He had to do something. He couldn’t let it end like this, in silence and tabloid headlines. He had to make Blake understand. He had to show him, somehow, that the love was still there, buried beneath the ruins of his mistake.
He stood up, his legs stiff and aching, and walked back to the easel.
He pulled the dark, angry canvas off the stand and threw it into the corner of the room.
He picked up a fresh, blank canvas, pristine and white, and set it in place.
He didn’t know what he was going to paint yet. But he knew it had to be the truth. It had to be the only thing that mattered.
He picked up a brush, and began.
The knock came at half past seven the following morning.
Blake was awake. He had barely slept, the events of the past few days replaying in an endless, exhausting loop — the tabloid headlines, the photographers at Queen’s Club, the look on Doug’s face. He was sitting at the desk by the window, staring at his laptop without seeing the screen, a cold cup of coffee untouched beside him.
The knock came again, louder this time. Not the discreet, professional tap of room service. This was a heavy, purposeful knock — the knock of someone who intended to be answered.
Blake frowned, pushing himself out of the chair. He crossed the foyer and opened the outer door.
Pierre Moreau stood in the hallway.
He was enormous, filling the doorframe with his broad shoulders and barrel chest, wearing his familiar white baker’s coat, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his thick, tanned forearms. In his massive hands, he held a paper bag from the bakery and a thermos.
Blake stared at him, completely speechless.
“Pierre,” Blake managed. “How did you—”
“I know the pastry chef here,” Pierre said simply, his deep voice carrying the warm, rolling cadence of his French accent. “He owed me a favor. I told him I needed to deliver something to a guest. He gave me the floor number. He held up the paper bag. “Croissants. From this morning’s batch. Still warm.”
Blake stood there for a long moment, his hand gripping the edge of the door. He wanted to say he was fine, that he didn’t need visitors, that he wanted to be left alone.
But the sight of Pierre — solid, dependable Pierre, who had been a constant, quiet presence in Blake’s life since the day Pierre walked back into Andre's life undid something in Blake.
He stepped back, holding the door open.
Pierre walked into the suite, his eyes sweeping over the impersonal luxury of the room with a slight frown. He set the bag and thermos on the coffee table, then turned to look at Blake.
“Sit,” Pierre said. It wasn’t a request.
Blake sat.
Pierre lowered himself into the armchair opposite, the expensive furniture creaking slightly under his weight. He opened the paper bag, the smell of fresh butter and warm pastry filling the sterile hotel air, and pulled out two perfectly golden croissants. He set one on a napkin in front of Blake.
“Eat,” Pierre said.
Blake looked at the croissant. His stomach clenched. He hadn’t eaten properly in days, subsisting on room service he barely touched and protein bars he forced down before practice.
He picked it up. The pastry was still warm, the layers flaking apart at his touch, the butter glistening in the morning light. He took a bite, and the familiar, perfect taste — the taste of home, of the flat, of early mornings with Andre — hit him like a physical blow.
His eyes burned. He blinked rapidly, looking away.
Pierre poured coffee from the thermos into the cap, the dark liquid steaming in the cool air of the suite. He set it in front of Blake and then sat back, his large hands resting on his knees.
They sat in silence for a long time. Pierre didn’t rush. He didn’t push. He simply waited, his presence a calm, immovable anchor in the room.
Finally, Pierre spoke. “I know what my son did,” Pierre said, his voice low and steady. “He told us. He told Claire and me everything.”
Blake’s hand tightened around the croissant, the pastry crumbling between his fingers.
