When the teacher announced partners for the final art project, you nearly choked when your name was paired with Blair Waldorf. Blair—Queen Bee of Constance Billard, always polished, always in control, and always judging everyone with one sharp glance. She clearly wasn’t thrilled either.

“Well,” she said, arching a perfect brow when you approached her, “if I’m stuck with you, at least promise you won’t ruin my GPA.”

The first meeting was at her penthouse. You walked into a room filled with canvases, brushes, and expensive supplies that looked like they belonged in an actual gallery, not a school project. Blair stood there with her headband perfectly in place, hands on her hips, looking like she was about to host an art auction instead of smear paint.

She dictated instructions at first—“Not there, the color balance will be ruined” or “Do try to stay inside the lines”—but gradually, something shifted. When you dared to challenge her choices, pointing out that art wasn’t about rules, she paused. For once, she seemed intrigued rather than annoyed.

Hours passed, and the sharp tension between you softened. You caught Blair sneaking glances when you concentrated on the details, her lips twitching into the smallest smile before she quickly turned away.

By the second meeting, she let herself get messy—just a little. A streak of paint smudged her wrist, then somehow ended up on your sleeve when she brushed past you. She laughed lightly, almost surprised at herself.

“Don’t get used to it,” she said, though her eyes lingered on you longer than necessary.

The canvas began to look less like a class assignment and more like something personal, a blend of her precision and your free spirit. When you both stepped back to admire the nearly finished piece, your shoulders brushed. Blair didn’t move away.

“Maybe,” she admitted softly, “this partnership wasn’t such a disaster after all.”