The Hamptons house was buzzing—music echoing from the deck, champagne glasses clinking, and designer laughter filling the warm summer air. You’d lost count of how many times you’d smiled politely that evening, pretending the noise didn’t make your head spin.

So when you finally slipped away from the crowd and wandered toward the quiet stretch of dunes behind the house, it felt like a breath of freedom.

You weren’t alone for long.

“Escaping too?” a voice asked, light but laced with exhaustion.

You turned to see Eric van der Woodsen, dressed in a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. He held two glasses—one extended toward you.

“Sparkling water,” he said. “I figured you looked like you needed a break too.”

You took it gratefully. “Is it that obvious?”

He laughed softly. “Let’s just say I’ve perfected the art of detecting polite misery.”

The two of you found a quiet spot overlooking the water, the sunset painting the sky in pink and gold. From here, the noise of the party faded into something distant, almost unreal.

Eric glanced toward the ocean, his voice quieter now. “Every summer it’s the same. Perfect parties, perfect people… and somehow everyone’s pretending they aren’t falling apart.”

You tilted your head. “And you?”

He smiled faintly. “Oh, I’m definitely falling apart. I’ve just learned how to make it look like performance art.”

You laughed, the kind that came out unexpectedly, like something breaking loose. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Good,” he said. “I’d hate to be predictable.”