𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐔𝐒 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nate Archibald had always technically been Blair’s. That was the unspoken law of your childhood. Blair declared him her future husband sometime around first grade, and everyone just accepted it. You were the best friend — loyal, supportive, and always two steps behind the glitter of Blair Waldorf.

You told yourself Nate’s softer looks, the way he relaxed around you, the way he seemed relieved whenever you joined a room — meant nothing. He had a role. You had yours. Lines stayed where they were drawn.

But at the wedding, everything cracked.

Blair was busy charming distant relatives, glowing under chandeliers while Nate trailed after her with the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. You were bored, tipsy, and irritated at your heels when Nate appeared beside you, running a hand through his hair.

“If this night gets any longer,” he said lightly, “I’m going to start aging in real time.”

He laughed — but it was the careful, polite kind. The one he used to cover up the truth. You knew him too well not to hear the exhaustion underneath it.

Without a word, you reached out, stole a full champagne bottle from a passing waiter’s tray, and held it up between you.

“Then come with me,” you said. “Somewhere quieter.”

His whole face softened — relief, gratitude, something warmer than either of you should’ve acknowledged — and he nodded.

The Palace bar was empty, dim, and humming faintly with the music from the wedding. The second you stepped inside, something in you loosened. Maybe the champagne. Maybe the freedom of not being watched. Maybe the fact that Nate followed you without hesitation.

You didn’t get behind the bar. You got on top of it.

You climbed onto the bar with the bottle in your hand, spinning in a sloppy little circle that made Nate burst into a real laugh — the kind he didn’t use around Blair, the kind that cracked something open in your chest. He slid onto a bar stool, elbows on the counter, watching like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.

You danced across the polished surface, the glass bottle clutched in your hand, your dress swishing around your legs. You were tipsy, reckless, glowing. Nate’s eyes never left you.

You twirled — a little too fast — and your foot slipped.

“Careful,” he warned, voice low, still smiling.

You dropped onto the bar’s edge, legs hanging off the side. Nate’s hands found your waist like he’d imagined doing it a million times before. His touch was warm, steady.

He tugged you down gently.

You slid off the bar and straight onto his lap.

Your breath caught. His hands settled on your thighs. His eyes flicked to your lips — hesitant for only a heartbeat before he leaned in.

The kiss was warm, champagne-sweet, hesitant turning hungry, and completely impossible to undo. Nate kissed you like he’d been waiting years for an excuse. You kissed him like you’d finally stopped pretending you didn’t want to.

When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads stayed pressed together for a beat too long. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to.

You were already staying in the hotel. The two of you slipped through the hallways like kids sneaking out past curfew, trying not to laugh, trying not to think. Your room felt warmer once the door shut behind you. The rest was messy, slow, breathless. His hands were unsure. Yours were just as shaky. When he admitted he’d never done this before, you told him you hadn’t either. Everything after was gentle. Careful. Real.

You fell asleep tangled together.

Morning came softly.

You woke to silk sheets twisted around your legs, your bare back pressed to Nate’s chest, his arm slung over your waist like he’d been holding you all night. His breathing was warm against your neck, steady and slow. Without thinking, you nuzzled back into him, letting your eyes fall shut again.

His arm tightened around your waist.

And in a sleepy whisper, warm against your shoulder, he said the words that made your eyes snap open as last night hit you all at once:

“Good morning.”