Blair was drunk. Not her usual champagne-fueled, flirtatious kind of tipsy, but drunk—the kind that turned her razor-sharp words into soft confessions and her carefully built walls into something fragile.

You had barely managed to get her out of the party, half-carrying her into the town car before she could do something truly dramatic. Now, as you guided her through the hallway of her penthouse, she leaned against you, her laughter light and breathless.

“You’re warm,” she murmured, her fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve.

“And you’re completely wasted,” you replied, struggling to unlock the door while keeping her upright.

She hummed in response, resting her forehead against your shoulder for a moment. “You’re always taking care of me,” she said, almost to herself.

You finally managed to push the door open, guiding her inside. “Someone has to,” you teased, but your voice was gentle.

Blair let out a soft sigh as you set her down on the couch, kneeling to unstrap her heels. “I don’t get it,” she mumbled.

“Don’t get what?”

Her hand lifted, fingers grazing your cheek before falling back into her lap. “Why you’re still here,” she said, blinking slowly as if the thought had only just occurred to her. “Everyone always leaves.”

Your chest tightened. “Blair…”

She let out a quiet, tired laugh. “You know, I was never jealous of you,” she whispered, words slipping free before she could stop them. “I was jealous of them.”

You froze. “Them?”

Blair’s head lolled against the back of the couch as she turned to look at you, her usually guarded eyes glassy and unfiltered. “The people who could love you. The people who got to have you.” She exhaled sharply. “Because I never could. I never let myself.”

The confession settled between you, fragile and raw.

For once, Blair Waldorf had no perfect comeback, no quick deflection. Just the truth, spilling from her lips in the haze of champagne and exhaustion.