"Morning, sleepyhead."

You rolled over on the couch, stretching. Caught up in thoughts of Jughead, you were too excited and nervous to sleep at a reasonable hour, and must have slept in. You opened your eyes to Jughead's bare back, his front facing the stove as he prepared breakfast in the kitchen. You heard the sizzle of bacon as he prepared breakfast.

"Oh God," you groaned. "Don't look at me."

"Don't worry about it," Jughead said with a chuckle. "You're pretty cute when you sleep."

You rolled your eyes. You stood, heading to the bathroom to brush your teeth and splash water on your face before joining Jughead in the kitchen. His hair dripped from the shower and little droplets of water stuck to his back and chest, his pajama pants hanging low on his waist. You hoped you weren't blushing.

Oil splashed up and he flinched, the hot liquid burning his bare skin.

You pushed him aside, ignoring the electricity you felt when your hand touched his chest. "Only you would try and cook bacon shirtless." You went to work finishing up the strips, laying them on a plate covered with a paper towel to cool.

"Maybe I was just doing it so you would take over," he suggested. "Only you know how I want my bacon cooked." He was right. So crispy it was almost black, but not quite.

"What about Bridezilla?" You joked.

"It always turns out black," he moaned. He grabbed his familiar S tee shirt hanging on the back of the chair, slipping it on. You hid your disappointment.

"Don't you have work?" You scolded, laying out the bacon and starting the pancake batter he had set out. He reached for a strip and you slapped his hand away. "Not until the rest is done, dummy."

"The wedding is in a week, so Fred gave me time off to prepare," Jughead said, snatching a piece when your back was turned. "Betty and her mom won't let me near the wedding stuff. They said my only job is to pick up the tux, write the vows, show up, and say 'I do'."

You chuckled. "What will the infamous Jughead Jones do with all this free time?" You wondered aloud.

"My time is yours, my old friend," Jughead said, leaning back in his chair.

You didn't know what to say that wouldn't come out as I love you and want you to ditch Betty and spend the rest of your life with me so you plated the pancakes, setting them next to the bacon in front of him. You set the table and poured out orange juice and milk.

It was a ritual. One day, hanging out, Jughead had told you once he hadn't had a home-cooked breakfast in nearly ten years. Not since his mom left. The next day, your parents went to church so you forced him into your house, sitting him down at the table and preparing the same damn meal: pancakes, bacon, orange juice, and milk. And so it went, every Sunday, once a week until you moved away.

You stood behind him, setting the table when he leaned his head into your stomach.

"I've missed this," he whispered.

You were glad he was facing away from you, that he couldn't see the emotions displayed so clearly on your face. "In a week, Jughead, you're going to have a wife. She can cook you breakfast." You thought a moment. "But don't make her. I've taught you better than to enforce ass-backwards gender norms."

"I won't make her," Jughead grumbled. "The bacon is always black."

You slapped him upside the head. "That's for stealing a piece earlier."

Jughead grinned. "So, ready to relive our glory days?"

You shook off the fear, replacing it with a smile. "You know it."

Spend the week with the love of your life. The engaged love of your life.

What could go wrong?