The Hamptons were supposed to be perfect that weekend—sun, champagne, and the kind of golden calm that only existed in Serena van der Woodsen’s world. You’d driven out together for a quick escape from the city: her, needing a break from Manhattan’s flashing cameras; you, just grateful she’d asked you to come along.

But by the time the wind started howling and the rain hammered the glass walls of her beach house, you realized the weather had other plans.

“Of course,” Serena said, setting down her glass of white wine with a laugh that was half exasperation, half amusement. “Only I would plan a summer getaway and end up in a hurricane.”

You peered out at the darkening sky. “At least it’s just the two of us. No paparazzi.”

She grinned, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. “You say that like being trapped with me is a bad thing.”

The lights flickered, then went out entirely. You both froze.

“Well,” you said in the dark, “guess it’s officially an adventure now.”

Serena laughed softly, the sound oddly comforting. “I’ll grab candles.”

When she returned, her hair was damp from a window draft, her cheeks flushed by candlelight. She looked less like the glamorous girl the tabloids worshiped—and more like someone real.

“You know,” she said, sitting beside you on the floor, “it’s strange. The world always feels like it’s moving too fast. And now, everything’s… still.”

The storm raged outside, waves crashing like distant thunder. You handed her a blanket. “Still isn’t bad.”

She looked at you for a long moment. “No. It’s not.”