t fit in and he doesn’t wanna fit in but he’s not a caveman. He’s seen pretty girls before. He’s interacted with pretty girls before. Granted, they weren’t all standing right next to him like a living fantasy waiting to be fulfilled, but still. This needs to stop.
Except that it won’t stop, not now, because at some point her voice echoes again and it’s all it takes for him to turn his entire attention back on her.
“Is everything okay?” She asks.
The more he gets to hear it, the more he likes the sound of it. Her voice – a melody that’s taking him higher than any elevator could. He swears he can sense a hint of worry in her tone, though, and it’s enough to wake all his senses up.
No, no it’s not okay.
“You seem disturbed,” she adds, her mouth twisting to the side. Now she seems genuinely worried. “Are you claustrophobic?”
It’s you. You’re disturbing. In a strange way.
“It’s—I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”
She gives him a look. A you don’t really seem perfectly fine look. “You sure?”
Where should he begin? All he wants is to get the fuck out of here but not really because he also wants to keep looking at her like she’s the eighth wonder of the world and he didn’t sign up for all of this but that doesn’t mean some part of him is not enjoying it for some odd reason and—
“Okay, no,” he admits eventually. “This day sucks.”
She hums. “Valentine’s Day?”
“No. Yes—kind of.” Jughead thinks he’s slowly forgetting how to form a coherent sentence. “I don’t particularly care about Valentine’s Day.”
“I don’t particularly care about it either.”
She’s trying to make conversation, he realizes then. She’s kind. Kind and caring and beautiful. He should ask for her name, that’s probably what normal people do when they meet in strange circumstances. He wants to know her name. He wants to know her. He just doesn’t know where and how to start, so he continues to talk about himself instead. It’s safer.
“I don’t think it has something to do with today’s date. It’s just me. My day sucks, that’s all. I mean, it could be worse, I know it could be worse, it’s just—it didn’t go as planned, you know?” And now you’re talking too much. “Also, I don’t like elevators.”
She nods, eying him skeptically, then takes a step backward in order to lean against the wall facing him. “Why is that?”
“Why?” Jughead snorts and gestures loosely around him. “Isn’t that obvious?”
She laughs quietly, and shivers run down his spine.
“Yeah, okay,” she admits with a gentle eyeroll. “I mean, besides the fact that you’re currently being forced to have a social interaction with me.”
Huh?
“What? No, that’s not—they’re just traps. Elevators are fucking traps. I didn’t mean you were—”
She cuts him off by laughing a little louder. “Hey, I’m kidding.” She shakes her head and a sigh escapes her mouth. “I told you, we’re gonna get out of here in no time. No need to curse that poor elevator. The doors will open, and you won’t have to bear me any longer.”
“Yeah, but—"
Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
He says it.
“Seriously, don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind being stuck in here with you. At all.”
Silence.
Great, Jughead thinks, just great. Of course he had to make it weird. She’s just being nice, killing time by having normal human interactions, she’s laughing with him, and he’s just a walking mess unable to channel his big clown energy to save his own life.
What kind of contortions are your brain acrobats doing up there in your fucking head circus?
Facing her lack of response, Jughead wants to merge with the floor. But then—
“Is that so?”
Her words are followed by a barely covered smirk, and he can do little but to will his body not to overreact at the action. What is it with her?
She’s teasing. He thinks that she’s teasing, or flirting, or whatever this is that makes his insides go wild – and fuck if he knows what to make of it. It should be flattering, enticing, it should be his chance to take the wheel and drive and go for what he wants (her, he wants her), but that’s not what he does. That’s not who he is.
He knows better. He knows better than to make a fool of himself in front of a woman that’s way out of her league (he’s not even sure he has a league to begin with), he knows better than to drive himself off the road just because he’s reading the signs wrong. He can’t flirt with her. Not now. Not ever.
(Or maybe he can, but that’s hella scary so… nevermind.)
“That’s not what I meant,” he openly lies, cheeks burning like she just slammed ashes on it. “Well, all I’m saying is… you’re good company. It’s nice. You’re nice. Anyways.”
Now is the time Jughead decides to stop talking before he starts to annoy the living life out of her for good. He’s never been good at small talk, he’s never been good at talking at all – he’s a writer, for god’s sake. He’s good at using his hands, not his mouth (insert sex joke here).
From now on, all he has to do is wait quietly until they can get out.
Of course, that’s not counting on the fact that his gorgeous and intriguing interlocutor has yet to be done with him, whether he wants it or not.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Can she? Jughead shrugs, unsure of where she’s going with that. “You just did?”
(Big clown energy, nothing new.
She laughs, though, and god does he love it when she laughs.)
“Funny,” she answers with a wink (a wink). “But really, I’m just curious. Why didn’t you take the stairs if you don’t like elevators? I know it’s random, but it got me thinking.”
It got her thinking. Why does she care? Jughead is dying to know.
Either way, he can’t help but shiver again at the sheer softness in her tone. She seems so kind and pure and soft and all he wants to do is cup her pretty fucking face in his hands and tell her over and over again that she’s beautiful inside and out even though he doesn’t know a goddamn thing about her and he also wants her to know that he’s glad he was late today because he probably wouldn’t have met her otherwise and—
He shakes himself out of his thoughts instead.
“I have a job interview.” He checks his phone and lets out a dramatic sigh, as though he wasn’t already perfectly aware of the time ticking quicker than usual ever since he got out of bed this morning. “Well, I’m supposed to have a job interview as we speak. Long story short, I ran late, the elevator was the only way for me to make it to the eighth floor in time, so I took it upon myself and here I am. An epic fail, as you can see.”
Technically, it’s the only reason why he did it. Because he was late. He answered her question, there’s no more to say about that. But she’s now staring at him like she’s waiting for a follow up, and for a reason that he has yet to determine, Jughead feels the need to add something else to his narrative. It’s not like it has any importance whatsoever, he’s just watering an already withered plant at this point. Might as well appear a little less dumb.
“Also, I needed to work on my elevator pitch. And I thought that… well, by taking the elevator I would kill two birds with one stone. Save some time and work on it. The elevator pitch, y’know, less than a minute to tell someone who you are, what you’re looking for, how you can benefit the company and—”
“Yeah, I know what an elevator pitch is.”
“Right. Of course. Yeah, so I figured doing it in an actual elevator would be… dunno, practical. That’s why I took the elevator.”
He doesn’t know why he felt the need to bring it up. The elevator pitch. It’s stupid. Not to mention that he’s lying – he didn’t need to work on it. It wasn’t something he planned. He didn’t plan anythingat all. And why oh why is he acting like that with her? It’s like he can’t even control what he’s saying anymore. Does that mean he’s falling in love? Is it why he’s losing all of his braincells? Why is she still paying attention to him?
Why why why—
“I’m awkward,” Jughead mutters to fill the void in his own head, scratching the back of his neck with his hand. “Sorry.”
“You’re not awkward,” she tells him with a frown. “If anything, you’re smart. Don’t be sorry for being smart.”
Smart. She thinks you’re smart. A smart liar, but still.
He’s debating whether to say thank you or to stay silent once and for all when he notices that something shifts in the way she’s acting. She seems thoughtful, a bit concerned, her mouth opening then closing as though she considers saying something but doesn’t know how to.
Jughead waits.
Eventually, she speaks. “Anyhow, I’m sure whoever is supposed to run your interview won’t give you a hard time for being ten minutes late.”
“If you say so,” he answers with a shrug, still actively wondering if this whole situation isn’t some sort of alternative universe where the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen sounds genuinely interested in his disaster of a life. “Her name’s Elizabeth Cooper. Do you happen to know her?”
…
February 14th, 11:06am
This is wrong, Betty thinks weakly, fighting back a pleased grin at the sweet sound of her name rolling off his tongue. This is wrong on so many levels.
She was expecting for him to ask for her name. She thought he was going to ask for it at some point, and it would have been her call to stop that little game she’s playing and tick off the little box in her conscience titled let him know who I am, but he never did. He never asked.
No, he just… said it. Just like that. Her name.
Betty is aware that she’s now caught in a situation that’s going to get really, really awkward the second they’ll get out of the elevator. She should have told him right away – good morning, I’m your potential future boss. Nice to meet you. Don’t worry, you won’t be late for your interview. It would have been so simple. She should tell him now, he’s literally asking. It’s the right thing to do, but—
But she can’t find it in her to do what’s right.
It seems like he’s messing with her mind.
Jughead Jones.
(Obviously she knows who he is – she recognized him the second she stepped in the elevator, for she googled his name before booking their interview. He didn’t, that goes without saying, or else he would have recognized her too, and he wouldn’t be asking if she happens to know Elizabeth Cooper.
There’s a few other things Betty knows about him, thanks to his resume that she took the time to read carefully like the good manager she is – he’s a year younger than her, he wrote some very interesting articles for local newspapers, he published his own book a couple of years ago, he’s not from New York, and he’s single.
What? He wrote that on his resume. She didn’t even have to stalk).
This man is playing tricks on her own thoughts in a way she’s not used to, in a way that has her already craving for him to say her name again, again and again, and there lies the problem – it’s wrong. She can’t think about this. This has to stop right now and then, she’s aware, but—
But again, it seems that wrong really loves her company today.
There must be a curse on this day. Valentine’s Day.
Betty thinks she’s in love.
Okay – not in love, per se. Perhaps she’s really, really hungry, and she’s just in the search of something mouth-watering to sink her teeth into. Something. Someone. Perhaps this is just a vivid manifestation of what Veronica has once called the snack syndrome – Bettykins, you know what I’m talking about, don’t tell me you’ve never looked at someone and just wanted to… eat them. You know, like a snack.
She didn’t know back then. But now, now—
This man truly looks good enough to devour.
Where exactly does that come from? She can’t tell. His dark hair through which she longs to let her fingers wander? His hands so big she can only imagine what they could do once in contact with her own body? His eyes so blue she thought she was staring at a gemstone for a moment? That little mole on his chin? That damn height difference? That black shirt she’s itching to rip off? Who knows.
He’s easy on the eye. That’s a given.
But there’s more than that. As cliché as it sounds, there’s more than just his physical appearance. Betty has always been good at reading people, and it didn’t take an in-depth analysis for her to see that this man was nothing short of good. The way he talks, the way he’s looking at her… good. Betty knows. She’s been stuck with a fair number of demons, after all – she can recognize an angel when she sees one.
Anyways.
He’s hot and he’s good and she’s not immune at all but it doesn’t matter in the end because it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. She shouldn’t be doing this with him. She shouldn’t be flirting with him.
(Is she flirting? She can’t really tell. A little, maybe. Is he? That’s another matter.
Sure, she noticed the fleeting looks and I don’t mind being stuck in here with you and you’re good company, but that doesn’t necessarily means that he’s flirting with her – perhaps she’s just making him uncomfortable and he tries his best to be polite. And as much as it’s making Betty cringe internally, it wouldn’t be much surprising. The poor guy is having a rough morning, he just wanted to work on his elevator pitch in peace and she hasn’t stopped bothering him like an attention-starved bitch since they got in there.)
As a former straight-A student and the now youngest ever chief editor in Maple News, Betty has never been one to break the rules. She knows a thing or two about what is right and what is wrong, and omitting the truth about who she really is to her potential future employee and wanting to take him to bed shockingly looks like her next great mistake.
This whole situation is wrong.
Yet there’s something so, so right about him.
Jughead Jones.
To dive into the ocean of his eyes for the first time was like falling willingly underneath a spell – all it took was one look and he had her breathless. Weightless. And as he’s waiting for her to answer his previous question, the only word scrambling at the tip of her tongue is yes.
To him, she only wants to say—
“Yes.”
Her reply comes out breathy, unsteady. He notices, of course, and his left eyebrow arches so perfectly that Betty has to concentrate real hard not to blurt out some absurdity such as yes, I know Elizabeth Cooper, and I have it on good authority that she’s delighted by the perspective of getting to know you better, in all the ways you would let her.
She clears her throat instead. “Yeah, sure, I know her.”
That’s me. I’m her.
Tell him.
“Cooper. She’s really nice.”
Great.
What the hell are you doing?
Betty has to refrain herself from laughing nervously at what she just said. She doesn’t know what’s got into her even since she met that guy, but it’s making her do and say things she would have never thought of under normal circumstances and this is bad. Bad, thoroughly unprofessional, and unfair.
Unfair for him, obviously – if she was omitting the truth before, now she’s clearly lying to him, and he doesn’t deserve to be played like that. But hey, he is unfair, too. Everything about him is unfair. That smile? Unfair. That voice? Unfair. The fact that he’s looking like a work of art she’s been told not to touch? Unfair. So this isn’t entirely her fault, he’s just—
“Nice?” Jughead tilts his head to the side and Betty takes a long, deep breath, trying not to indulge in her persistent need to stare at his lips as he talks. “Nice enough to overlook the fact that I’m late for our first interview?”
She waves him off. “Like I already told you, don’t worry about that. Just tell her you were stuck and it’ll pass as a letter in the mail.”
“We’ll see, I guess.” He nods slowly, as though he’s trying to convince himself. “I don’t even know what she looks like. I just hope she’s not too… expressive, you know, cause it seems that my ability to concentrate is somehow being tested today.”
The way he averts his gaze from her right after saying that has Betty wondering whether it’s because the last bit of his sentence has something to do with her or because he wants this conversation to end. Or both? Either way, she probably should leave him alone. Too bad that, despite the loud alarm repeatedly ringing in her head, she can’t suppress her sudden urge to dig a little more.
“You don’t know what she looks like?”
“Nope.”
“At all?”
“At all.”
“So you didn’t google her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure you wanna hear another weird fact about me.”
Betty presses her lips together. Is it bad that she wants to say I do? Probably. She smiles gently and gives her shoulders a little shrug instead, leaving him the choice to proceed or not.
He doesn’t. “You don’t, I promise you.”
She’s about to retort, but—
“Anyways,” he says, shaking his head while running a lazy hand through his hair. “I didn’t google her. I don’t know a thing about that Elizabeth Cooper, not even her age. Though judging by her name only, it’s safe to assume she’s at least forty five. Am I right? I mean, who’s named Elizabeth nowadays?”
Betty snorts.
Your name’s Jughead, she almost blurts out before quickly recalling that she isn’t supposed to know his name. Well, she is, but he doesn’t know that she knows, because he thinks that she’s someone that she isn’t and—fuck it. It’s too late now. She’s driving head-on to a wall, might as well enjoy while she still can.
“You may be right, you may be wrong,” she tells him, glancing at the elevator’s door and wondering for the hundredth time how in the fuck did she end up in this situation. “All I can tell is that she sure as hell doesn’t like to be judged by her looks.”
(It’s true.)
At that, Jughead laughs. Betty is almost a hundred percent sure that it’s the first time she really gets to hear his laugh since they got in there, and unsurprisingly, she likes the sound of it.
“Great, that makes two of us,” he says with an eyeroll.
She frowns. “Meaning…?”
“Meaning, I don’t like to be judged by my looks either.”
“Yeah, but—"
Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
She says it.
“But there’s nothing wrong with the way you look. I kinda like your looks,” she admits, nervously trapping her bottom lip between her teeth at her own boldness.
There’s a short silence. Then—
“You kinda like—oh yeah?” It’s his turn to smirk, and Betty is pretty sure that she blushes. It’s safe to assume that he’s flirting a little now. She can feel it swarming all over her – the warmth of another language. Something different.
You’re in big, big trouble.
“I’ll have you know that this isn’t my usual fashion style,” Jughead adds then, looking down at his shirt like it clearly doesn’t belong here. “I’m not really a suit and tie kind of guy.”
She should definitely stop digging now – or else she won’t be able to stop at all – but he’s asking for it with that last statement. Betty arches an eyebrow, intrigued. “What kind of guy are you, then?”
“Faded t-shirts? Sherpas? A weird beanie on my head? Suspenders, sometimes.”
Oh boy, Betty thinks then. The things I would have done to you in that elevator if you were wearing suspenders right now.
“I see.” She pauses, fighting the lump forming in her throat and debating whether or not she should say what she’s about to say before throwing caution to the wind. “Well, I think I would like you all the same.”
Great. You just said “I like you” out loud.
“You think?” A shy grin starts playing on his lips. For some reason, he seems a bit more relaxed than he was when they started this conversation. For Betty, it’s the opposite. “But what’s there to like, honestly?”
Self-depreciative. She gets it.
Betty bites down on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing at his words, but the smile that spreads over her lips is an easy giveaway of what she really feels.
She open her mouth, expecting for something to come out, but she finds herself unable to form a single word. She could easily give him a list of all the things she likes about him, starting with the fact that she’s never been so attracted to someone, let alone someone she barely knows, but it feels like a waste of time.
The silence that follows quickly becomes kind of heavy. Betty tries to avoid looking directly at Jughead by moving her gaze toward the mirror at the back of the elevator, only to realize that he’s doing the same and that they’re still looking at each other. They both chuckle awkwardly at the realization, now very aware of their forced closeness, and for a second, she thinks she’s going to do it. Not quite kiss him, she’s not that bold, but… finally make a decision.
She has to choose. It’s simple – whether they do the interview and he starts working with her (she knows she’s going to hire him in that case, not a doubt in her mind), or they don’t and he can be moreto her. But does he want more with her? She thinks so. No. No, she knows. Maybe she can’t tell why yet, but she knows that there’s something special going on here. She wants more. They have to be more. That’s it, she’s just going to cancel the interview and—
What? No, no, no. She can’t do that. He came here for the interview. He did not came for her. He came here because he wants to work here. He came because it’s a huge opportunity for him, hell, he doesn’t like elevators and there he is stuck in an elevator because he really wants the job. She can’t do that to him. It’s selfish. It’s unfair. No, she’s going to apologize and they’re going to do that interview.
She made her choice. But what if—
What if he can be both? No. No he can’t. She’s a chief editor, a fucking manager, she’s perfectly aware that he can’t be both. But—
God, she’s never seen a mouth that she would kill to kiss—
Ding.
The elevator’s doors open on the eighth floor.
...
February 14th, 11:10am
When they finally get out, Betty is a bit relieved, a lot frustrated, definitely anxious, totally done with her own self and absolutely freewheeling.
Fantastic.
Thank god, to her great delight, she’s not first to talk. Jughead spares her the embarrassment. “So um… thank you,” he says, voice low, as they now face each other with a tad more space between them.
“Thank you…for?” Betty asks warily.
“For making this bearable.” He gestures to the elevator next to them. “I wouldn’t have survived even a minute alone in there.”
She gently rolls her eyes, not daring to look him in the eye. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being realistic,” he corrects. “Also—"
“What?”
He hesitates a couple of seconds before clearing his throat. “Before I go and try to save my future career, I just wanted to ask… I know it may sound odd because it’s Valentine’s Day and I know you probably have plans for tonight so I’m not gonna ask for your number but… would you tell me your name, at least?”
She may look quiet on the surface, but Betty’s insides are on fire. That beautiful, sweet dumbass thinks she has plans. For Valentine’s Day. Wasn’t she transparent enough? God. She’s really, reallyfighting a mad urge to kiss him right now.
(She could, honestly. At this point she could just hold her middle finger up and indulge in doing something stupid such as kiss him because no matter what she chooses to do, she knows what’s going to happen within the next minute.)
“I don’t have plans,” she tells him simply.
He seems genuinely surprised by her answer. “Oh. Okay. So… a name? Or, I don’t know, your address?”
“Why,” Betty chuckles, “You plan on sending me a love letter?”
“Would you write back?”
“Maybe. Depends on how our interview plays out.”
“Yeah, we’ll—wait. Our inter—our?”
That’s it. She said it. He knows.
It’s almost painful, the way she can’t stop her heart from beating faster and faster as she takes in the way his brows furrow in utter confusion. She waits. She waits for the realization to dawn on him, she waits for him to laugh, to be mad, to blow her off, to ask why, anything. She waits for him to react.
But when he finally speaks, his voice is as unreadable as his facial expression.
“Is this your way of saying that I already know your name?”
Kind of?
“I’m Elizabeth Cooper,” she confirms for good measure, trying to keep her tone as neutral as possible. “But please, call me Betty.”
She reaches out a hand, waiting for Jughead to do the same albeit he seems all but frozen in place at the moment. He does shake her hand, though, and she can’t help but love the way they seem to fit so perfectly together.
None of them move after that. He’s strangely silent, and Betty’s stomach twists in a knot – maybe it was too much. Maybe she really did make a mistake by playing this little game, and the reason why he doesn’t react is because he’s too busy calculating the speed at which he’s going to get the hell out of this place because of course, that’s it, she managed to fuck up every single chance she had to see him again and she’s going to die without even knowing why he didn’t google her and—
Apologize. She needs to apologize, at least.
“Look, I’m sorry, I know I should’ve told you sooner. I understand if you—”
She cuts herself off when she hears a muttered fuck it coming right from him. Her eyes shoot up to meet his – she hadn’t realized that he was now smiling.
“It’s fine, Betty.” Just like that? “Seems like we’re both late. Shall we, then?”
Just like that. Fuck it. From that moment, it doesn’t take more than a millisecond for Betty’s smile to match his. Yeah, fuck it.
“There we go, follow me. Also, while it’s fresh in my mind – you can drop the elevator pitch. I have a feeling that I’m gonna need way more than a minute to truly know who you are and figure out what benefits can be drawn from you, Jughead Jones.”