Chuck paced the Bass penthouse, phone in hand, glancing at the skyline as if it held all the answers. Blair was in Paris, dazzling the city with fashion shows and soirées, and Chuck… well, Chuck was trying not to spiral into his usual brand of drama.

“You’re overthinking it,” you said, leaning casually against the doorway, smirking. “She’s Blair Waldorf. She’s probably planning her next scandal while texting you exactly the way she wants you to react.”

Chuck groaned. “You don’t understand! There’s a tabloid painting her as scandalous… again. And now it’s dragging me into it. Paris, New York… it’s a mess.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Or it’s the perfect setup for you to show how infuriatingly loyal you are. Ever think of that?”

Chuck smirked despite himself. “You know me too well.”

As the days passed, texts and calls became battles of wit and subtle manipulation. Blair would tease him about his jealousy, Chuck would reply with perfectly crafted barbs, and you… you acted as the middleman, filtering messages, giving advice, and occasionally telling him when he was being an idiot.

One evening, a scandal broke: paparazzi caught Blair leaving a hotel with another socialite—completely innocent, of course, but perfect for headlines. Chuck stared at the photos, pulse quickening.

You came in, grabbing the paper. “Look, Chuck. It’s Blair. She’s Paris Blair. That means nothing. And trust me, you already know she’s yours, drama or no drama.”

Chuck ran a hand through his hair, conflicted. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one obsessing over every headline, every rumor.”