They dressed slowly, the urgency of the earlier passion replaced by a quiet, tender domesticity. Andre found a clean sweater in the small wardrobe by the cot. Blake pulled his jacket back on, wincing at the cold.
Andre walked around the studio, turning off the space heater, closing the windows. He stopped in front of the pile of discarded canvases in the corner — the dozens of failed attempts to capture Blake’s face.
“You painted all of these?” Blake asked, coming up behind him, looking at the scattered images of himself.
“Every day,” Andre said quietly. “I couldn’t get you right. Nothing captured what I was feeling. Until the US Open painting.”
Blake reached out, pulling one of the canvases from the pile. It was a study of his hands gripping a racket, the tendons taut with effort. It was beautiful technically flawless, but Andre was right — it lacked the emotional depth of the larger work.
“Keep them,” Blake said, setting it back down. “All of them. They’re part of the story.”
Andre nodded, his throat tight.
They locked the studio together, walking down the narrow stairs and out onto The Cut.
The evening air was cool and damp, the streetlights casting long reflections on the wet pavement. They walked in silence toward the Underground, their shoulders touching, their hands finding each other in the dark.
On the train, Blake leaned his head against the window, exhaustion finally catching up with him. Andre sat beside him, their thighs pressed together, watching the stations blur past.
“Andre,” Blake said, his eyes still closed.
“Yes?”
“The painting. Don’t sell it. Ever.”
Andre smiled, a small, private expression. “I would never.”
They emerged from the station in South Kensington, the familiar streets quiet and empty. When they reached the flat, the smell of bread from Pierre’s bakery slipped through the floorboards — the early morning prep already underway.
They climbed into bed together, fully clothed, too exhausted to do anything but hold each other. Blake pulled Andre against his chest, wrapping his arms around him with a fierce, protective grip.
“We’ll figure it out,” Blake murmured into Andre’s hair. “Day by day.”
“Day by day,” Andre echoed, his eyes already closing.
They fell asleep like that, tangled together in the bed they had shared for four years, the silence of the flat settling around them like a benediction.
Chapter twenty
Winning Him Back
The rebuilding of trust was not a single, dramatic event. It was a slow, meticulous process, constructed from a thousand small, deliberate actions.
Andre approached it with the same relentless, obsessive focus he had once applied to his tennis, and now applied to his painting. He was determined to prove to Blake, every single day, that he was safe, that he was loved, and that the foundation of their relationship, though cracked, was stronger than ever.
It started the morning after Blake returned to the flat.
Blake woke up to the smell of fresh coffee and baking bread. He walked into the kitchen to find Andre standing by the stove, wearing a faded navy t-shirt and loose cotton shorts, a smudge of flour on his cheek. He had gone downstairs before dawn to help Pierre with the morning bake, returning with a basket of warm croissants and Blake’s favorite pain au chocolat.
“Good morning,” Andre said, his eyes searching Blake’s face for any sign of regret or hesitation.
Blake smiled, a genuine, relaxed expression that made Andre’s chest ache with relief. “Good morning.”
That was the baseline. But Andre went further.
When Blake began his intense training block for the French Open, spending six hours a day on the clay courts at the National Tennis Centre, Andre started showing up.
He didn’t just sit in the stands. He arrived precisely at one o’clock every afternoon, carrying a wicker basket packed with a carefully curated picnic lunch. He would spread a blanket on the grass near the practice courts, unpack grilled chicken salads, fresh fruit, and sparkling water, and wait for Blake to finish his drills.
