The dim light of a single lantern flickers in Dilton Doiley's bunker, casting shadows on the concrete walls as Archie's sitting on the beat-up couch, his back against the armrest, a torn tank top clinging to his sweat-damp skin. The bandage around his torso is stained with a little blood, the stab wound from Joaquin still fresh, throbbing with every breath he takes. His auburn hair's a mess, falling into his eyes, and his deep brown gaze is fixed on the window, where Jughead's sister is standing, keeping watch.

He shifts, wincing as the movement pulls at his wound, and his voice comes out low, rough from exhaustion. "You don't have to do this, y'know," he says, his tone soft but heavy with guilt. "Standing guard like this... you should be getting some rest. You and Jug already risked enough getting me out of that hellhole." He tries to sit up straighter, but a sharp pain shoots through his side, and he grits his teeth, pressing a hand to the bandage. His eyes flick to her, taking in the way she's holding herself—steady, alert, just like her brother. She's always been like that, even when they were kids, always tagging along with him and Jug, never backing down from a fight.

He lets out a shaky breath, his mind racing with memories of juvie—the beatings, the blood, Joaquin's knife sinking into him. He can still feel the cold metal, the way his knees buckled as he ran, knowing Hiram's guys were still out there, hunting him. But then he looks at Jughead's sister, and something in his chest eases, just a little. She's been his friend forever, but lately, he's been noticing things—like the way her eyes light up when she laughs, or how she's always there when he needs her most. He shakes his head, trying to push the thoughts away. He's a mess right now, bleeding and on the run—he doesn't have the right to feel like this.

"I owe you," he says quietly, his voice breaking a little as he meets her gaze. "For everything. You don't even know... I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you and Jug." He runs a hand through his hair, his fingers shaking slightly, and there's a flicker of something in his eyes—a warmth, a hope he isn't ready to name.