“Was I?”
“You kept kicking me. Are you worried about the Paris pieces?”
Andre hesitated. He looked down at his hands, tracing the faint, stubborn stains of oil paint that never seemed to wash away completely. “A little. Three large canvases for a collector I have never met. And the retirement — it is becoming real now. In six weeks I will play my last match. After that, I am just… a painter.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is not a bad thing. It is just… a big thing.”
“You’ll be fine. You’re a genius, remember? Liam said so.”
Andre laughed softly, settling deeper into the curve of Blake’s arm. “Liam says many things.”
Blake set his mug down and shifted, turning to face Andre. He reached out, his fingers brushing a dark curl away from Andre’s forehead. The morning light caught the gold in Blake’s hair, the bright, clear blue of his eyes. “I love you,” Blake said, his voice quiet and serious.
“I love you too.”
Blake leaned in, kissing him. It was a slow, lazy morning kiss, tasting of coffee and sleep. Andre’s hand came up, resting against Blake’s chest, feeling the steady, reliable beat of his heart. Blake’s lips moved down to Andre’s jaw, pressing soft, lingering kisses against his skin.
His hand slid under the covers, resting warm and heavy on Andre’s hip. “We have time,” Blake murmured against his neck. “Doug doesn’t expect me at the club until ten.”
Andre closed his eyes, letting the warmth of Blake’s touch wash over him. This was his anchor. This was the man who had stood by him through the chaos of the past four years, who had flown across Europe just to stand in a gallery for two hours, who loved him with a fierce, unwavering loyalty.
They made love slowly, the morning light filling the room, the sounds of Pierre opening the bakery audible through the floor. It was tender and familiar, a physical reaffirmation of the bond between them.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, Blake’s arms wrapped securely around Andre, their breathing synchronized.
Andre pressed his lips to Blake’s collarbone. Safe. Loved. Exactly where he belonged. “Tu es tout pour moi,” he whispered against Blake’s skin. You are everything to me.
That evening, the four of them were back at the flat.
Blake and Liam had spent the afternoon at the shooting range in Surrey, returning smelling of gunpowder and cold air, both of them energized and loud. Talia had returned from her audition, cautiously optimistic but exhausted.
They ordered Indian takeaway and sat around the living room, eating out of the plastic containers, the television playing softly in the background.
It was a scene of perfect, comfortable intimacy.
Talia was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the sofa between Liam’s legs. Liam had one hand resting casually on her shoulder, his fingers playing absently with the ends of her hair. Blake was sitting in the armchair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, laughing at a story Liam was telling about the gamekeeper at the shooting range.
Andre was sitting on the other end of the sofa, watching them.
He looked at Blake — at the relaxed line of his shoulders, the genuine smile on his face.
He looked at Liam and Talia, curled together on the floor, laughing easily. He looked at the flat around him — the warm light, the scattered takeaway containers, the paintings on the walls.
It was perfect. All of it.
Andre smiled, watching them. He thought about how strange and wonderful it was that these two people — actors from a world so different from his own — had become family. He thought about how lucky he was to have Blake, and Liam, and Talia, and his parents downstairs, and the studio waiting for him in the morning.
He stood up, stretching. “Anyone want a beer?”
“God, yes,” Liam said, not looking away from the television.
Andre walked into the kitchen, grabbed two beers from the fridge, and poured himself a glass of water. When he came back, Blake caught his eye across the room and smiled — a warm, easy smile that made Andre’s chest ache with love.
He handed Liam the beer, sat back down on the sofa, and leaned his head against the cushion, listening to the rain against the windows and the comfortable murmur of his friends’ voices.
He was happy. Completely, unreservedly happy.
