“You are being too aggressive with the dough,” Talia scolded, slapping Andre’s hand away from the mixing bowl. “I told you, scones require a delicate touch. You’re treating it like bread. It’s not bread, Andre.”
“It is flour and butter and milk,” Andre argued, wiping a streak of flour from his cheek. “It is the same principle.”
“It is absolutely not the same principle. If you overwork it, they’ll come out like hockey pucks. My grandmother would be appalled.”
Andre laughed, stepping back and holding his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Show me the delicate touch.”
Talia took over, her hands moving quickly and lightly, bringing the dough together with minimal effort. She was wearing one of Andre’s old t-shirts over her jeans, her dark hair tied back in a messy bun. She looked entirely at home in their kitchen, moving around the space with the easy familiarity of family. “See?” Talia said, patting the dough into a rough circle. “Barely mixed. Now we cut them.”
Andre watched her, feeling a deep, quiet affection for the woman standing next to him.
She had become one of his closest friends, a sounding board for his anxieties about the art world, a sharp, honest critic of his work, and a constant source of warmth and humor.
“You are very bossy,” Andre observed.
“I’m a director at heart,” Talia replied, pressing the cutter into the dough. “I just happen to act to pay the bills.”
They put the scones in the oven and joined Blake and Liam in the living room. Talia curled up on the armchair, pulling her knees to her chest, while Andre sat on the floor, leaning back against Blake’s legs.
Blake’s hand immediately dropped to Andre’s shoulder, his fingers resting warm against the nape of his neck. It was an unconscious gesture, a physical tether that grounded them both.
“How’s the Paris commission coming?” Liam asked, tearing his eyes away from the television during a commercial break.
“It is difficult,” Andre admitted. “The collector wants three pieces that tell a cohesive story, but he also wants them to stand alone. It is a challenge of balance.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Blake said quietly, his thumb pressing gently into the muscle of Andre’s shoulder. “You always do.”
“I have an audition tomorrow,” Talia announced, reaching for her tea. “For a new BBC drama. It’s a proper role, not just a supporting character. Six episodes.”
“That’s brilliant, Tals,” Liam said, his face lighting up with genuine pride. “You’ll smash it.”
“I’m terrified,” she admitted, her dark eyes serious. “If I get it, it means leaving the Old Vic for six months. It means actual money. It means… everything changes.”
“Change is good,” Andre said. “Scary, yes. But necessary.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon eating warm scones — which, Andre had to admit, were magnificent — and drinking tea, the rain beating a steady rhythm against the bay windows.
Liam, emboldened by the success of the scones, insisted on making a second batch with blueberries. The result was a disaster — the berries burst in the oven, turning the scones an alarming shade of purple and leaving a sticky, caramelized mess on the baking sheet. “
They look like they were involved in a crime,” Blake observed, poking one with a fork.
“They taste fine,” Liam insisted, biting into one and immediately grimacing. “Okay, they taste like a crime as well.”
Talia threw a dish towel at his head. “This is why I said plain. You never listen.”
“I’m a creative,” Liam said, wiping purple juice from his chin. “I take risks.”
“You’re a menace,” Talia corrected, but she was laughing, her whole face alight with affection.
Andre watched them, a warm, uncomplicated happiness settling in his chest. He thought about how different his life was now compared to four years ago — the lonely studio apartment in Montreuil, the endless hours on public courts, the constant, gnawing hunger for something more. Now he had Blake, and this flat, and these friends who argued about scones on rainy Sundays.
It was a perfect Sunday. Andre leaned back against the sofa, watching Blake laugh at something Liam had said in the other room, and felt a deep, uncomplicated gratitude for the life they had built together.
Later that evening, after Liam and Talia had left — Liam insisting on taking the remaining purple scones “for research purposes” — Blake and Andre pulled on their coats and walked out into the night.
The rain had stopped, leaving the air clean and cold, the pavement glistening under the streetlamps. They walked without a destination, their shoulders bumping together, their breath forming small clouds in the October chill.
They ended up in Hyde Park, following the path that curved along the Serpentine. The water was black and still, reflecting the distant lights of the city. A few late joggers passed them, headphones in, faces set against the cold. Otherwise, they were alone.
