Page 87 of Painted Return

"Toujours," Andre said softly. Always. "Mon cœur. Toujours."

They sat together in the quiet, the tree lights blinking softly. Andre leaned his head against Blake's shoulder, the sketchbook and the velvet box resting between them on the cushion — two gifts that represented the past and the future, memory and possibility.

Blake pressed his lips to the top of Andre's head, breathing in the familiar scent of him — something warm and indefinable that was simply Andre.

He thought about the year behind them. The betrayal, the silence, the hotel rooms, the painting that had brought him back. The accident, the hospital, the long months of recovery. The phone call that had brought Jasper and Phoebe rushing to the studio. Roland Garros. The trophy. The flight home.

It had been the hardest year of his life. And somehow, impossibly, it had also been the year that had made him certain — absolutely certain — that this was where he belonged. Not on a tennis court, not in a stadium, not in front of cameras.

Here. In this flat. With this man.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing London in white, wrapping the city in silence.

Inside, in the warm, golden light of their flat above the bakery, Blake and Andre held each other, and the future stretched out before them — vast, uncertain, and full of promise.

They were home.