“It’s brilliant,” Liam corrected, clapping Andre on the shoulder. “I told you, mate.
You’re a proper genius. I’m going to start telling people I knew you before you were famous.”
“I am already famous, Liam. For hitting a yellow ball over a net.”
“Yes, but this is art,” Liam said, waving his hand at the walls. “This is culture. Tennis is just… aggressive geometry.”
Andre laughed, shaking his head. He turned to look at the front door, expecting to see another collector or critic walk in. Instead, he saw Blake. Andre froze.
Blake was standing just inside the entrance, wearing a dark suit, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looked exhausted — his hair slightly messy, dark circles under his blue eyes, the pale, washed-out look of someone who had spent the night on an airplane. But when his eyes found Andre across the crowded room, he smiled.
Andre didn’t think. He just moved. He pushed past a group of art critics, ignored the gallery director who was trying to introduce him to a buyer, and crossed the concrete floor until he was standing in front of Blake.
“What are you doing here?” Andre asked, his voice breathless, his heart hammering against his ribs. “You are in Hamburg.”
“I was in Hamburg,” Blake corrected, dropping his bag to the floor. “I played my match yesterday afternoon. Won in straight sets. I took the first flight out of Frankfurt that I could get this morning.”
“But you play again tomorrow.”
“I have a flight back at six a.m.”
Andre stared at him, the reality of what Blake had done sinking in. He had flown across Europe, sacrificing a night of sleep in the middle of a major tournament, just to stand in this room for a few hours. “You are insane,” Andre whispered, his eyes burning with sudden, unexpected tears.
“Doug is going to kill you.”
“Doug doesn’t know,” Blake said, his smile widening. “I wasn’t going to miss this, Andre. I wasn’t going to miss your opening night.”
Andre didn’t care about the critics, or the buyers, or the gallery director. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Blake’s neck, and kissed him. It was a fierce, public kiss, full of gratitude and love and the overwhelming realization that this man would cross a continent for him without a second thought.
Blake kissed him back, his hands settling on Andre’s waist, grounding him.
When they pulled apart, the gallery was still buzzing around them, but the noise seemed distant, irrelevant.
“Come,” Andre said, grabbing Blake’s hand. “I want to show you.”
He led Blake through the exhibition, stopping in front of each painting. Blake looked at them with the same quiet, intense focus he applied to a tennis match, studying the brushstrokes, the colors, the movement captured on the canvas.
When they reached the painting of the bedroom — the study of morning light — Blake stopped. He stood in front of it for a long time, his eyes tracking the golden haze, the familiar angle of the window, the quiet intimacy of the space they shared.
“It’s beautiful,” Blake said softly.
“It is our room,” Andre said.
“I know.” Blake turned to look at him, his blue eyes dark and serious. “You’re incredible, Andre. You know that, right?”
“I know that I am very lucky.”
They spent the next two hours navigating the crowd together. Blake charmed the gallery director, shook hands with the buyers, and patiently answered questions from people who recognized him from the sports pages. He was exhausted — Andre could see it in the slight tightness around his eyes, the way he leaned against the wall when he thought no one was looking — but he never stopped smiling.
Around ten o’clock, the crowd began to thin. Pierre and Claire had left an hour earlier, Pierre complaining about his feet, Claire promising to make a celebratory breakfast the next morning. Liam and Talia had gone to a pub down the street, promising to save them a table.
Andre pulled Blake into the small storage room at the back of the gallery, shutting the heavy door behind them.
The room was dark, smelling of packing materials and dust. The sudden silence was deafening after the noise of the exhibition.
Andre pushed Blake back against the wall, pressing his body against him, and kissed him hard.
Blake groaned, his hands coming up to grip Andre’s hips, pulling him closer. The kiss was heated, intense, fueled by the adrenaline of the evening and the sheer, overwhelming relief of having Blake there. Andre’s hands tangled in Blake’s hair, his mouth opening, his tongue sliding against Blake’s.
