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It was Fashion Week in Milan.
Chuck repeated the fact like a mantra, a charm against resentment, a tether to reason. Of course Blair had to be there. For Blair, it was more than just work; it was her calling, her battlefield, her runway and throne. It was the pinnacle of her professional calendar, a stage as vital to her as Wall Street was to him But even understanding that didn’t soften the dull throb of her absence. It settled in his chest like a phantom limb, the ache made sharper by the quiet spaces she usually filled with laughter, perfume, and touch.
He missed her. God, he missed her. Not just in the grand, romantic sense, but in the most ordinary ways. The way she’d kiss him just under the jaw after a long day, murmuring that he was hers. The way she somehow knew, without needing to ask, when he needed help when the exhaustion was just slightly too much. Blair would pick up the slack. The way she would rouse herself without complaint at three in the morning when Henry cried out, holding their son with an unreplaceable mother’s touch Chuck could only ever marvel at.
He could see her in his mind now. Effortlessly captivating. She would be gliding through an opulent marble foyer in Milan, the flash of cameras chasing the sway of her hips. Her hair would fall in sleek, inky waves over one shoulder, her lips glossed and parted in a poised smile that seemed polite on the surface but knew exactly how powerful it was. The gown, undoubtedly couture, would be molded to her body like it was drawn from her silhouette, every step stirring envy, desire, reverence.
Chuck wanted to be the one to brush her hair to one side, exposing the delicate nape of her neck, just to place a kiss there, where her skin always tasted faintly like lavender and warmth. He wanted to kiss her until her gloss was smudged furiously between their faces. Until the smile dissolved into a sigh and her sharp edges softened in his arms. He wanted to unzip that dress, slowly, reverently, like peeling away armor to find the woman underneath, breath hitching with every inch. And then, once their skin cooled and the moment burned itself into blissful memory, they’d talk like they always did. About nothing. About everything. About Henry. About dinner. About the ridiculous story she forgot to tell at breakfast.
This was the first time Blair had truly been gone since Henry was born. Not a meeting downtown. Not a brunch with Serena. Those were blips, moments that passed without weight. Chuck could handle that. But Milan was an ocean away. Different time zones. Foreign mornings. A distance measured in hours and heartbeats. And yet today, finally , she was coming home. Relief crept into Chuck like the tide, soft and relentless.
He was crouched on the nursery floor, fingers fumbling with the tiny laces of Henry’s even tinier shoes. They were robin’s-egg blue leather, Italian, of course, a gift from one of Blair’s designer friends who insisted that babies were never too young for fashion. Chuck chuckled quietly to himself. Henry couldn’t even walk, yet he had more expensive shoes than half of Manhattan.
Henry’s pudgy foot squirmed in his grip, and Chuck gave it a playful tickle. A delighted squeal followed, bubbling up from the baby’s chest like music. That smile, gummy, wide, nearly toothless, was enough to make Chuck forget everything for a moment. He slid the other shoe on with less precision than Blair would have liked and tied a lazy bow.
Blair had been gone for five days. Just five. But for Chuck, it felt like twenty lifetimes.
When she first told him she had to go, Chuck felt it, a clenching in his stomach, a flutter of nerves he rarely allowed himself to feel. It was a strange cocktail of insecurity, anxiety, and the particular dread only fathers understood. Henry was so small. So breakable and delicate. What if Chuck messed it up? What if he forgot something vital? What if Henry cried and Chuck couldn’t soothe him the same way Blair could?
He’d nearly suggested Serena take Henry. Or floated the idea of sending him to Paris to stay with Harold and Roman. But in the end, he couldn’t do it. He was Henry’s father. And Blair had trusted him.
She had looked at him across the bedroom, their sheets still warm from sleep, and brushed her fingers through his damp, post-shower hair.
“You know what to do,” she had murmured, her voice low, wrapped in the hush of the early morning. “You’re such a good dad, Chuck. Henry loves you.”
Those words had sunk into him, molten and immediate, fortifying him against every doubt.
Now, as he kissed the top of Henry’s head and inhaled the sweet scent of baby shampoo, he felt that memory stir again. It always came back to her. Her scent. Her voice. Her presence, even when she wasn’t there.
So much of Henry was Blair. The curl of his hair, the elegant slope of his nose, certainly not Chuck’s wider bridge. And those eyes. God, those eyes. Wide and nearly black, like polished obsidian. They held all the mysteries of Blair’s, sharp, soulful, stubborn. Most of all Henry’s eyes held the same vicious persuasion that always managed to convince Chuck. Blair always denied it. She was convinced Henry was Chuck’s carbon copy. She pointed to the thick eyebrows. The serious, contemplative mouth. The pout that deepened when he was denied something trivial.
They often sparred, lovingly, over whose genes were to blame when Henry threw a dramatic tantrum over a misplaced stuffed rabbit or refused to wear the sweater she’d so carefully chosen. Chuck claimed it was Blair’s flair for theatrics. Blair claimed it was Chuck’s refusal to cooperate with anything resembling direction.
Chuck scooped his son into his arms, patting down his own pockets for his wallet and phone. The limo was waiting.
The drive to LaGuardia was swift, but it buzzed with anticipation. Henry babbled from the backseat, narrating some baby logic in bubbling syllables as the Manhattan skyline melted behind them. Chuck tapped out a quick message to Blair:
Coming to get you.
No need for extravagance. The reunion would speak for itself.
At the airport, the limo pulled into a private lane, far from the chaos of curbside arrivals. Chuck hated the whole spectacle of honking horns and delayed hugs. Every trunk seemed to be a puzzle to solve, a frantic game of baggage Tetris. Instead, he watched from behind tinted windows as Blair emerged from the terminal, dragging her designer luggage behind her, radiating poise and polish.
She was breathtaking. Even jet-lagged, she looked like she belonged in a painting. She couldn’t see him through the glass, but her smile bloomed anyway. Wide, knowing, impossibly lovely.
He stepped out as the driver collected her bags, and before either could speak, he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her hard like a promise. Like an exhale after days of holding his breath. She laughed softly into the curve of his neck, arms winding around him, grounding them both.
Then, just as naturally, her attention shifted.
“Hi, Henry!” she squealed, climbing into the car to gather her son. Her voice was high, delighted, melting into that singsong register only mothers knew. She peppered kisses on his round cheeks, her nails tracing patterns on his chubby arms as she rocked him in her lap. Henry giggled, reaching clumsily for her hair, his glee uncontained.
“He missed you,” Chuck said, settling back into the seat beside her.
“I missed you too,” she replied, her gaze flicking to Chuck with a softness that twisted something deep inside him. She leaned over and kissed his jaw, warm and deliberate. Then she nestled Henry closer, running her fingers through his curls like she was reacquainting herself with something sacred.
In that limo, surrounded by quiet joy and the scent of her perfume, Chuck realized something simple but absolute:
They were home again, the three of them, Chuck, Blair, and Henry. In that simple truth was everything. Chuck now knew he could manage fatherhood alone if he had to. He could hold the nights and the feedings and the tiny shoes all by himself. But he could never truly do it alone, not without Blair. She was his partner, his balance, the heart of their little family.