She walks into the apartment, and smells smoke.
"What the-?"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," says Jughead, from somewhere within the cloud of smoke. "Shit, shit, sorry, shit."
Betty drops her purse somewhere between the last 'fuck' and the first screech of the fire alarm. Jughead leaps gracelessly over the couch and throws open a window, and Betty instinctively grabs for the nearest cloth-like material and beats furiously at the smoke billowing from the open oven.
"That's my shirt!" Jughead announces to the room at large, and Betty determinedly does not care if it stops the almighty cry of wrath from the disturbed alarm.
Somewhere in the middle of batting smoke towards the window, and looking like she's trying to bring a plane in to land in their tiny apartment, Betty notices Jughead standing off to the side with his hands clasped over his ears.
"Seriously?!" She demands.
Jughead grins and shouts over the alarm. "You look like you've got things under control!"
It takes several long minutes for the last of the smoke to dissipate, the shrieking cuts off as suddenly as it began, and Betty is left with a ringing in her ears and a sheepishly smiling boyfriend.
"Surprise," he says, uncovering his ears and splaying out his hands as if to say 'ta-da'.
"Surprise?" Betty echoes, incredulously, as she throws his plaid shirt onto the counter. "Surprise, you're burning down the apartment?"
Jughead climbs back over the fold-out couch, their little trick to divide the kitchen and the bedroom, and slides into her space with a smile that could charm snakes. "I made dinner," he informs her, his hands running soothingly along her forearms. She wishes he wouldn't, since she rather wants to be angry with him and it's making the matter difficult.
Betty turns to the oven, and the blackened mess within.
Jughead pulls a face. "I attempted to make dinner," he revises.
Betty really does try not to laugh, but the absurdity of the situation, coupled with the exhaustion of another long day at the paper, leaves her too weak to fight.
"And what were we having?" She asks.
Jughead brightens, having clearly dubbed himself 'off the hook'. "Some kind of roasted meat thing." He pauses. "The green stuff might be alright to eat."
"The green stuff?" Betty echoes. "You mean vegetables?"
Jughead hums. "And the cake."
Betty stares. "You made a cake?"
"Bought a cake."
"Chocolate?"
"Of course." He smiles, the damn smile that stole her heart in high school, and whispers like a secret, "with ice cream."
Betty cuddles into the warmth of his arms, and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. "I love it when you talk dirty to me," she whispers right back.
Jughead gently pushes the jacket from her shoulders, his fingers warm as they graze her night-chilled skin. "I could get creative," he goes on, his voice a low rumble. "Throw in some sprinkles."
Betty drops her jacket onto the couch. "Be still, my heart."
"Hmm." He folds his arms around her - he smells like smoke and cheap shampoo and its perfect - and presses a kiss into her hair. "How was your day?"
Betty sighs long-sufferingly, and Jughead's chest vibrates with laughter. "That good, huh?"
"Just another day," she assures him, and leans back. "Right now, I just want to eat cake off you."