"Go," Andre said. "Get the champagne. I'll wait."
Blake kissed him once more — quick, firm, full of joy — and disappeared down the stairs.
The celebration in the studio was loud, chaotic, and perfect.
When Jasper and Phoebe arrived, they had stood in the doorway for a long moment, staring at the canvas. Phoebe's hand had come up to cover her mouth. Jasper had simply stood there, his eyes moving slowly across the surface, reading the painting the way he read everything — carefully, completely, with his whole attention.
Then Phoebe had crossed the room and pulled Andre into a fierce hug, her small frame trembling against his chest.
"You extraordinary man," she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "I knew it. I knew you'd come back."
Jasper had shaken Blake's hand, then pulled him into a brief, tight embrace. "Thank you for calling us," he said quietly.
They drank the champagne out of plastic cups, sitting on the floor of the studio, surrounded by the smell of paint and the warmth of celebration.
"It's different from anything you've done before," Phoebe said finally, setting down her cup. "It's rawer. Less controlled. But the energy —" She shook her head, her dark bob swinging. "The energy is extraordinary. This is the beginning of something new, Andre. Not a return to what you were. Something better."
"The show," Jasper said, looking at Andre with a warm, unhurried smile. "Whenever you're ready. We meant what we said. The whole gallery. Just your work."
Andre looked at Blake, who was watching him with that quiet, steady expression — the one that said this is yours.
"I'll be ready," Andre said. And for the first time, he believed it.
Two weeks later, on a crisp November morning, Blake and Andre found themselves standing in the gymnasium of a community center in East London.
The space was chaotic, echoing with the shouts of three dozen children running drills on miniature courts. The organization was called First ServeLondon, a charity dedicated to providing tennis equipment and coaching to kids from disadvantaged neighborhoods.
Blake had reached out to them quietly without involving his PR team. He and Andre had arranged to donate the massive collection of stuffed animals that the public had left outside the bakery in the days following Andre's accident — the bears, the lions, the countless plush dogs that had been sitting in boxes in the spare room of the flat.
"Are you sure you want to give them all away?" Blake asked, watching as a volunteer hauled another enormous bag of toys toward the center of the gym. "Some of those were from people who watched you play at Wimbledon."
"I am sure," Andre said, his left hand slipping into Blake's. "I do not need them to remind me that I am loved. I have you for that. They belong here."
A whistle blew, and the children scrambled toward the center of the room, their eyes widening as the bags were opened. The reaction was instantaneous — a wave of pure, unadulterated joy as they dove into the pile, clutching the toys to their chests.
Blake watched them, a slow smile spreading across his face.
He watched a little boy, no older than eight, holding a plush golden retriever in one hand and a battered junior racket in the other. The boy looked up, caught Blake's eye, and froze.
"You're Blake Harlan," the boy whispered, his voice carrying across the sudden quiet of the gym. The other children turned, their eyes wide with awe. They were looking at him not as a celebrity, not as a tabloid headline,but as a hero. As someone who played the game they were just learning to love.
Blake felt a sudden, sharp pull of memory. He thought about the Kensington kids — Leo and Mia — and the charity lessons his father had forced him to give years ago at the Greenwich Country Club. He remembered the exact moment he had stopped caring about the grip and the footwork, and had simply let them play. He remembered the realization that tennis didn't have to be a prison. It could be joy.
He looked at the kids in the gym, clutching their new toys, their faces bright with excitement. "Yeah," Blake said softly, stepping forward and crouching down to the boy's eye level. "I am."
He reached out, adjusting the boy's grip on the racket, his touch gentle. "But you're holding that too tight. Forget the grip. Just hold it however feels comfortable."
The boy loosened his hand, his face breaking into a massive grin.
Andre stood back, watching Blake surrounded by the children, his heart swelling with a profound, overwhelming love. He saw the way Blake looked at them, the patience, the natural authority, the genuine joy in his eyes.
It was a glimpse of the future. A future where Blake wasn't just a champion, but a teacher. A coach.
Blake looked up, catching Andre's eye across the gym. He smiled, a bright, unburdened expression that reached all the way to his blue eyes.
He was ready.
Andre had been spending more time thinking about Paris. The commission had required two trips to the collector's private gallery in the Marais, and each time, Andre had lingered — walking the narrow streets near the Seine and peering into gallery windows, mentally measuring studio spaces that seemed extravagant. He had mentioned it to Blake in passing, casually, the way people mention dreams they haven't given themselves permission to want.
