The room is quiet. Not the kind of quiet that’s peaceful, though—more like the kind that tiptoes on the edge of a secret. You can hear the faint hum of the city outside Blair’s window, the occasional honk, the soft whirl of traffic. Inside, it’s all dim golden lighting and Chanel perfume clinging to the air like second skin. Everything smells like lavender hand cream and that exact shade of cherry red nail polish Blair swears is the color of seduction.

She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, silk robe tied in a neat little bow at her waist, sheets pressed so tightly you feel bad for wrinkling them with your knee. Her hair’s pinned back in perfect little curls, not a single strand out of place. She looks like a painting. Like a girl who’s never known disorder.

You watch her paint her nails with terrifying precision, every swipe slow, methodical. Graceful, in that signature Blair Waldorf way—like everything she does is an art form, even something as mundane as a manicure. Her brows furrow slightly in concentration. You swear, if you so much as breathed wrong, she’d scold you for disrupting the vibe.

“Hold still,” she says, barely above a whisper, reaching for your hand with a soft but firm kind of authority that makes your pulse hiccup. Her fingers are cool and steady, and when she tilts your palm up to start painting, the bottle clinks gently on the nightstand. A small sound, but it might as well be a fire alarm with how loudly your heart’s beating.

You're not talking. But it's not awkward. It's... loaded.

The kind of silence that carries something dangerous beneath it.

Blair finally breaks it—voice smooth as satin, but just a touch sharper at the edges. “You know, most girls would be trembling if they were in your position.”

You blink. “Because you’re holding a tiny brush near my cuticle?”

She smirks. Doesn’t answer. Just dips the brush back into the bottle with a swirl that feels almost too sensual for nail polish. Her eyes flick up, meeting yours like she’s looking through you.

“Have you ever kissed a girl before?”

And just like that, you’re not breathing.

It doesn’t sound like an accusation. Or even a real question. It’s just—there. Hanging in the air like smoke. Thick, heavy, impossible to ignore.