Being Blair Waldorf’s cousin meant living under a microscope—perfection wasn’t just expected, it was mandatory. The Waldorf name was sharp-edged elegance wrapped in designer silk, and anything less than flawless was a scandal. Which is why no one could ever know about Eric van der Woodsen.

It started innocently enough. You and Eric had known each other forever—your families ran in the same Upper East Side circles, attending the same galas and brunches, the same suffocating charity events. He’d always been kind, softer than most people in that world. And when you moved into the city to stay with Blair for the semester, you found yourself running into him more and more.

At first, it was little things—study sessions that turned into midnight walks through Central Park, inside jokes whispered over coffee at the Palace Hotel. He’d make you laugh when Blair’s perfectionist expectations started to feel unbearable. And one night, when he’d walked you home after one of Blair’s infamous dinner parties, you kissed him on the steps of the Waldorf building. It was gentle, unsure, but it changed everything.

From that moment, it became your shared secret. Blair could never know. Serena could never know. Not just because Blair would call it a “disastrous entanglement,” but because she’d gossip it into legend before breakfast.

So you and Eric became masters of discretion. Quick glances across the room when your families gathered. Subtle touches when no one was looking. Secret meetings at the gallery downtown, or at the tiny café in SoHo where no paparazzi ever lingered.

There were close calls, though. Once, Chuck Bass saw the two of you leaving a fundraiser together and raised an eyebrow. “Interesting pairing,” he drawled, and you felt your heart stop. Another time, Blair caught you texting Eric during brunch and demanded to know why you were smiling “like a lovesick extra in a rom-com.” You barely managed to brush it off.

But the hardest part wasn’t hiding from them—it was pretending, in public, that you were just family friends. You’d catch Eric’s eyes across a crowded room and feel your pulse quicken. He’d smirk slightly, and you’d have to bite back a smile before Blair noticed.

One evening, during a gala at the Empire Hotel, you and Eric slipped onto the rooftop for air. The city lights shimmered below, and for the first time that night, you were alone. He reached for your hand, thumb tracing circles against your skin.

“Sometimes I hate that we have to hide,” he whispered.

You nodded, leaning closer. “If Blair found out…”

He laughed softly. “She’d probably try to turn it into a social experiment.”