an adaptation from Gossip Girl 1x10
Na Jaemin as Nate Archibald
(slight angst, slow burn, fluff, happy ending)
💿 : video games, lana del rey.
From the very beginning, our lives had been intricately entwined—two kids from the Upper East Side, growing up in the same orbit of glittering expectations and whispered destinies. We met on the steps of the Met, knees brushing as we shared Ladurée macarons our nannies had handed us. I was seven, wearing a velvet headband, already practicing the posture of a girl born to rule, pretending I belonged to a world that I secretly feared might reject me. And there he was—Na Jaemin. Scraped-kneed, dimpled smile, and beautiful in the kind of way that made strangers pause. He didn’t try. He just was.
That night, under pink fairy lights and the canopy of my canopy bed, I scribbled in my diary: “Na Jaemin will be my prince. One day. I know it.” I dotted the ‘i’ with a heart and underlined his name three times. Even then, I wasn’t one to hope passively. I planned. I manifested. I believed.
We became inseparable. Not in the loud, attention-seeking way some Upper East Side friendships announce themselves, but in quiet rituals and glances that said more than words ever could. Jaemin was my confidant, my safe place, the keeper of all my secrets. He saw the me behind the perfectly pleated skirts and practiced smiles. He knew I hated bees but adored the first snowfall. That I pretended to like caviar but secretly preferred Nutella on toast. And I knew him too—how he double-knotted his shoes, how he hummed softly when tired, the way his voice dropped whenever he talked about his mother.
As we got older, the lines between friendship and something more began to blur. Subtly, slowly. A lingering look here. A touch that lasted a second too long. The moment I remember most was in the back of a limousine after a winter charity gala. The city glowed outside the tinted windows. My hand was resting on the leather seat. His hand brushed mine. And this time, he didn’t move away. My breath caught. I turned to look at him, and for a heartbeat, the whole world fell away. That night, I wrote just one word in my diary, underlined ten times: “Finally.”
Senior year was supposed to be the crescendo of everything we’d been building toward. I had my eyes set on the crown, not just the literal tiara they handed out at prom, but the metaphorical one too—prom queen, early engagement, college as a power couple. We were legacy kids from legacy families. The pressure to perform wasn’t new. But for once, the pressure aligned with what I genuinely wanted. When our parents started tossing around the idea of an early engagement—lightheartedly at first, like something out of a Jane Austen novel—I didn’t flinch. I smiled through the entire dinner, my fingers trembling under the tablecloth, because I believed with my whole heart that Jaemin and I were inevitable.
But he didn’t smile like I did. He was kind. He was gracious. But there was distance in his eyes, like he was watching a version of his life play out that he hadn’t agreed to.
My eighteenth birthday was supposed to change everything. I had spent months planning the masquerade ball. Candlelight dripped from golden chandeliers. Silk draped every table. The prize of the night was whispered among guests—whoever found me before midnight would win a kiss. It was theatrical and romantic and oh-so-Upper-East-Side. And I already knew who I wanted to find me.
I blew out the candles alone.
Later that night, I waited in my bedroom, swathed in jasmine and silk. I wore the satin nightgown I had chosen for this moment—the one moment I thought would make everything finally fall into place. I sat perched on the edge of my bed, heart racing. And finally, there was a knock.
He walked in slowly. My eyes locked on the door before I saw him, standing at the door. I smiled faintly.
“What took you so long?” I asked, trying to hide the quake in my voice.
He looked hesitant, shifting on his feet. “I ran into Jeno. I forgot the time. I’m sorry.”
That word—sorry—echoed in my chest like a shattering glass.
I rose and walked to him, slowly. Jaemin closed the door behind him, eyes still locking in mine. Then I kissed him. Softly. Longingly. I poured everything I had into that moment—years of devotion, of patience, of dreams. Unfortunately, he didn’t kiss me back. A burning flame just ignited in me.
I pulled away, barely breathing. “Why?” My eyes teared up.
He looked down. “I don’t know.”
“Why won’t you let yourself love me? Why does it feel like I’m the only one fighting for this?”, this time I just let my voice tremble in front of him, letting him know that he really hurt my feelings by making me waiting for him.
Jaemin looked up to me, and the moment his eyes found mine—glassy, red-rimmed, and wild from crying—something in him shifted. The tension in his shoulders dissolved, his jaw unclenched, and that impassive wall he so often wore cracked open just enough to let softness bleed through. His gaze moved slowly across my face, taking in the quiver of my lips, the flushed blotches on my cheeks, the way my chest rose and fell too fast, too shallow. And then, so gently it almost broke me, he reached out. His fingers brushed against mine like a whisper, then clasped them fully, grounding me with their warmth. Without saying a word, he pulled me forward, guiding me down to sit beside him on the bed, our knees touching. The silence between us pulsed with everything unspoken—regret, confusion, longing—and still, he didn’t let go.
He turned slightly to face me, one hand still holding mine, the other moving with careful deliberation to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, like I was made of glass. “Hey,” he said softly, the word barely audible. “Just breathe.” His voice was low and steady, but there was a tremor beneath it, like he was holding back too much. I wanted to scream, to cry again, to demand why he was only showing me this tenderness now—but I couldn’t move. I just stared at him, dazed and exhausted, breathing in the scent of his cologne and the nearness of him, trying to memorize the way his brows furrowed in concern. My breath caught in my throat as I watched him, unsure if I was about to break apart or fall into him completely.
We sat on the bed in aching silence. My voice cracked when I asked, “Is there someone else?”
He hesitated. Just long enough.
“I knew it,” I whispered. “Get out.”
I shoved him. The slam of the door echoed like a gunshot in my chest. I collapsed against it, sobbing. And I made sure he could hear me. I couldn’t go to school the next day, I couldn’t bear looking at his face at all. I bet my swollen face from all the crying would’ve ended up in Gossip Girl!
That evening, when the house had settled into the quiet lull of night, I heard the soft murmur of voices below. Dorota came to my room with a careful knock. I was curling under my duvet, watching the golden morning turn gray.
“Jaemin is here to see you,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “Waiting.”
I swallowed hard, heart pounding with a mix of dread and reluctant hope. I smoothed my dress and made my way down the grand staircase, the clicking of my high heels on the marble steps loud in the silence.
At the bottom, he stood in the living room. Arms crossed, leaning casually but with an undeniable tension. His eyes caught mine the moment the sound of my heels echoed, and he stood upright. Relief softened his features—but his hands clenched tightly, betraying nerves beneath his calm exterior.
“What are you doing here, Jaemin?” I asked, my voice low. I tried not to meet his eyes, but I knew him too well—he was the kind who never broke eye contact during moments like these.
“Well, I—” He hesitated, then squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “Look, you know, after the prom night rehearsal last week, I just couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
His words caught me off guard. My expression softened, the walls I’d raised beginning to crumble. I stared at him, disbelief mingling with something like hope, while his big brown eyes—framed by impossibly long lashes—locked with mine, searching, vulnerable.
“And yes,” he added after a pause, voice quiet but sure, “about the prom… the one we talked about since we were like ten years old… let’s make it come true.”
I rolled my eyes and sighed, trying to hold onto my anger. “Jaemin, after what you pulled on my birthday last night, how could you still keep thinking about me?”
His expression softened, his gaze lowering. “That’s why I came here to see you,” he murmured.
He looked back up, meeting my eyes again with earnest vulnerability. “But about last night… it wasn’t that I loved someone else. It never was. I’m just… not ready. Not for the engagement. I want to spend more time with you—not as a fiancé, but as your best friend. We’re still so young, right?”
His soft-spoken, persuasive tone softened the anger that had been burning in me. I just stared at him, swallowing the lump in my throat.
He reached out, taking my hand gently in his. His fingers caressed mine, warm and reassuring.
“I still want to go to the prom,” he whispered, eyes searching mine. “As your prom date. For old times’ sake?”
I gulped, the knot in my throat loosening. My voice was barely audible. “Okay,”
We smiled, a fragile but real connection rekindled between us.
He stepped closer and pulled me into a hug. His arms wrapped around me tenderly but possessively, as if claiming me without words. I melted into him, breathing in his familiar scent—soft cologne mixed with something uniquely Jaemin. His heartbeat pressed against my cheek, steady and grounding, and for a moment, the world righted itself.
The night of prom felt like stepping into a dream draped in shimmering silk and glittering lights. The grand ballroom glittered with chandeliers dripping crystals like captured stars, casting prismatic patterns across the polished floor. Guests swirled in gowns and tuxedos, laughter and music filling the air like a delicate melody that wrapped around us.
I wore a gown that seemed spun from moonlight—its fabric shimmering softly beneath the dazzling lights, delicate beadwork tracing patterns like constellations across the bodice and skirt. Every time I moved, the dress caught the light and flickered like a thousand tiny stars. My heart fluttered as Jaemin approached, looking utterly breathtaking in a tailored tuxedo that accentuated his broad shoulders and warm smile.
We stood side by side as the announcer called our names.
“Prom King and Queen: Na Jaemin and y/n.”
The applause swelled, a wave of warmth and approval washing over us. I felt all eyes on me, but instead of nerves, I was wrapped in a cocoon of elation. Jaemin’s hand slid into mine, grounding me as we ascended the stage.
The crowd’s cheers swirled around us like a living thing. Jaemin lifted the delicate silver crown from its velvet cushion and gently placed it atop my head. His fingers lingered, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His smile was the kind that reached his eyes—endearing, full of promise and something tender I hadn’t seen in a long time.
I looked up at him, breath caught, and he whispered, “You look breathtaking.” I murmured, “Thanks, you too”.
The band shifted to a slow, haunting melody. We moved to the center of the dance floor, bodies pressed close beneath the sparkling chandeliers. Jaemin’s hand was warm on my waist, his other hand holding mine with gentle certainty. Our breaths mingled, hearts syncing to the rhythm of the music, every step drawing us closer together.
For that dance, the world melted away. There was only us—the years of friendship, heartbreak, and hope wrapped in one quiet, perfect moment.
As the slow melody wrapped around us like silk, I let my cheek rest against Jaemin’s shoulder, our bodies swaying in perfect rhythm beneath the glittering canopy of lights. The crowd faded into a dreamy blur—chiffon gowns, champagne laughter, clinking glasses—and all I could feel was the warmth of his hand pressed against my waist, the steady rise and fall of his chest under my palm. But even as I floated in the romance of it, a restlessness stirred inside me. I tilted my head just enough so my lips brushed the edge of his jaw and whispered, “This is getting boring.” Jaemin pulled back slightly, just enough to catch my eyes, and there it was—that smirk. The one that curled like a secret. Mischievous, boyish, irresistible. He didn’t even need to say a word. I grinned, grabbed his hand, and before anyone could notice, we slipped away like shadows, running down the marbled corridors, laughter bubbling from our lips as if we were teenagers again, escaping the weight of the world for just one stolen moment.
Upstairs, everything was quieter—dimmer, cloaked in the hush of late-night elegance. The chandeliers flickered like candlelight above our heads as we tiptoed through the hallway, hearts pounding in our throats. I paused at a door, turned the handle slowly, and peeked inside. Empty. My pulse fluttered. I looked back at Jaemin, his eyes locked on mine with a soft intensity that made my breath catch. I pulled him inside gently, and he followed without hesitation. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, he reached back and turned the lock—click—the sound echoing in the stillness like a promise. And he never broke eye contact. Not for a second. That gaze, so open and burning, held me in place as if words weren’t enough anymore. The air felt electric, heavy with everything we’d never said, everything we’d always felt. And in that quiet, enclosed space, time stopped—for him and me alone.
Jaemin took a slow step toward me, his eyes flickering down to my lips before meeting my gaze again — soft, searching, and sure. Then, without a single word, he raised a hand to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering against my cheek. And just like that, with the softest breath between us, he leaned in and pressed his lips to mine — tentative at first, like he was asking a question with his mouth, one I’d been waiting years to answer.
The kiss began like a sigh—soft, tentative, the kind of kiss that trembled with restraint and years of quiet longing. His lips brushed mine like a question, like he was asking, Is it really okay this time? Are you really mine again? And I answered with my mouth, tilting my head, kissing him back with everything I had. His hands framed my jaw, thumbs gently stroking the corners of my face as though he was afraid I might disappear if he didn’t hold me close enough.
But then something shifted.
That quiet ache between us deepened, catching fire. Our lips moved in sync with a hunger we hadn’t allowed ourselves to feel before. The kiss grew fuller, deeper. My back arched as his hand slid to the nape of my neck, pulling me in until there was no space left between us. Our breaths quickened, mingling in the hush of the room, and the only sounds were the soft, wet presses of our kisses and the way our sighs filled the air like silk unraveling.
When I tried to pull back, just to look at him—to admire the softness in his eyes, the mess of dark hair falling over his brow—Jaemin chased after me, catching my bottom lip between his teeth before whispering hoarsely against my mouth, “I want more.” The words sent heat rushing through me, pooling in my chest and blooming in my cheeks. I blinked up at him, breathless.
“Jaemin…” I whispered, caught somewhere between blushing and melting.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, over and over again, in between kisses that traced their way along my jaw, behind my ear, down the delicate slope of my neck. “So, so beautiful.” His voice was reverent, almost in awe, like he couldn’t believe I was real, that this moment was real. Each kiss he left was like a worship, a vow written in skin instead of ink.
His hands were gentle, exploring with care, his lips brushing across my collarbone, my shoulder, the curve of my waist—like he was memorizing every inch of me all over again. And all the while, our sighs mingled, low and intimate, rising and falling like waves lapping the shore. The air was thick with warmth and longing, and even as the world outside spun on, we stayed suspended in that moment—two hearts finally aligned again, speaking a language only we understood.
And as we tangled beneath the sheets, fingers laced and foreheads pressed close, the sounds of our kisses—soft, slow, then insistent again—echoed through the guestroom like a secret we were daring the world to keep. Every time I looked at him, he was already looking at me, like I was the only thing he’d ever wanted. And somehow, in between the hurried beats of our hearts and the quiet gasps that filled the room.
Minutes passed, and the air in the guestroom hung heavy with heat and breathless stillness. The room was dimly lit, cast in the soft glow of moonlight slipping through the half-drawn curtains, but it felt like it was burning from within—radiating with the remnants of everything we had just shared. Our bodies were wrapped in tangled sheets, limbs intertwined like ivy, the last sparks of our love-making still lingering on our flushed skin and parted lips. My heart was pounding, still echoing the rhythm we had created together, and our chests rose and fell in an unsteady harmony. Jaemin hovered above me for a moment longer, his hair damp with sweat, the sharp line of his jaw glistening, his eyes wide and soft as they took me in. It wasn’t lust that lingered in his gaze—it was reverence. Like he had just seen something sacred. Someone sacred.
He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my lips—now swollen and tender from all the kisses before—and whispered, “Thank you… for this.” His voice cracked just slightly, as though he was overwhelmed, not just by the night, but by the years, the history, everything that had led us here. I blinked back the heat behind my eyes and whispered back, “Thank you, too,” my fingers brushing along the slope of his shoulder, drawing him back to me. We stayed like that, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in. Our skin was damp and warm, still tingling, and our fingers traced slow, invisible shapes against each other’s backs and arms, like we were trying to memorize every curve, every freckle, every inch. Jaemin kissed me again—this time sweet, lazy, like a secret he was only sharing with me—and we sighed into it, smiling softly. I wrapped my arms around him, burying my face into the crook of his neck as he pulled the sheets over us. And there, with our hearts finally full and our bodies utterly spent, we drifted into sleep—still tangled in each other, as though even in dreams, we couldn’t bear to let go.
