“Clara called again today,” Andre said, adjusting the heat under the pan.
“And?” Blake asked.
“The collector has agreed to the new timeline. Four canvases by September. She negotiated an additional fifty thousand euros for the extra piece," Andre replied. He continued, "she told him that the US Open painting had been valued at three times his entire commission, and that he was lucky I was still willing to work with him at all.”
“Is that true?" Blake asked. "About the valuation?”
Andre shrugged, deglazing the pan with a generous pour of Burgundy. “Clara says many things. Some of them are even true.”
“Clara is scary!” Blake said, laughing.
“She is magnificent,” Andre corrected, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “She is what the French callredoutable,” Andre said, swirling his wine. “It means you do not argue with her twice.”
Blake laughed. He moved behind Andre, hooking his chin over Andre’s shoulder, his hands settling on the counter on either side of him.
“I’m proud of you,” Blake said quietly, watching Andre work. “The way you came back from everything. The painting, the commission, all of it.”
Andre leaned back into him, the warmth of Blake’s chest solid and reassuring against his back.
“I could not have done any of it without you.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is absolutely true.” Andre turned his head, pressing a quick kiss to Blake’s jaw. “Now move. You are going to make me burn the chicken.”
Blakereleased him reluctantly, retreating to his shallots with an exaggerated sigh.
They ate at the small table by the window, the candles flickering, the wine dark and rich in their glasses. They talked about the Queen’s Club draw and about whether they should take a holiday after Wimbledon.
“Somewhere warm,” Andre said, swirling the wine in his glass. “With good light. I want to paint you on a beach.”
“You want to paint me naked on a beach,” Blake corrected.
“Obviously!”
Blake smiled, reaching across the table to take Andre’s hand. He traced the line of Andre’s knuckles, the familiar, paint-stained fingers that had become the landscape of his life. “Greece,” Blake said. “Let’s go to Greece.”
Andre’s eyes lit up. “Mykonos?”
“Somewhere quieter. An island with white houses and blue water and no paparazzi.”
“I will find us somewhere perfect,” Andre promised.
They cleared the dishes together, moving around each other with the easy, practiced choreography of two people who had shared a kitchen for years. When the last plate was dried and put away, Blake took Andre’s hand and led him to the bedroom.
They didn’t make love that night. They simply lay together in the dark, Andre’s head on Blake’s chest, Blake’s fingers tracing slow patterns on Andre’s back. The window was cracked open, the sounds of the city drifting in —a distant siren, the rumble of a bus, the faint laughter of people walking home from the pub.
“Blake?”
“Mm?”
“Thank you for coming back to me.”
Blake pressed a kiss to the top of Andre’s head.
“There was never any question. There was only ever you.”
Andre closed his eyes, a deep, settled peace washing over him. The anxiety of the past months — the guilt, the fear, the desperate uncertainty — had finally, fully released its grip.
