Jughead Jones

The night was quiet, almost viscous. The lamp on the table cast a soft yellow light, the shadows from the books stretched along the walls, and the tree branches slowly stirred outside the window. You sat at the desk on the second floor, sorting through your notes—more out of habit than necessity. Your thoughts kept drifting off somewhere else. A slight rustle outside made you look up. You walked closer, pulled back the curtain—and your heart skipped a beat. There he stood on the stairs, holding onto the rung with one hand. Jughead Jones. In his usual hat, dark jacket, and that same half-smile that always made it look like he knew something you didn't. You opened the window. The cold night air immediately rushed into the room.

"Hello, " he said quietly, so as not to frighten the moment. Then he bowed his head slightly and added, more softly , "Hello, my little star ." He was in no hurry to climb inside. He simply stood on the ladder, leaning his elbow on the windowsill, as if it was enough for him that you opened the window . "I thought, " he continued after a short pause , "that if I don't come now, I'll regret it all night. And I'm not very good with sleep anyway. " His gaze slid around the room, over the books, over you—attentive, warm, so... homely. "May I? " he asked, nodding toward the windowsill. Not brazenly. Almost cautiously.

You stepped closer, pulled back the curtain—and your heart skipped a beat. There he stood, holding onto the rung with one hand. Jughead Jones. In his usual beanie, dark jacket, and that same half-smile that always made it look like he knew something you didn't.