A paparazzi shot of Blake leaving the hotel at six in the morning, his face hidden beneath a baseball cap, his expression grim. A shot of Andre walking out of the studio on The Cut, looking gaunt and exhausted, his clothes hanging loosely on his frame.
By Wednesday, the story had broken into the mainstream press.
TENNIS POWER COUPLE SPLIT? HARLAN MOVES INTO LUXURY HOTEL AS MOREAU SPOTTED LOOKING FRAIL.
Blake saw the headline on his phone while sitting in the back of a town car on his way to the practice courts at Queen’s Club. He stared at the screen, his stomach clenching.
His phone rang immediately. It was his agent, Gemma.
“Tell me it’s not true,” Gemma said, skipping the pleasantries. “Tell me you’re just having the flat renovated, or there’s a plumbing issue, or literally anything else.”
“It’s true,” Blake said quietly, looking out the window at the gray London streets.
Gemma swore softly. “Blake, you have to give me something to work with here. The press is going crazy. They’re digging into everything. They’re calling Pierre’s bakery. They’re staking out Andre’s studio. If you guys are taking a break, we need to release a statement to control the narrative.”
“No statement,” Blake said, his voice hardening. “It’s nobody’s business.”
“It became their business when you kissed him in front of twenty thousand people at Arthur Ashe,” Gemma countered gently. “You’re the most famous gay couple in sports. You can’t just quietly move into a hotel and expect people not to notice.”
“I don’t care what they notice, Gemma. I’m not releasing a statement.”
“Blake—”
“I have to go,” Blake said, and hung up.
He leaned his head back against the leather seat, closing his eyes. The public nature of it made everything worse. It took the private, agonizing reality of his broken heart and turned it into a spectacle for public consumption.
That night, the silence in the suite felt heavier than ever.
Blake didn’t order dinner until nine o’clock. He was sitting on the sofa in the living room, the lights off, the only illumination coming from the streetlamps outside the window. The tabloid headlines were playing on a continuous loop in his mind. Power couple split. Moreau looking frail.
He dropped his head into his hands, his fingers digging into his scalp. The grief, which he had managed to hold at bay with anger and exhaustion, suddenly rose up and swallowed him whole. He began to cry.
It hit him all at once — a wave of grief so total it bent him forward at the waist. His breath left him in long, shuddering pulls, each one dragging up something raw from deep inside his chest. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, but the tears came anyway, soaking his wrists, dripping onto his knees. He cried for the life he had lost, for the man he still loved, for the uncertain emptiness of the future.
He didn’t hear the outer door open. He didn’t hear the soft clink of the silver tray being set down on the console table.
The double doors to the living room were cracked open, just a few inches.
Nico stood in the foyer, his hand resting on the edge of the tray. He could hear the harsh, tearing sound of Blake’s sobs echoing in the dark room. He hesitated, knowing he should leave, knowing it was a violation of privacy to stay.
But he couldn’t walk away.
Nico pushed the double doors open and stepped into the living room.
“Mr. Harlan?” Nico whispered, his Greek accent thick with concern. “I am sorry to interrupt. But… are you okay?”
Blake jerked his head up, swiping frantically at his wet face. “Nico. You shouldn’t be in here.”
“I heard you,” Nico said softly, crossing the room. He didn’t stop at a respectful distance. He walked right up to the sofa and sat down next to Blake. “You are in pain.”
Before Blake could protest, Nico reached out and wrapped a strong, warm arm around Blake’s shoulders, pulling him in.
The contact was sudden and overwhelming. Blake hadn’t been touched — truly, comfortingly touched — in weeks. The sheer human warmth of it broke the last of his defenses. He collapsed against Nico, burying his face in the crisp cotton of the server’s shirt, and let the tears come.
Nico held him tightly, his hand moving up to stroke Blake’s hair.
“It is okay,” Nico murmured, his breath warm against Blake’s temple. “Let it out. It will be okay.”
