The days flew by, soaked in a heady cocktail of lust, love, and happiness, where every minute started and ended with her. A vertiginous ride steered by her laughter, while the satin of her skin dared him to hold on tighter, to never let go. Bliss, in its purest form. It was indulgent, excessive even, but how could he hold back when everything he had ever wanted lay within reach, a breath away, a promise of forever?
Playing it safe had never been his style, and with Blair, there was no safety in sight. Their world was theirs alone, bound by rules only they could write. And fuck, it felt good.
Now, he had her pinned against the smooth, crystal-blue tiles of the pool, her back pressed firmly against the cool wall. Water lapped around them, reflecting the last, lazy breath of summer as the season's heat gave way to a more forgiving warmth. It was just deep enough that her feet couldn't touch the bottom, so she clung to him, legs coiling around his waist with an ease that made him feel as if he could conquer empires, or build new ones, just for her.
With his left hand braced against the edge, he steadied them as his right gripped her thigh, pulling her closer. He was already hard, painfully, almost absurdly so, and the way she tightened her hold, pressing him deeper into her, only made it worse.
There was no space between them. Sweet, exquisite torture that sank into his bones, leaving him hungry for more. Her fingers tugged lightly at his wet hair, sending a pulse of need through him. Nothing mattered but the urge to crush his mouth against hers.
But Blair kept talking, words pouring out in that casual, effortless way of hers. Rambling, really. Plans for the day, fabrics, designers, trends. Her mind set on her endless, obsessive quest to reign supreme over Manhattan's social jungle, already planning every move as if the city were her chessboard and she was born to win. That relentless ambition never shut off, not even here. Not even now. It drove him insane.
Wet skin slid against his, breasts pressing into his chest, that red bikini hugging her in a way that felt criminal. Her curves were a drug, fast-acting and impossible to resist, wiping out everything else until her voice dissolved into a dull, distant hum.
Royal blue. Midnight blue. Dusty rose.
The words pricked at the back of his mind, pulling him from the heat between them. His chest tightened, frustration flaring up like a reflex he couldn't control.
Why should handbags or color palettes matter when every inch of him was attuned to her, like a live wire sparking at the slightest touch? Blair could have been spilling the most vicious, life-ruining gossip, and he wouldn't have cared—not with that restless ache beneath his skin, the kind only she knew how to soothe.
So why did he care now?
There was that other itch, the one gnawing at the core of his desire. The one that had nothing to do with this moment and everything to do with what came next: the future. The daily grind. The slow crawl toward something safer, smaller. And it was closing in, day by day, as summer slipped away. He tried to block it out, bury it beneath the softness of her body. But it stuck. Stubborn. Just like her.
"Chuck," she snapped, her voice like the crack of a whip bringing him back. She knew him too well. "Listen."
"I'm listening," he said, his voice rough, gravelly. Half-hearted, at best. It was the kind of lie that wasn't meant to fool her, only to delay the inevitable. "You were droning on about that dreadful shade of pink," he threw the words out like it wasn't the most insipid thing he had ever heard. "I mean, are you planning a wedding or auditioning for a period piece?"
That earned him a splash, water hitting him with a playful slap. "Or preparing your funeral, depending on how long you keep this up."
He wiped his face. "In that case, black would suit you perfectly. Very elegant."
"I'm serious," she pressed. "If we're going back to the city next week, I need to overhaul everything. The outfits, the shoes, all of it. It has to be perfect. I can't afford a misstep, not with those Ivy League brats crawling back to claim the Upper East Side. Focus."
Shopping. Holding her bags. Listening as she planned every minute of their weekend. Nodding along like a perfectly trained lapdog. Leash optional. There it was again. Domesticity. Routine. Expectation. It crept in, slow and steady, like a drink left too long—flat, bitter. Being here with her, in this house, in this pool, was one thing. But to imagine the banalities of life bleeding into the sharp, electric angles of what they had? That was another.
This wasn't just about clothes or the latest must-haves. He liked those. It was the creeping predictability, the steady drift into everything they swore they would never become.
Could he really be that guy? The one who checked all the boxes and just… coasted, bored out of his mind?
The very thought made his skin crawl. What was left once the unpredictability died? Once the risk faded, and their passion was reduced to picking out furniture or showing up at dinner parties? Excitement was what they were built on. Not this. Not some sanitized routine. Next week. Lists. Plans. Too safe. Too dull. Too… normal. Could he survive being grounded in that version of them? Or would they drown, slowly, without the danger keeping them alive?
The water pressed in, cool and crushing, tightening around him like a rip current despite its stillness. Blair's touch, usually the only thing that anchored him to the present, now felt heavy, like it was dragging him down. And before he could stop himself, he pushed her hips away.
She slipped from his grasp, hands clutching the edge of the pool, knuckles white against the concrete.
For a moment, he hovered on the brink of an unseen cliff, staring into the darkness below. Falling forward—would it be an instant crash, a plunge into freefall, or endless sinking? His fingers raked through his wet hair, searching for some kind of lifeline, some clarity. There was nothing. Just that heavy stone in his chest.
"Are you okay? Did I…?"
"No." The word shot out, harder than he meant it to. No softness, no buffer. He hated how easily he let it slip. But this wasn't her fault. The fact that he couldn't stop tearing himself apart wasn't on her. "Just don't."
"Don't what, Chuck? Don't ask? Don't care?"
"Don't go down that road."
"What road?"
"The one where you think you've done something wrong. You didn't."
"You shove me away and expect me to what—ignore it? Act like you're not giving me the classic 'it's not you, it's me' bullshit?"
"Don't twist it, Blair."
"Then untwist it. Why are you acting like I'm the one tightening the noose around your neck?"
She wasn't wrong, was she? Something about it felt like the more he reached for her, the less air he could get. He wasn't suffocating because of her, though—he was suffocating himself. Because he couldn't figure out how to breathe in a world that didn't constantly offer him an edge to cling to.
"It's not that," he finally managed, quieter this time. "I just… I need a minute."
"A minute for what? We were perfectly fine five seconds ago, and now you can't stand to be around me?"
"God, Blair. Of course I want to be around you. There's nothing I want more."
"Then tell me," she demanded. "Stop feeding me lines and tell me what's really going on inside that head of yours, because right now you look like a trapped animal, clawing for the exit."
The exit? No. Hell no. But wasn't that the problem? He wasn't running, yet he didn't know how to stay either.
"Just say it," Blair pushed before he could find the words. "You're shutting me out. Again. Stop making me guess. What did I do? What flipped the switch?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing? Great."
"I told you, you're not the problem."
"Then what is? Because you sure as hell make it feel like I am. You said you weren't going anywhere, remember? What happened to 'today, tomorrow, every day after that'? Was that just another rehearsed line? Had your fun, now you're over it?"
"What? No." He shook his head. "I meant that. I still mean that. But—"
"But what, Chuck? What's the 'but'? You're throwing all this at me, and I'm not going to stay here pretending it doesn't feel like you're halfway out the door already."
He paused, knowing that one misstep could burn it all down in seconds. "It's... the plans. The expectations. The city. It's like everything's closing in."
Blair blinked, her expression hardening. "Closing in? What, now this is too much for you?"
"No, not this. Not you." He could hear the hollowness in his own voice, the way it failed to capture what he really meant. "It's the idea of it—of us, falling into some routine. Becoming those people. Checking boxes, living on autopilot. Do you really think I'm cut out to be the doting boyfriend?"
"You already are, Chuck. You just don't see it."
"No, no. I'm not." His denial was sharp, almost desperate. "I don't know how to be that guy. I'm not wired that way."
"Yes! You are. You think I'm asking you to play house? To be someone else? We're never going to be that couple. That's why this works."
"You don't get it."
Her patience snapped. "Then make me get it, because you're spinning in circles, and none of this adds up. What are you so damn afraid of?"
"I don't want to wake up one day and realize I've turned into some empty version of myself. The guy who lives for fake dinner parties, brunches, and bullshit weekend plans that suck the life out of him. The guy who pretends the city hasn't chewed him up and spit him out. That's not me. That's not us. I'm not losing myself in that."
"So, what? You think I want that? You think I'm planning a future where we sit on the steps of the Met every Sunday, playing happy couple while Nate and Serena stroll by with their fucking golden retriever?"
"You were ready to marry Nate when you were, what, thirteen? Had your whole future mapped out. The house, the kids. What am I supposed to think?"
"You know what? Fuck you." Her words came sharp and fast, venomous. She turned away, her back now to him, both arms resting on the edge of the pool. "You don't know a damn thing."
His mouth opened, ready to lash back, to throw up his defenses. But the stiffness in her posture—the pain beneath her anger—stopped him cold. He wasn't in this to win anything, so why did it feel like he was losing everything?
Maybe she was right. Maybe he didn't know shit.
He swam nearer, the water lapping softly as he positioned himself beside her, careful not to touch, but close enough. His voice was quieter now. "I didn't mean it like that. I know we're not like... you and him. I'm sorry."
"Are you?"
"Blair…"
"I'm not asking you to be normal," she whispered, her voice breaking just a little. "I'm asking you to be here. With me. That's it. I want to make plans because I love you, you idiot. Not because I want to put you in a cage. Why can't you see that?"
His throat tightened, words sticking there, impossible to push past.
"I'm scared too, Chuck." Her eyes drifted to the house, her voice lowering to almost a whisper. "Settling down... it's like watching everything die. Like losing yourself piece by piece. I've seen it. My parents, everyone around me." She paused, swallowing hard before continuing, "And every day, I'm terrified you'll wake up and decide this was just some phase. That I'm not enough."
He shook his head, guilt knotting in his chest. "Blair, that's not—"
"That's exactly what it feels like. Like you want to slip right back into the version of you who drowned himself in scotch and faceless girls because it was easier than feeling anything real. The one who destroyed everything around him just to avoid owning up to who he is. To who we are."
Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. Each one landed because they felt true to her, even if they weren't.
All this time, he'd been so busy outrunning his own self-destruction, so consumed with staying one step ahead of the fall, that he hadn't even seen her falling right beside him.
He really was a fucking idiot.
"You're wrong," he said. "I don't want to go back. I'm not going back. I can't."
Because why the hell should he? Who the fuck said he had to lose any part of himself? Or lose her? Who said he had to give up the fire just to hold her hand at some goddamn movie? Who made the rules that said he had to choose between being him and being… hers? There were a lot of things he wasn't supposed to be, but somehow he was.
Vulnerable. Emotional. In love.
Maybe there was room for both, and they didn't have to do any of that cliché shit. No candlelit dates or posing with artisanal cheeses. No strutting around like they'd just stepped out of the pages of a glossy magazine. They didn't have to be someone else's version of It. Or maybe, on their own terms, they could be. Maybe he would surprise himself and find that he didn't mind. That a part of him might even enjoy it. Who the hell knew?
What he did know was that he loved her. The normal, the scheming, the crazy, the light and the dark. The Blair who just was. The one who could make him laugh at something so incredibly petty and stupid, and at the same time, lean in and whisper the dirtiest thing in his ear like it was nothing.
He forced himself to put the damn suit back on, and it finally started to feel like it had been cut just for him, even if it pinched a little around the shoulders. If following her into every designer store on Fifth Avenue was part of the deal, then so be it. He'd be fine. After all, few things pleased him as much as being impeccably dressed, and even fewer as much as Blair Waldorf. They would get someone else to carry the bags anyway. They weren't normal, never would be. But they were them.
One day at a time, he reminded himself. As long as they were together.
She turned to face him, eyes hard and glossy. "What do you really want, Chuck?"
"I don't want us to change."
But that was just the surface. The smallest tip of a much deeper current. So much of his life had been spent pushing back against being caged, rejecting any boring, pedestrian version of life everyone else seemed content to chase, that he hadn't stopped to think that no one had ever actually tried to put him in that box.
No one except himself.
"I've been running from myself for so long," he said. "Convinced I had to be the guy who broke all the rules, because those rules weren't meant for me. And maybe, somewhere along the line, I got lost in it. Thought if we stayed out there, on the edge, right outside the lines, then we'd be untouchable. Not like the rest of them, boxed in by lives they're too afraid to break out of." His lips curled into a bitter smile. "But here's the thing. Life is what we make it."
Blair's hard exterior cracked, just for a second, but she stayed silent, watching him, letting him get it all out.
"You asked what I want? It's you, Blair. In every version, in every way. The Blair who destroys anyone who dares cross her with nothing more than a smile and a well-placed rumor. Always three steps ahead, playing a game no one else knows they've already lost. But also the Blair who falls asleep with Vogue and Harper's Bazaar scattered across the bed. The one who's still so obsessed with Audrey Hepburn that she can recite Breakfast at Tiffany's by heart, but still watch it like it's the first time."
He smiled, letting a soft laugh slip. "And the Blair who can cut me to pieces with one look. The only person who could ever ruin me... because she's the only one I've ever cared enough about to let that happen."
Her lips parted, but he wasn't finished.
"I want all of it, Blair. The fights, the schemes, the quiet mornings where we just... are. Where it's just us, wrapped in sheets, with nowhere to go. I want to sit through those awful charity galas, just to hear you rip every person in the room apart under your breath. It doesn't matter if we're manipulating Manhattan or sipping champagne on a rooftop. As long as you're there... none of the rest matters. It doesn't need to be perfect. It just has to be us."
He drifted toward her in the water, closing the gap effortlessly, the gentle ripples between them disappearing. His lips brushed her forehead, warm against the cool dampness of her skin. The soft lapping of the pool faded into the background, his eyes fluttering shut as the rest of the world faded into nothingness.
It wasn't about labels or expectations. Not about the city or the fear of what might come next.
It was about finding her, over and over again. And as long as they had that, the rest?
It didn't matter. Not one bit.
His thumb traced the line of her jaw, lifting her chin with a quiet possessiveness he didn't even try to hide. Her piercing brown eyes met his. Silent, knowing. They had long outgrown the need for words—fragile, fleeting things that never quite filled the space between them. Now, actions had become their language, a way of saying this is who we are when all else fell short.
There was no hesitation when Blair leaned in, her mouth claiming his with deliberate, slow intensity. No mistaking when her lips parted, inviting him deeper into her orbit. When his pulse roared in his ears as the fire of her began to flow through his veins. He tasted, he teased, and the sharp graze of her teeth against his lower lip drove him to madness.
This wasn't just a kiss—it was a mark of ownership. A brand.
She didn't have to worry, though, because his well of devotion ran deeper than any flame she could ever ignite. Blair couldn't burn him; he was already too consumed by her for that.
Her fingers threaded through his hair, nails scraping his scalp with just enough bite to rip a guttural groan from him. It was a sound deeper than desire, more urgent than need. Control slipped away as his grip tightened around her waist, the restraint he usually held in check now forgotten. Then, in one swift, fluid motion, he pressed her back against the cool tiles, her legs wrapping around him not to pull him closer, but to ground herself against the waves of pleasure building between them.
Chuck went a step further, fingertips caressing the thin fabric of her bikini top before slipping underneath, where he traced lazy circles around her already hardened peak. Her gasp was a sweet, shuddering release against his lips, and he smiled at the sharp intake of breath. He loved it, the way she made her body sing so beautifully under his touch. How easily he could elicit those quiet, breathless responses from her.
But Blair wasn't getting off that easy. Not yet. He wanted to feel her arch, writhe, beg, pull her to the brink only to reel her back.
"Chuck…" she rasped, pulling harder at his hair as her hips rolled, chasing something more than his teasing fingers.
He didn't give in right away. Then his hands drifted lower, palms cupping her ass as he dragged her roughly against him. The water made her weight feel lighter, easier to control, and he pulled her body flush against his, pressing into her with a slow, agonizing grind. But every thrust and movement was too fluid, too smooth, to satisfy either of them.
Blair's breath hitched, thighs locking around his waist with a punishing grip. Her nails bit into his back as she dragged him closer, her body screaming for more. But each stroke turned into a slow, maddening caress, and no matter how hard she tried, it just wasn't enough. The tension built but never quite broke, the water robbing them of the rough, satisfying friction they both craved.
"Shit," Chuck groaned into her mouth.
Her head tipped back, eyes half-closed, breath coming in erratic gasps. "Stop teasing and just fuck me," she demanded.
"No." He knew better than to let this go off the rails. No matter how much he or she wanted to, fucking her raw in the water wouldn't be pleasant for either one of them. "Not here."
"Why?"
His forehead pressed to hers, the tension coiled in him tight as a spring. "The water," he muttered. "It washes everything away. It'll hurt. You know that."
"So fix it," she snapped, though her lips twitched like she knew the absurdity of their predicament.
"Trust me, I will."
A pool wouldn't stop him, would it? Just because they couldn't fuck didn't mean he didn't know how to tear her apart, piece by piece, using nothing but his hands. So he got to work, his fingers tracing over her bikini bottom.
At first, it was just the lightest brush—then, he pressed harder, rubbing slow circles against her through the fabric. The friction was perfect now, the water no longer a barrier but an accomplice, amplifying each stroke, each calculated drag of his fingertips. Slow, relentless. Every move coaxed her higher, wound her tighter, without pushing her too far, too fast.
It wouldn't take long anyway.
Chuck picked up the pace, zeroing in on the most sensitive spot.
"Come on, Blair," he whispered against her neck.
And with one final stroke, she shattered. Moans rippled through the stillness of the water as her body bucked against his, pleasure taking hold. Their lips crashed, desperate, wild, her whole body trembling, undone. With each surge of pleasure, Chuck's arms tightened around her, grounding her in the rising tide of ecstasy.
Her chest rose and fell against his, breath ragged, lips parted.
"Get us out of here," she managed after a while.
Chuck was more than ready to carry her out of the pool and continue this outside when an irritated voice rang out like a gunshot, bursting their little bubble of sin.
"That's enough."
The last word split the moment in two.
Serena stood more than a few feet from the pool, close enough to ruin the mood but far enough from the action to catch none of it. Arms crossed tightly, her crisp white minidress—slit high on her thigh—looked fresh off the tennis court. All that was missing was the cap. The outfit was laid-back; the scowl on her face, anything but. If disapproval were a serve, Chuck was certain she'd aim straight for his head.
He ran a hand through his wet hair, releasing Blair just enough to adjust his swim trunks. Respectable was a stretch for someone caught mid-poolside romp, but Blair wasn't even bothered. And honestly, neither was he.
"If you were so desperate for a peek, sis, all you had to do was ask. We would have given you a front-row seat and all that."
"It's been two weeks, Chuck. Two!" Serena held up two fingers as if he needed reminding. "Two weeks of this! Is there a single room in this house you haven't desecrated? I'm genuinely curious because I feel like I need to bleach every surface. Other people live here, you know."
"You raise an interesting point. Though I don't believe we've tried the garage yet. Thanks for the suggestion."
"Good God!" His stepsister threw her hands up. "How much longer are you going to terrorize my best friend? Don't you ever get tired?"
Chuck tightened his grip on Blair's waist. "Terrorize? That's a bit dramatic, even for you. I'd say she's enjoying herself quite a bit."
"Try a lot," Blair chimed in.
"Stop enabling him, Blair!" Serena snapped, visibly losing it. "At some point, you have to draw the line. This can't be healthy for anyone. It's like you're on some weird, twisted power trip."
"And who exactly appointed you as the expert on what's 'healthy'?" Chuck countered. "Last I checked, you were shacking up with a Brooklynite. Hardly the gold standard for mental stability."
"Just stop already! I'm one moan away from setting this whole place on fire. I don't need to find Blair's panties in every corner of the house."
"Is there something missing in your life that's making you so bitter, Serena?" Blair asked. "Does Brooklyn no longer feel as… quaint as you imagined?"
"He's corrupting you," she shot back, pointing at Chuck.
He let out a low, amused chuckle. "Are you sure it's me who's doing the corrupting?"
Blair gave a soft laugh, pressing herself closer to him. "Oh, Serena. If only you knew."
His sister looked like she was about to murder them on the spot. "Can you stop acting like sex-crazed sociopaths for five minutes?"
"Didn't know you were auditioning for hall monitor. What's next, a curfew?" He smirked. "Since when did Serena van der Woodsen become such a prude?"
"I'm not a prude!" Serena shouted. "I'm just tired of needing a hazmat suit to sit anywhere in this place."
"You sure it's not jealousy talking?"
Her jaw dropped. "Jealous? Of what? The constant moaning? The ear-piercing screams that sound like someone's being murdered?"
"If I didn't know better, I'd think you wanted to be part of the fun."
"I just miss my friend, you self-absorbed asshole!" Her voice cracked as she threw a pleading look at Blair. "Blair, seriously. Can I just have one day with you where you're not attached to this… parasite?"
Blair tilted her head thoughtfully. "Hmm. Tempting. But my hands are a little... full right now."
"You two are insufferable. Do you even hear yourselves?"
"Oh, we hear ourselves just fine," Chuck retorted. "And it sounds like you hear us too. Quite clearly, I'd say."
"One day! I want one day. One peaceful, normal day. Can you two manage that without making me want to drown myself in this pool?"
There was a part of him itching to push Serena further, to toy with her patience and fan that spark of frustration until it ignited past the point of no return. That was the game, after all: poke, prod, and watch them all unravel. But something in her voice gave him pause, raw and desperate in a way he rarely heard from her.
It was like listening to a duet with one voice missing. What had seemed like petty complaining now sounded charged with meaning. Serena without Blair was out of balance, out of tune. Even he could feel the dissonance. The bond between the two best friends wasn't just deep; it was irreplaceable.
As much as he relished being the wedge that pried things apart, this wasn't a fracture he was willing to open.
Blair needed Serena, and Serena needed Blair.
And Chuck Bass, despite all his games, would never stand in the way of that.
He didn't want to.
With a dramatic sigh, he shook his head. "Alright, S. You want your day? Fine. You've got it."
"Wait. Really?" His stepsister blinked, clearly not expecting to win this round.
"Sure," Blair cut in, letting him go with a casual shrug before getting out of the pool with ease. She turned back to him as she reached for her towel, eyes steady. "But don't get too comfortable, Bass. We're not done."
He followed her lead, rolling his shoulders as he hoisted himself up with a swift, clean kick. The water sloshed as he landed on the edge, droplets scattering at his feet. His hair, still dripping, sent cool rivulets down the back of his neck. "Not even close, Waldorf. Not even close," he muttered, snatching the second towel and dragging it roughly over his chest.
"I hate you both," Serena said.
Chuck threw the towel over his shoulder. "And yet, you keep coming back for more."
"So, what's the plan?" Blair asked finally.
"Paddle tennis!" his stepsister announced, with far too much enthusiasm for something that involved public perspiration. With a twirl of her perfectly preppy outfit, she added, "We're going to the club."
"Why does it sound like a form of self-inflicted punishment when you say it?" he drawled.
"Oh, come on. I know you secretly like it, and a bit of exercise won't kill you."
"Physical exertion isn't something I've been lacking lately."
"Chuck!"
He feigned innocence, raising his hands in mock surrender. "You make it too easy for me, sis. You really do. Almost takes the fun out of it."
"Don't you ever get tired of yourself?"
"Not really."
Blair didn't even blink. "Don't be too impressed. His stamina's vastly overrated."
"Careful," he said.
"I don't know how you put up with him, B."
"Oh, he's manageable. Highly rewarding, when handled properly." Then she turned to Chuck, eyes sparkling.
He saw it right away. "Feeling competitive today, are we?"
"Honey, it's not a competition if you're this outmatched. I intend to win, and we both know I'm exceptional at that."
"Maybe. But you seem to forget…" His voice dropped. "I never play fair."
Blair took a step forward. "Please. If your game's anything like your performance, this will be over before I've even broken a sweat."
"Guys…" Serena cut in.
They both turned to her, momentarily distracted, before returning their focus to one another. Chuck leaned in slightly, a devilish smile forming. "Or better yet… why don't we remind blondie here who she's really up against?" he suggested. "What do you say?"
"I say... I have the perfect outfit for it," she teased, tiptoeing closer to him. "And trust me, you are going to love it."
He raised his eyebrows and grinned. "No complaints here… but if you're planning on an upgrade, I'm all in."
Serena rolled her eyes so hard, it was a wonder they didn't get stuck.
Before she left, Blair planted a quick peck on his lips. But Chuck wasn't ready to let her go; he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss as his hand traced down her waist. When Blair pulled away, hips swaying as she walked away, the blonde's gaze could have burned a hole through him.
"Need a bib for all that drool?" she quipped, arms crossed like she was ready to scold a child.
Chuck wiped the corner of his mouth theatrically. "Actually, I could use two. But your concern for me is touching."
"How can you still want more? How many times has it been?"
"I lost count around the same time you started keeping track."
"You're absolutely revolting, Chuck."
"What's with the sudden moral high ground? I'd think you, of all people, wouldn't be so shy about a little sex."
"That's my best friend you're defiling."
The thought of Serena playing guardian to her friend's virtue as if Blair were some innocent damsel was as comical as it was absurd. He almost laughed. "You're not about to give me 'the talk,' are you?"
She fell silent.
"Oh my God, you are," he said.
"If you hurt her—"
Chuck cut her off before she could finish. "I won't." His voice dropped just enough to sound serious.
"If you do, I will find you in hell and drag you down even deeper."
"You planning on joining me?"
She didn't miss a beat. "Planning on being right alongside you."
"Good."
"Good."
They stood there for a moment. He half expected her to fire off another threat, but instead Serena broke the calm with something else.
"So…" she hesitated, biting her lip before continuing. "Are you guys, you know… official?"
There it was. The million-dollar question. Their usual sparring fell away, stripped of its playful banter, leaving only two people who cared about Blair, each in their own way.
"Yeah. We are," he said, words rolling out with more certainty than he had expected.
"Huh. Wow."
"Don't sound so shocked."
"It's just… it's you. It's almost… hard to picture. Chuck Bass as someone's boyfriend. But then again, if anyone could pull that off, it had to be Blair Waldorf."
And that, he thought, was the million-dollar answer. No matter how boring or complicated life got, there was no one he would rather be with. And honestly, there never had been. "Isn't that the fucking truth?"
Serena studied him for a second, then asked, "How's the whole 'being serious' thing working out for you?"
"Exciting. Terrifying. Take your pick."
"First times often are."
"Not for us."
"Yeah, I guess not," she said with a slight smile, though there was a hint of sadness there too. "Still... I'm glad you're doing this with her. I really am. Even if you do make me want to puncture my eardrums half the time, you and Blair... you make sense."
He hadn't realized how much he needed to hear that until now. But he shrugged, keeping his voice light. "You really think so?"
"I think you're pretty good at being your charming, disgusting, infuriating self. And she... well, she loves every bit of it. You, on the other hand… you definitely out-kicked your coverage with her."
Chuck snorted. "Touché."
"Blair sees something in you, something even you like to pretend isn't there. It's good, Chuck. You just have to believe it, too."
"Is this your professional opinion? Should I lie down? Take notes?"
"Ugh, come on. Be serious, just once in your life."
"I am serious, Serena. But if I wanted some half-baked therapy, I'd call a life coach."
"Too bad, because you're not getting off this couch yet. So, what's next?"
"Go ask your best friend. We're not exactly on 'braiding each other's hair and planning sleepovers' terms. No matter how much Blair thinks we are."
"Is she still mad about it?"
"Oh, she's fuming. I should have never texted you back."
Serena threw her head back and laughed, the sound bright and infectious.
And she just kept laughing.
"Don't laugh. It's not fucking funny," he scowled, but there was no real bite in it.
Her laughter only grew louder, and for once, Chuck didn't snap back. He actually appreciated her more than he had ever let on. For caring, for pushing him, for not letting him wallow in his own self-destructive patterns.
"Pretty territorial, isn't she?" she finally said, still catching her breath.
"Have you met her?"
"You make her happy, Chuck. Out of all of us… you are the one."
He paused, letting the words land. For once, he didn't deflect or dodge. No smirk, no clever comeback. Just a nod. "Thanks, S," he said. "Really."
Without warning, Serena stepped forward and hugged him. His arms went stiff as he fought the instinct to pull away from the sudden, uninvited closeness. Affection wasn't exactly his strong suit with anyone who wasn't Blair, but he managed to hug her back, awkwardly, as if he wasn't entirely sure what to do with his hands. It was clumsy, but it worked.
"Don't make this a habit," he muttered into her hair.
"No promises."
Just then, footsteps echoed closer. "Serena! Are you—" Nate's voice broke through the moment as he stepped out of the house, only to stop short. "Oh."
He looked like an Abercrombie ad come to life. Every detail a little too perfect, a little too choreographed. His sports gear matched Serena's, as if they had been coordinated on purpose, the synchronicity almost disconcerting. For a brief second, he was every bit the All-American golden boy, immune to scandal, untouched by betrayal. Tousled hair. Bright, white smile. Muscles that were hard to ignore.
But when he spotted Chuck, the confidence drained from Nate's face. The carefree expression faltered, posture stiffening as if he had been caught mid-lie. The light in his eyes dimmed, uncertainty taking root.
"Hey, man," he said, voice tight.
Serena and Chuck broke apart, and Chuck straightened, his face a blank canvas, refusing to let Nate paint anything on it. Where had he been these last few weeks? Why did he care? The last time they'd been this close, Nate's fist had met his jaw with a viciousness neither of them knew he had in him—sharp, fast, on that damned yacht they'd all rather forget. A perfect punch Chuck had not only deserved, but half-welcomed.
He hadn't thought much about Nate in the days since his return. Blair had been too all-consuming, her gravitational pull bending his every thought and action. But to see Nate now, his oldest friend, the boy who had been closer than a brother, what was it? Regret? Sadness? It was like listening to an old jazz record you didn't know was still playing, its worn notes familiar but cracked, the melody torn in places. Yet somehow the music refused to stop, skipping, distorting, looping over the same broken chorus.
Nate Archibald was one of the few people Chuck had ever truly loved. And despite everything, despite every reason to walk away, he knew he would never stop caring. No matter how much it hurt.
"Hey," Chuck replied.
The past felt distant now, as if the blows and accusations were relics of a bygone battle, too far in the rear view to truly matter. There wasn't bitterness left. Not really. After all, Chuck could hardly fault Nate for hitting him. If anything, he should have swung harder.
Ping-ponging between Chuck, Serena, and the ground, his friend looked like a guilty schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, unsure if he had gotten away with it.
Serena bit her lip before speaking. "Chuck and Blair are joining us for doubles," she said, as if forcing the words out would somehow clean up the mess they'd all made.
Whatever response he had died in his throat the moment Blair walked onto the porch with the kind of confidence that made everyone else look like they were in the wrong place. She wore a crisp white pleated skirt so impossibly short it barely skimmed the top of her thighs, paired with a sleek, form-fitting tank top held by barely-there straps.
His eyes practically popped out of his head. Blair had been right; he loved it.
Was there ever a chance he wouldn't?
But the temperature seemed to drop by several degrees when she caught sight of Nate.
"No."
Her tone was final. No argument, no negotiation. Just no.
"Come on, B. We haven't done anything remotely fun in ages," Serena pressed, the cheerfulness just a touch forced.
"Oh, really? And whose fault would that be, S? Take a wild guess."
"Blair..." Nate's voice slipped in, careful, like walking on eggshells.
"Look at that. He speaks after all."
Serena shot her a pleading look. "Please, don't. Let's not do this."
"Do what? I haven't said a thing. Yet."
"Maybe this isn't the right time," he offered, hoping to ease the tension.
"Is that what this is?" Blair kept going. "Timing? You're suddenly concerned about timing?"
"You're being unfair."
"Me? I'm the one being unfair?"
"Come here." Chuck reached for her arm, guiding her a few feet away before things got nuclear. She allowed herself to be led, but her crossed arms screamed defiance.
"No. I'm not doing this."
He sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. "Please, let's just go and play. It's not a big deal."
He was trying to defuse a bomb that Blair had already decided needed to explode.
"Not a big deal?" It came out clipped. "He hit you, Chuck. He insulted you. Me. Said disgusting things about us. And then you disappear for a week, and what does he do? Nothing. Spends his time sulking in his room, probably glued to his Xbox or whatever pathetic distraction the Archibalds resort to when they're drowning in guilt. Did he even bother to call? Did he look for you? Did he care at all?"
He didn't answer.
Blair dared him to brush her off. "Tell me."
"No. He didn't."
She was building momentum now. "And you know what's worse? He's standing right there. Watching us, knowing full well what he did, and he still hasn't said a damn thing. No apology. No explanation. Nothing. That's who your 'friend' is."
Not that Blair would have let him speak, even if he tried.
She had a way of fighting his battles with more ferocity than he ever could. All fire and loyalty.
"And you…" she spat. "You just let him walk all over you. You let him keep his head up while you take the hits. Why? Because he's Nate Archibald? Because someone decided he's a good guy and you're not? Since when does he get a free pass? He doesn't deserve it."
"Does it really matter now?" he asked.
Blair looked at him as if he had just spoken in a completely different language and grown two heads. "Yes, it matters. Of course, it matters! He hasn't even tried to make it right. If that doesn't matter to you, then what does?"
"I kinda deserved what I got."
"No. You did not."
Chuck exhaled sharply. "Why are you so mad?"
"Because I am."
"Blair—"
"This isn't about me," she interrupted, her jaw tight. "It's about him. And you. It's just… it's… ugh," she huffed, throwing her hands up. "Why aren't you angrier? You should be furious. But instead, you're standing here, ready to pretend like none of it happened. Ready to play some idiotic game of paddle tennis, like we're all still friends. Well, we are not."
"We are."
"You're deluding yourself."
"Look, we are. We've all done horrible things, Blair. Him, Serena, me… you. They cheated, they lied, I left. And yet, here we are, standing together. You forgave me, you forgave Serena. We're all walking scars, but we're still here. We're family. Doesn't matter how messed up we are. We love each other. That's not going to change."
And there it was. Nate was his friend. Would always be, no matter the damage done.
Blair's face softened, just for a moment, her guard slipping. But just as quickly, her eyes narrowed again, walls back in place. "Do you really want to go?"
"I wouldn't miss watching you destroy everyone in that tiny skirt for anything in the world"
"Chuck, I'm serious."
"So am I."
The tennis match wasn't really the point. Nate, Serena, Blair—they were his people. His world, as beautifully chaotic as it was. This tangled mess of relationships, dysfunctional as it might be, defined him. Keeping the balance mattered; getting them all back in the same orbit mattered. "Yeah," he said finally, his voice calm. "I do."
"Fine," she conceded. "But don't fool yourself, I'm not doing this for anyone but you."
He laughed then, shaking his head at her stubbornness. "Okay, beautiful."
"I mean it."
"I know you do. But before we go, just promise me one thing."
"And what's that?"
"Behave."
Blair shot him a look that clearly said she had no intention of following that request. "We'll see about that."
As Chuck left to change into something more suitable for paddle tennis, or whatever passed for paddle tennis when you threw the four of them together, a familiar sense of impending chaos tugged at him.
It was going to be one hell of an afternoon.
Then again, when had it ever been anything else?
Author's Note:
I know everyone had forgotten about Nate, yeah, even Chuck 😇 But hey, the four of them are together now, and they've got some things to work out, right? I'm not sure who's going to enjoy this afternoon of paddle tennis more, so place your bets! This is just the first part of a chapter that turned out to be quite lengthy, so I had to split it in two. Hopefully it won't be long before I have the next one ready. Thanks for your comments; I really appreciate them and keep them in a little shoebox under my bed.