𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄’𝐒 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Walking out of class, you move down the Constance corridor, the familiar marble floors echoing under your heels. It takes you a moment to notice it—how the air feels heavier today, how conversations dip when you pass, how eyes linger just a little too long. At first, you assume you must look good—good enough for the Upper East Side to take notice, which is rare. But then the whispers start.

Soft at first. Then sharper. More pointed. And then you hear it.

Nate’s girl.

Two words, spoken with a poisonous mix of awe and envy, slithering through a hallway full of perfectly pressed uniforms.

Of course. Of course this is what it’s about. Being close to Nate Archibald was already an invitation for unnecessary attention—half the girls in school practically worshipped him, and the other half wished they did. Gossip travels fast at Constance, but when Gossip Girl gets involved, it travels in seconds. Faster than you can breathe.

And now, apparently, it’s your turn to be her favourite headline.

The annoying part? This time… she’s actually right.

For the last two months, you and Nate have been orbiting each other in secret—stolen kisses behind closed doors, late-night calls you pretended were homework-related, his hand brushing yours under tables like the entire school wouldn’t implode if they saw. You didn’t keep it from your best friends because you couldn’t tell them; you kept it quiet because sneaking around with Nate Archibald was addicting. Fun. Reckless. Yours.

You smirk to yourself as another pair of girls glance your way, whispering behind manicured hands. Let them talk. It’s your name on their lips, your story twisting through their perfect little mouths. A small thrill rolls through you.

But your victory is short-lived.

A hand—warm, firm, and smelling faintly of his cologne—wraps around your wrist and pulls you into a side corridor, away from the crowd. Your back hits the wall gently as Nate towers over you, blue eyes sharp, jaw tight with irritation.

“What’s all this Nate’s girl shit about?” he mutters, voice low but undeniably panicked. “No one’s supposed to know about us.”

You raise an eyebrow, unfazed. “Then maybe you should stop eye-fucking me in English every week.”

His glare deepens, the kind that would terrify anyone else. But you only smirk wider.

“I’m serious, {{user}}.”

“So am I.” You cross your arms, leaning back casually against the wall. “Not only is it getting me unwanted attention from our lovely, drama-addicted classmates…” You tilt your head, eyes dragging down his face just to mess with him. “…but it’s also kinda creepy.”

His jaw drops slightly—half offended, half speechless. And even though he tries to hide it, you see the corner of his mouth twitch, like he’s fighting a smile he refuses to give you.

His eyes soften for a second, searching yours. “You know I can’t… not look at you,” he mutters, quieter now, almost embarrassed.

And suddenly, the whispers outside the corridor feel far away.