Blair's eyes blinked open, and the grey light of dawn hit her face. She put her hand up to her eyes to shield them, and waited for the black spots to disappear. She remembered only bits and pieces of the night before. The limousine ride home from the funeral, Chuck staring blankly out the window. He was supposed to ride alone, but she broke off from the others and slipped into his car as the door closed. She had touched his arm, wanting to help, not knowing how. He flinched at the light pressure of her fingers on the sleeve of his jacket, and she felt a dull stabbing at her heart to see him so broken. And then he had turned, slowly, a hunger behind the tears brimming is his eyes, and kissed her with more ferocity, and more pain than she had ever known. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he pawed at her coat, shrugging it off her shoulders. He pulled her to him, broad hands encircling her tiny waist. And she had pulled away. Because it shouldn't happen like this. He had looked at her blankly, and for once she couldn't read his face. When the limo stopped, he left without turning back, and she followed, shouting his name, her voice hoarse, her knees weak beneath her, still wobbling from the intensity of his touch. She didn't remember how they got up to his room, only remembered standing in the doorway silently, not knowing what to do with her hands as he sat on the bed, face buried in his hands, his body shaking with violent sobs. And after what felt like hours, he stood up, took her hand, flitting nervously around her waist, and told her. In a voice hoarse from crying, he looked into her eyes said those three words. Eight letters.