The first day at the Manhattan Youth Center was chaos. Kids running everywhere, the faint hum of old fluorescent lights, and a volunteer coordinator who looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. You were halfway through signing a clipboard when someone bumped into you, nearly spilling juice all over your shirt.

“Sorry—sorry, that was my fault,” came a voice, warm and familiar.

You turned—and froze.

Eric van der Woodsen. Perfect hair, effortless smile, and a reputation for being one of the few genuinely decent people in the Upper East Side.

He grinned sheepishly, holding a stack of art supplies. “You’re new here?”

“Yeah,” you said. “First day. Clearly killing it.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry, I spilled paint my first week. The kids called me Picasso for a month.”

From that moment, you were inseparable. You painted murals with the younger kids, helped with tutoring, ran around during recess duty—all while Eric floated between groups with a kind of quiet calm that made everyone gravitate toward him.

He wasn’t the “van der Woodsen heir” here. He was just Eric.

One afternoon, after the last group of kids had gone home, you found him sitting cross-legged on the floor, helping a little girl glue sequins onto construction paper hearts.

When she left, he held one up to the light, smiling. “She said it’s for her mom. Her mom’s been sick.”

You watched the way his smile faltered, soft and thoughtful. “You really care about them, don’t you?”

He looked at you. “Yeah. I know what it’s like to feel lost. If I can make someone’s day easier, even for five minutes… I will.”

It wasn’t just his kindness that got to you—it was how genuine it was. No cameras. No gossip. No expectations. Just him.

Over time, your friendship deepened. You shared snacks during breaks, joked about the chaos, and sometimes stayed late to clean up while music played softly from his phone.

One night, as you were sweeping glitter off the floor, Eric spoke up. “You know,” he said, “I used to think love was supposed to be dramatic—like in those Upper East Side stories. But now…”

You looked up. “Now what?”

He smiled faintly. “Now I think it’s just this. Someone who makes you feel at peace, even when the world’s a mess.”

Your heart skipped. “That sounds nice.”

He stepped closer, voice low. “It is.”

For a long moment, it was just you, him, and the hum of the old lights. Then Eric reached out, brushing a fleck of glitter from your cheek.

“Guess you’re glowing,” he teased.