Winning Him Back
Chapter twenty
The rebuilding of trust was not a single, dramatic event. It was a slow, meticulous process, constructed from a thousand small, deliberate actions.
Andre approached it with the same relentless, obsessive focus he had once applied to his tennis, and now applied to his painting.
He was determined to prove to Blake, every single day, that he was safe, that he was loved, and that the foundation of their relationship, though cracked, was stronger than ever.
It started the morning after Blake returned to the flat.
Blake woke up to the smell of fresh coffee and baking bread.
He walked into the kitchen to find Andre standing by the stove, wearing a faded navy t-shirt and loose cotton shorts, a smudge of flour on his cheek.
He had gone downstairs before dawn to help Pierre with the morning bake, returning with a basket of warm croissants and Blake’s favorite pain au chocolat.
“Good morning,” Andre said, his eyes searching Blake’s face for any sign of regret or hesitation.
Blake smiled, a genuine, relaxed expression that made Andre’s chest ache with relief. “Good morning.”
That was the baseline. But Andre went further.
When Blake began his intense training block for the French Open, spending six hours a day on the clay courts at the National Tennis Centre, Andre started showing up.
He didn’t just sit in the stands. He arrived precisely at one o’clock every afternoon, carrying a wicker basket packed with a carefully curated picnic lunch.
He would spread a blanket on the grass near the practice courts, unpack grilled chicken salads, fresh fruit, and sparkling water, and wait for Blake to finish his drills.
The first time he did it, Doug had stared at him in disbelief. “What is this?” Doug asked, gesturing to the blanket. “A Victorian garden party?”
“It is lunch,” Andre said calmly, handing Doug a bottle of water. “He needs protein and hydration. And he needs to sit down for twenty minutes.”
Blake had walked off the court, his shirt soaked with sweat, and stopped at the edge of the grass, looking at the spread, and then at Andre.
A slow, brilliant smile had spread across his face.
He had sat down on the blanket, leaning his back against Andre’s chest, and let Andre feed him grapes while Doug muttered about the death of discipline.
The romantic gestures became a constant, comforting rhythm in Blake’s life. They weren’t grand, public declarations; they were quiet, intimate, and deeply personal.
They were the actions of a man who was paying close, unwavering attention.
One evening, Blake came home from a particularly grueling training session. It had been raining all day, a cold, miserable London drizzle that had seeped into his bones.
He walked into the flat shivering, his muscles tight and aching, expecting the usual quiet evening.
Instead, he found the bathroom filled with steam and the sharp, clean scent of eucalyptus.
Andre had drawn a hot bath, complete with Epsom salts and a folded towel resting on the edge of the tub.
He didn’t say a word; he simply met Blake at the door, took his heavy racket bag, kissed his cold cheek, and pointed toward the bathroom.
Blake sank into the hot water, letting the heat bleed the tension from his shoulders.
When he finally emerged, wearing clean sweatpants and a soft t-shirt, he found the living room lit only by the soft glow of the lamps. Dinner was waiting on the table — a rich, heavy beef bourguignon that Andre had spent the entire afternoon slow-cooking.
They ate in comfortable silence, the only sound the clinking of silverware and the rain against the window.
Another afternoon, Blake was sitting on the sofa, trying to massage a knot out of his right calf. He was frustrated, his fingers digging into the muscle without much success.
Andre, who had been reading a book in the armchair, set it down and walked over.
He knelt on the floor in front of Blake, pushed Blake’s hands away, and took over.
His strong, paint-stained fingers found the exact center of the knot, applying a steady, agonizingly perfect pressure until the muscle finally released.
He didn’t ask for thanks; he just kissed Blake’s knee and went back to his book.
Another time, Blake woke up in the middle of the night, his heart racing from a nightmare he couldn’t quite remember.
Before he could even sit up, Andre’s arms were around him, pulling him close, murmuring soft, soothing French into his ear until Blake’s breathing slowed and he drifted back to sleep.
When Blake opened his racket bag before a grueling practice match against a top-ten player, he found a small, folded piece of heavy cardstock tucked between his grips. It was thick, expensive paper, the kind Andre used for charcoal sketches.
You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen on a tennis court. Destroy him. I love you.
Blake had laughed out loud, the sound echoing in the quiet locker room. He had tucked the note carefully into the zippered pocket of his bag, where he kept his passport and his most valuable possessions, and had gone out and won the practice match in straight sets.
There were other notes, too. Small, unexpected bursts of affection hidden in the mundane corners of his life.
A sticky note on the bathroom mirror that said Your eyes are bluer today.
A scrap of paper tucked into his wallet that read I am making your favorite pasta tonight.
Hurry home. A message written in the condensation on the shower glass: Tu me manques; I miss you.
When Blake packed his bags for the Madrid Open, his first tournament since their reconciliation, he felt a familiar spike of anxiety. The distance, the hotel rooms, the silence — it was a reminder of the darkest weeks of his life.
But when he arrived in Madrid and opened his suitcase, the scent of Andre’s cologne — a sharp, clean mix of cedar and bergamot — drifted up from the clothes. Andre had carefully sprayed the inside of the suitcase and tucked one of his own worn t-shirts between Blake’s sweaters.
Blake had buried his face in the t-shirt, breathing in the scent of the man he loved, the anxiety melting away, replaced by a profound, calming sense of security.
The gestures weren’t just physical. They were emotional, designed to bridge the gaps and fill the silences.
Andre learned Blake’s tournament schedule by heart.
He knew the time zones, the practice times, the match times.
When Blake checked into his hotel in Rome, there was a massive arrangement of blue hydrangeas waiting in the suite.
When he arrived in Paris for Roland Garros, there was a handwritten letter waiting at the front desk, timed perfectly to coincide with his arrival.
Day 1: I am painting the light on the river today, but all I can see is the blue of your eyes. Good luck in the first round. I am with you.
The letters arrived every single day Blake was away. Some were short, intimate glimpses into Andre’s life in London. Others were longer, filled with memories of their early days together, or descriptions of the future Andre wanted to build with him.
Day 4: Pierre asked about you today. He says the bakery is too quiet without you stealing croissants. I told him you are busy conquering Paris. I am so proud of you.
Day 7: I walked past the Queen’s Club today. I remembered the first time I saw you play there. You were so angry, so beautiful. You are still beautiful. I love you.
Day 10: I bought a new espresso machine for the flat.
The old one was making a terrible noise.
I spent two hours trying to calibrate it so it makes the foam exactly the way you like it.
I think I succeeded. You will have to tell me when you get back.
I've had so much espresso testing it that I had to go up and down the stairs three times to burn off some of the extra energy!
Day 12: It rained all day. I stayed in the studio and listened to the jazz record you bought me for my birthday. I missed the sound of your breathing while I painted. The silence is too loud without you.
They were a constant, tangible reminder that he was waiting, that he was faithful, that he was entirely devoted. They were a lifeline, a tether connecting Blake to the flat in South Kensington, no matter how many thousands of miles away he was.
There was also the matter of Blake’s birthday.
Blake had never been one for celebrations.
His childhood birthdays had been formal affairs — catered dinners at the Greenwich Country Club, his father’s colleagues in attendance, a perfunctory cake that Blake was expected to cut with a polite smile.
He had learned early that birthdays were performances, not celebrations.
Andre knew this. He knew that Blake flinched at the idea of a party, that he preferred quiet over spectacle. So he planned something different.
On the morning of Blake’s twenty-sixth birthday, Andre woke him at five a.m. with a cup of coffee and a whispered instruction to dress warmly. Blake, groggy and confused, pulled on jeans and a heavy sweater and followed Andre down the stairs and into a waiting car.
They drove for an hour, the London skyline fading into rolling green countryside.
Andre wouldn’t tell him where they were going. He just held Blake’s hand across the center console, gently brushing across Blake’s knuckles, a small, secretive smile on his face.
They arrived at a private airfield in Kent just as the sun was rising.
A hot air balloon was waiting for them, its massive envelope already inflated, glowing gold and crimson in the early morning light. The pilot, a cheerful, weathered man in his sixties, greeted them with a handshake and helped them into the basket.
Blake stared at Andre, his blue eyes wide. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” Andre said, grinning. “Happy birthday.”
They rose slowly into the dawn, the ground falling away beneath them, the patchwork of English fields spreading out in every direction.
The air was cold and sharp, the silence extraordinary — no engine noise, no traffic, just the occasional roar of the burner and the vast, peaceful stillness of the sky.
Blake stood at the edge of the basket, his hands gripping the wicker rim, his face lifted to the rising sun. Andre stood behind him, his chest pressed against Blake’s back, his chin resting on Blake’s shoulder.
“This is incredible,” Blake whispered, his voice hushed with wonder.
“You deserve incredible things,” Andre said simply.
They floated for an hour, drifting over villages and farmland and the silver ribbon of a river winding through the valley.
When they finally landed, bumping gently down in a field of wildflowers, Andre produced a thermos of hot chocolate and a box of pastries from Pierre’s bakery — Blake’s favorite almond croissants, still warm.
They sat in the field, eating croissants and drinking hot chocolate, the deflated balloon settling behind them like a sleeping giant. Blake leaned against Andre’s shoulder, his eyes closed, a deep, contented smile on his face.
“Thank you,” Blake said. “This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.”
“Every birthday from now on will be the best,” Andre promised. “I will make sure of it.”
Slowly, the walls Blake had built around his heart began to come down.
The flinching stopped. The hesitation in his touch vanished. He started reaching for Andre in the middle of the night, pulling him close, burying his face in the curve of Andre’s neck.
The sex changed, too. The desperate, frantic urgency of their reunion in the studio mellowed into something deeper, something profoundly intimate.
It was gentle, a slow, careful exploration of each other’s bodies, a physical dialogue of trust and surrender.
Andre worshipped him, his hands and mouth mapping every inch of Blake’s skin with a reverence that left Blake breathless and completely undone.
It was during the quarterfinal week of Roland Garros that the final piece of the foundation settled into place.
Blake was lying in his hotel room in Paris, his muscles aching from a brutal four-set victory on the Philippe Chatrier court. He was exhausted, but the familiar, quiet swell of contentment was back in his chest.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He picked it up. It was a text from Andre, accompanied by a photograph.
Blake opened the image.
It was a painting. It was small, intimate, the brushstrokes soft and impressionistic. It was a painting of Blake, asleep in their bed in South Kensington, the morning light catching the gold in his hair, his face relaxed and unguarded.
Andre (22:15): I finished this today. It is not for a gallery. It is just for us. I miss you.
Blake stared at the painting, his heart swelling with a love so fierce and absolute it felt like it could break his ribs. He looked at the way Andre saw him — not as a tennis player, not as a machine, but as a man, vulnerable and loved.
He typed his reply, his thumbs moving quickly over the screen.
Blake (22:17): It’s beautiful. I love you.
He hit send, and watched the words appear on the screen.
It was the first time he had said it, the first time he had typed it, since the night of the confession.
A moment later, the phone buzzed again.
Andre (22:18): I love you too. Come home soon.
Blake smiled, turning off the lamp and settling back into the pillows. He closed his eyes, the image of the painting still vivid in his mind, and for the first time in months, he fell asleep without a single ghost haunting his dreams.