He hadn’t told Blake about the exhibition yet. He wasn’t sure why.
Blake came home from Eastbourne on a Thursday evening, tanned and tired, having reached the semifinals before losing to a big-serving Australian in a tight three-setter.
He dropped his bags in the hallway, kicked off his shoes, and found Andre in the kitchen, cooking. “You’re cooking,” Blake said, leaning against the doorframe.
“I’m making ratatouille. Your mother-in-law’s recipe.”
“She’s not my mother-in-law.”
“She acts like she is. She asked me yesterday if you were eating enough vegetables.”
Blake crossed the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Andre from behind, burying his face in the curve of his neck. Andre leaned back into him, his hands still moving over the cutting board, slicing courgettes with practiced ease.
“I missed you,” Blake said, his voice muffled against Andre’s skin.
“You were gone nearly two weeks.”
“Every day was one too many.”
Andre set down the knife, turning in Blake’s arms. He cupped Blake’s face in both hands, studying him — the new freckles across his nose from the English sun, the slight darkening under his eyes from travel, the way his golden hair had grown just long enough to curl at the temples.
“You look tired,” Andre said softly.
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I’m always fine.” Blake leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Andre’s.
“Tell me about your week.”
Andre hesitated. “I made a friend.”
Blake pulled back slightly, his eyebrows rising. “A friend?”
“Two friends, actually. Talia and Liam. They’re actors at the Old Vic.”
“The Old Vic? That’s near your studio.”
“Around the corner. I’ve been seeing them at the cafe for weeks. Talia recognized me from a show I went to, and we started talking.”
Blake’s expression was open, curious, without a trace of jealousy. “That’s great, Andre.
"What are they like?”
“Talia is sharp. Funny. She argues about everything. Liam is…” Andre searched for the right word. “Loud. In a good way. He asks a lot of questions.”
“I’d like to meet them.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. I told Talia we’d have dinner this weekend. Here, if that’s okay. I’ll cook.”
“Of course it’s okay.” Blake kissed him, slow and warm. “I’m glad you have people. Outside of tennis, I mean. Outside of… us.”
Andre looked at him, tenderness cutting through his chest like a blade. Blake was so generous, so open, so willing to make room for whatever Andre needed. It was one of the things Andre loved most about him, and one of the things that sometimes made him feel profoundly, inexplicably guilty.
“Je t’aime,” Andre said, the French slipping out the way it always did when he was half-asleep or completely sincere. “I love you,”.
“I love you too. Now finish the ratatouille. I’m starving.”
