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The next morning, Blake woke early.
The rain had stopped, leaving the London sky a pale, washed-out blue. He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Andre, and went to the kitchen to make coffee.
When he returned to the bedroom, carrying two mugs, Andre was awake, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.
“Morning,” Blake said softly, setting the mugs on the nightstand.
Andre turned his head, a slow, sleepy smile spreading across his face. “Morning.”
Blake climbed back into bed, propping himself up against the headboard. He handed Andre a mug, then settled back, his shoulder pressing against Andre’s. “You were tossing and turning last night,” Blake observed, taking a sip of his coffee.
“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.
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