Their parents were downstairs.

Nate and Blair had been excused to go up to his room.

He showed her his latest soccer trophy, and she smiled not just with pride (though she could care less about soccer) but with delight that he'd wanted to show her.

She loved Nate when he was like this, laughing and warm and affectionate, hugging her and squeezing her hand and ruffling her hair (and she didn't even mind that he might have displaced her headband), looking down at her with his shining hair falling into those blue eyes.

Looking at her like she was special and his. It made her glow from the inside and giggle back.

It stopped the emptiness, made her think that maybe, just maybe she might be nearly enough. Like she belonged to him, and she could nestle into him without worrying about being too much; he didn't even shrug her off.

He started kissing her instead, smiling down at her.

His lips were warm and he smelt clean and fresh cut, like soap, and his sweater was soft.

Sometimes he tasted too sweet, like weed, and she wriggled away when he did because then his eyes were hazy and he didn't look at her with love but indifferent confusion, and his hands were almost clumsy, and he didn't really notice either way.

But now he was warm and clear-gazed, and stroking her hair as they moved to the bed.

He was happy because he'd won his soccer match, and she was happy to be included.

It was when his hand shifted from its usual chaste position, to her breast, that she froze.

Because Nate had never touched her there.

He looked down at her and smiled, kissing her gently, not noticing.

But his hand was heavy on her and she didn't want it there, and she was suddenly terrified.

Because she was all too aware of the fact that there was almost nothing for him to grasp. Pathetically small, even through the material of her dress.

And if he went under the material...she shivered at the thought of what he'd find.

She'd seen for herself in the mirror. The results on the scales showed success, reassuring in the blank, perfectly formed numbers.

But in the mirror, things became hideously disproportionate and bones could be felt, and it all looked wrong. Not quite what she'd been striving for. For some reason, still not perfect.

It was fine when she could cover it up with layers of immaculate clothes and flawless hair and make up, with heels that made her commanding.

It was fine when Nate hugged her to his warm strong body, or his arm wrapped round her waist over her coat.

Fine when he cupped her face to kiss her.

But now his hands were sliding down there, feeling there, and she suddenly felt horribly exposed and trembly, like he was too big for her and he could throw her away or crush her - or, worse, take one look and recoil, looking at her with the same revulsion she felt when she saw herself too.

So she tried to squirm away from him.

He looked at her, confused.

"Nate," she forced out tightly. "I'm not a slut like Serena."

His mouth went open in shock.

But it was all she could think of to say, because she wasn't like Serena. She didn't have Serena's perfect body and glowing tanned skin and golden hair and full breasts.

That was what guys wanted, not her.

"Don't say that," he frowned. "Serena's your best friend, Blair."

She straightened her dress, carefully tugging it over her body again. Lest anything be given away.

"I want to wait," she said stiffly, prickling now. Because now he was looking at her like he was almost offended, still confused.

Insulting Serena. Mistake number one.

"I want it to be special," she stated.

"Oh." He just shrugged. Rubbed his hair. "All right then."

He let go of her, and all his warmth withdrew.

They sat in silence for a moment on his bed, and he'd never felt further away from her.

"Well, I'm gonna go play Halo."

"Fine," she bit.

He stood up, and left.