Blair dancing with Chuck, back from when they were two friends playing with fire after the limo incident (my favorite Chair times) to after everything fell apart.

I hate it that when I see you … I forget to breathe. When you walk into a room, even full as it is at a party, it does strange things to my chest and all I can feel is a mild fluttering as I tell myself to stop staring. You walk straight up to me, through the crowded living room, and it's all I can do to act normal, like your mocking eyes aren't making my legs weak even as they make me furious.

"Waldorf," The name rolls of your tongue, like honey yet with a tone of dry humor that stings. You leave me with a sensation that is indescribable. It is the wild uncontrollable quickening of my heart while my stomach cramps with nerves. I want to savor the moment, look into your dark eyes forever … yet I want to run away and hide under my covers.

Somehow, with power I don't know I have, I simply stand there and carefully raise an eyebrow, "Bass."

I slowly lift the corners of my mouth into what I know to be a patronizing yet captivating smile. You simply smirk because you see right through it. I can never hide from you. Because you know me, you know all of me.

You're smirking and I find myself looking into my martini glass, nervously swirling it around. But I'm not nervous for long. After all, I am Blair Waldorf. I spear the olive onto the end of my straw and lift it to my mouth.

"Did you want something?" I blink innocently at you and then slowly close my lips over the olive. Your eyes linger shamelessly on my mouth, just as I knew they would. And I feel my pulse racing because your eyes destroy me. Destroy every defense. Only you do that. I surrender only for you.

"Not particularly." You take my empty glass away and smoothly hand it to a waiter, " "I just thought to inform you of your lovely aura tonight. Are you trying to impress someone?"

I lean my head to one side and study your face. Because I don't understand how you can't see. There is only you. There is only one person to dress for and one person to impress. I try this hard only for you.

But I simply adopt my slow dimpled smile and twist a curl between my fingers. "Oh wouldn't you like to know Bass?"

"Well of course. You know in this life all I strive for is your attention so that I may behold even for a moment your fascinating aura directed at me."

Your voice is smooth. Like silk on skin. Like satin on lips. Like your hair between my fingers. And I find myself drawn in. I have no control when you tell me such lies. I'm simply floating – and you are my parachute.

And then you lean in and whisper, "I might add directed on me or perhaps over would be more suitable. In the back of my limo. In the bedroom at –"

I turn away from your dark eyes, dangerous with its intentions. I call you a shameless, crude man whore with no manners but I'm just trying to hide that I'm falling. Because you'll never be a good parachute will you? No. You just strike me down with your words and I fall … over and over again.

You're doing your lazy smirk again at my outburst, but then something over my shoulder catches your eye. "Well, Waldorf, it's been a pleasure, as always. But you'll have to excuse me."

"Oh the pleasure is all mine." I bite out. And then I make a point of walking away before you do. It's my small revenge.

Revenge for letting your attention stray from me. But the revenge stems more from the anger that I care. I care that your attention should be on anything but me. And I fight the urge to sneak after you, find whom you sought when you left me. I wonder if it's a girl. Maybe a long legged blond. Or maybe a brunette like me but one that has bigger breasts and more – I hate myself for wondering.

The revenge is for letting me fall with your words. For speaking of sweet nothings to me. And then cruelly reminding me that its all about the limo. All about the bedroom. It's all about the sex. That's all you want from me.

And the revenge is for the fact that it makes my heart pound even while I fight with all my being against it. When you lean in towards me and your breath brushes my neck I think of your hands on my waist, pulling me in, your thumbs rubbing circles on my thighs. But I want more than that.

And I hate that too.

I hate that I fall for you.

I've circled the party absently, but realize I can't go on with this charade of happiness and manners when all I can think about is you. I've snagged myself another martini and I delicately balance it in my hand as I make my way into the hall. In the blessed emptiness I can sink defeated onto the red cushioned bench against the wall.

I am defeated. Defeated by you, and that's just one more thing I hate. You've made me a crumbled mess as I struggle to stop wondering what girls are fawning at your feet now. Do you run your hand through their hair like you do mine and whisper in their ear, telling them how soft it is?

I'm just a notch in your bedpost and I, Blair Waldorf, have never been in such a plebian situation. You defeat me.

"I've been looking for you."

The sound of your voice makes me jump and I straighten instantly. "Oh, is it you again? Have you failed to find one of your common tramps to grope and demean?" The comment comes out bitter and jealous when I was going for carelessly biting. I find myself looking at my shoes in a decidedly non-Blair Waldorf move. If I could only get away from you and your damned smooth voice and gentle hands and –

You're taking the martini glass out of hand as you guide me to my feet.

"And why," you murmur, "would I want a common tramp when there's even a slim glimmer of a chance of having you?"

I want to be mad. I want to stomp my feet and yell at you, but instead there's a sudden and wholly uncontrollable heat and excitement running through my veins. I'm inexplicably afraid that you'll feel in radiating off me. And all because Chuck Bass chooses me over a tramp.

I let you lead me blindly and I don't even realize we're on the dancefloor until you carefully guide me into your arms. Your hand on my waist is burning a hole through my dress and I struggle to keep my hand relaxed on your shoulder when my heart is jumping with nerves.

I glance at our clasped hands and think about how good it feels. How I never really want to let go and it scares me. It's all about the limo. It's all about the limo. Just sex, Waldorf, just sex. And I've almost convinced myself when you pull me in closer.

Suddenly my soft body is flush with your hard, powerful one and your forehead is inches from mine. I let out a shaky breath. Because being this close to you does that to me. I can smell you all around me and it's more than I can handle. Because it's not just sex for me and it can't be just sex for me.

Because you are my first. And you are my only. And I like the way you smile – the lazy one, when you're truly amused. And I'm intrigued by the way you look broody and sad sometimes when you think no one is looking. And I love how you crave a challenge as much as I do and plot with as much detail and effort. And I love the way you're never afraid when I glare and you never back down when I argue. And I love the way my hand feels in yours.

And all of that I hate.

You notice my shaky breath and I can feel your eyes on my face. I look up at you, because I don't back down, after all. I feel it like band squeezing my heart when our eyes meet. Because yours are dark and fathomless and I can't read a thing. But your arm has tightened around me.

The music stops and our bodies stop moving in time. You lift your hand and run a finger down my cheek, brushing my hair aside in the same movement. My mouth opens of its accord and I gasp for breath I suddenly don't have.

You simply smile like a cat, like a lion who is sure of its prey. "You look beautiful when you're nervous," you murmur.

And because I can't let that go by, I lift my chin and push away from you. "And who says I'm nervous?" I speak clearly.

You just shrug and let your glance linger across the room before settling on me again. "Oh, merely a hunch."

"Well I wouldn't trust your powers of deduction too strongly in this case."

"Oh Waldorf. As much as I enjoy verbally sparring with you, if only to see you get so worked up, I prefer a dance in blissful peace now and then." The music starts again and I'm pulled towards your body as we begin to move. "I called you beautiful," you continue. "All you needed to answer with was a thank you."

And I don't know what to say. I'm struck dumb and hope you aren't aware that this only happens with you. That it's only with you when I find I have nothing to say.

"Well it is you we're speaking of Bass." I quip after a pause. "Can you blame me for being suspicious? As if you do anything without an ulterior motive."

The corner of your mouth lifts at this and you say, "Well, if the comment furthers me in my attempt to get under your dress, then I won't complain. But it doesn't mean I don't find you beautiful regardless."

My heart warms at this and I'm getting a jumpy feeling in my stomach. Like there are butterflies inside doing gymnastics.

Oh what you do to me, Chuck Bass, what you do to me.

We're swaying back and forth … back and forth. And the thoughts in my head are doing the same. Because I'm relaxed in your arms and you think I'm beautiful and I could be like this forever. And even though I don't know where I stand, and I know you won't be my parachute, I feel happier in this moment than I have ever. So I want it to last … on and on.

One year later, I'm dancing with you again. Only this time, it's not a product of quelled desire. Instead, its simply sense of duty to thank you for applying to Columbia for me.

After the deed is done, we're swaying in silence. Like we did so many times before.

I lean into your body of my own volition, although I will forever blame it on you if asked. When I put my forehead against your shoulder I'm horrified to feel tears threatening to spill. I have to bite my lip and scrunch my eyes to hold them back and it's terrifying. Because this moment will not last on and on. Because I will never be like this forever – we will never be like this forever. A year ago, before we had even begun, I thought we would.

And I hate that.

Before the music even stops, I place my hands on your chest and push away from you. I look deep into your eyes maybe for the first time tonight without looking away. I see mystery. I see shadows. I see rain and puddles of immeasurable depths.

I see you.

"Chuck Bass." I can hear the breathlessness of my own voice. "Do you know what you were to me?"

You're caught off guard and I can tell. For just a moment your gaze wavers, but then it's back and it's stronger than ever. I would expect no less. You're Chuck Bass, after all.

In your steady, smooth as silk voice, you reply, "Blair, if I meant to you a mere fraction of what you meant to me, it still wouldn't be simple or plain enough to put into words." Confusion mares your features as you stare at me and I see pain there too. You lift your hand and it hovers by my face for a moment - as if you want to touch me, but you're not sure if you can.

I lift my own hand and grasp yours, momentarily twining our fingers. I revel in that electricity that never got old. You brush thumb over my knuckles and I know you feel it too.

"There was only ever you," I murmur. "You know you were the exception to everything – to reputation, to honor, to rules, to my life. And you were worth it all."

My words hover in the thick air between us, and I know we're both hearing its terrible past tense. You were worth it all.

I want you to be worth it again. I want you to be my exception. I want you to be my only. No matter what I do, I can't stop wanting.

I hate this too.

Almost roughly, I tear my hand from yours and push away. Without a nod, without a farewell, I'm walking across the tiled floor. I'm not sure where I'm going, except to perhaps find the nearest exit. And maybe a martini on the way.

I stopped believing in soul mates and fate and destiny after the entire Nate Archibald debacle in high school. After the debris settled down, I concluded that we all just float through life meeting countless possible candidates. It's completely in our hands to take the subsequent step and make it work.

Today, I still don't believe in soul mates and I realize in this moment I truly cannot. Because if I did, I undoubtedly just walked away from mine.

I grab the railing of the balcony so hard my hands hurt and I gaze over the city, my city. The sun is setting in a fiery blaze on the horizon. I choke on a sob as I wish … I wish …

I wish I could just hate you.

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