“Normal people are happier.”
Blake laughed, walking back to the bed. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Andre’s forehead, then his nose, then his mouth. Andre’s hand came up, curling around the back of Blake’s neck, holding him there.
The kiss deepened. Andre’s mouth was warm and slow, tasting of sleep and the faintest trace of last night’s wine. Blake felt the familiar pull, the gravity that had been drawing him toward this man since the first time they’d faced each other in a first round match at the Junior French Open, two teenagers on a back court at Roland Garros who had no idea what they were starting.
“If you keep doing that,” Blake murmured against his lips, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“That is the idea,” Andre said, pulling him closer.
Blake resisted for exactly three seconds before climbing back into bed.
An hour later, they were downstairs.
The bakery was warm and bright, the display cases already filled with the morning’s offerings — croissants, pain au chocolat, sourdough loaves, and a tray of Claire’s lavender shortbread arranged in neat rows. The air was thick with the smell of butter and yeast and strong coffee.
Pierre was behind the counter, his thick forearms dusted with flour, arguing with a delivery driver about the quality of the butter. Claire was arranging a vase of fresh flowers near the register, humming something soft and French.
“Ah, the champions arrive,” Pierre said, not looking up from the invoice he was examining with deep suspicion. “You are late. The croissants are almost gone.”
“It’s seven-thirty, Papa,” Andre said, sliding onto a stool at the small counter near the window. “The shop has been open for twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes is a lifetime in bread,” Pierre said gravely.
Claire brought them coffee without being asked — a double espresso for Andre, a flat white for Blake. She kissed Andre on both cheeks, then squeezed Blake’s arm with a warm, familiar affection.
“You look tired,” she said to Blake, studying his face. “Are you sleeping enough?”
“He sleeps fine,” Andre said quickly, avoiding his mother’s eyes.
Pierre snorted, a sound that conveyed both disapproval and reluctant amusement.
Blake ate two croissants and a piece of the sourdough, spreading it thick with the salted butter that Pierre imported from Normandy at an expense he refused to discuss.
Andre picked at a pain au chocolat, scrolling through his phone with his free hand.
“You are not eating,” Pierre observed, his eyes narrowing at his son.
“I’m eating.”
“You are dismantling. That is not the same.”
“Papa.”
“You need fuel. You have a tournament in—”
“I don’t have a tournament for three weeks,” Andre said, setting down his phone. “And I’m not sure I’m playing it.”
The silence that followed was heavy and immediate.
Pierre looked at Andre, then at Blake, then back at Andre. Claire stopped arranging the flowers.
“What do you mean, you are not sure?” Pierre asked, his voice carefully neutral.
“I mean I’m thinking about it. The studio is busy. I have three commissions due, and the Whitfield Gallery wants to discuss a solo exhibition. I might skip Hamburg.”
Pierre’s jaw tightened. Blake recognized the expression — it was the same one Pierre wore when a customer asked for gluten-free bread.
“You are ranked number seven in the world,” Pierre said slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “You do not skip tournaments.”
