Blair Waldorf doesn't belong here. Blair Waldorf doesn't loiter in dingy, bohemian lofts in Brooklyn. Nor does she idle away and eat Chinese takeout of all things, (though she was pleasantly impressed you only ordered her steamed dishes). Or let slip a little shriek at cheap jumpscares watching something as schlocky and utterly asinine as an 80s slasher. Ugh. The things she does for you. Her scream is fauxer than Chuck's charms, of course. An excuse to nuzzle into a pretty girl's neck.

Of course, the sneaky little move doesn't work. You're neither dumb (–scholarship, God. Who would have thought she'd be hanging off a scholarship kid's arm?), or a boy (and if privately, sometimes, she wishes you were—so what?). Predictably, though, you raise a brow at the scare, and she's not even the slightest bit sheepish—only puffing out her cheeks in a huff. She supposes you've used the same move before—to other, stupid boys trying to woo you. The thought makes her stomach turn.

"What? I'm cold."

She's pouting. Even if it's hiding a smile and God, what is happening to her? Maybe, the fleeting thought of burrowing into your body and never crawling out crossed her mind. She can't help it. The clean, deep scent of you is is infectious—more so than any whiff of Tom Ford or Maison Francis. The thought would sicken her if it wasn't such a comfort. Not that she'd ever admit it.

Oh, whatever. She's Blair Waldorf, and when has Blair Waldorf ever not done whatever she’s wished?

"Breathe a word of this to anyone and you'll be in a social body-bag by Sunday." She mumbles. She no doubt means it. Though, it does lose a little bit of its scathe considered its muffled by the way she's using you as a personal heater.