37. Xander
Chapter 37
Xander
I woke with a start, my arm instinctively reaching across the empty space beside me.
The sheets were cold.
Blake was gone.
For a moment, panic clawed at my chest. It was stupid—she had probably just gotten up with Amelia—but after everything we'd been through, that initial spike of fear was hard to shake. I blinked at the clock: 5:47 a.m. Even Amelia wasn't usually up this early.
I listened for the familiar sounds of Blake moving around the kitchen or the soft murmurs she made when talking to Amelia.
Nothing. Just the faint hum of the air conditioning unit and the distant chirp of early morning birds.
Throwing back the covers, I padded barefoot out of the bedroom.
The soft glow of a nightlight spilled from Amelia's room. I peeked inside to find her still fast asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling with each breath, one arm flung over her head in complete abandonment. Relief flooded through me, but it still didn't explain where Blake had gone.
That's when I saw it—the soft light coming from the studio window from the studio just across the way.
I grabbed the baby monitor and silently walked outside, not wanting to disturb her but also wanting to be there if Blake was sitting in front of an empty canvas again, mourning the loss of her art.
Instead, the gentle sound of the scrape of a brush against canvas drifted across to me. The door was cracked open, spilling a thin line of light onto the darkened pathway.
I approached quietly, not wanting to disturb whatever was happening inside. When I gently pushed the door wider, the sight before me stopped me in my tracks.
Blake stood before an easel, her back to me, completely absorbed in the canvas in front of her. She wore one of my old t-shirts, hanging loose on her small frame, splotches of paint already staining the hem. Her pink hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head, secured with what looked like a paintbrush. Several more brushes were tucked behind her ears, and her bare feet shifted unconsciously as she worked, creating small smears of blue and yellow on the hardwood floor.
The room was a hurricane of creative energy—tubes of paint scattered across every surface, reference sketches pinned to the walls, empty coffee mugs gathering like a small army on the desk. Music played softly from her phone, something classical and gentle that I'd never heard her listen to before.
But it was the painting that held me transfixed.
Even from the doorway, I could see it was unlike anything she'd shown me before. It was us—Blake, Amelia, and me—sitting on a blanket under the massive oak tree at the edge of Booker's property.
The light filtered through the leaves in dappled patterns across our faces, and Blake had somehow captured the exact look in Amelia's eyes when she laughed. In the painting, my arm was around Blake's shoulders, and I was looking at her with an expression that left me feeling exposed—like she'd seen straight into my soul and painted what she'd found there.
And there, sitting proudly beside us, was a small, scruffy dog I'd never seen before.
"Toby," I whispered, suddenly understanding.
Blake whirled around, a paintbrush clenched between her teeth and another poised in mid-air. Her eyes widened when she saw me, and for a brief moment, she looked almost guilty, like I'd caught her doing something forbidden.
The brush fell from her mouth.
"Xander! I didn't hear you come in."
"You're painting." It was such a stupid, obvious thing to say, but I was still processing the scene before me—the energy radiating from her, the vibrant canvas, the fact that she was up before the sun and clearly had been for hours.
She nodded, a smile spreading across her face that was so brilliant it almost hurt to look at.
"I'm painting," she confirmed, her voice filled with wonder, like she couldn't quite believe it herself.
I moved further into the room, careful not to disturb the organized chaos of her creative space. "How long have you been up?"
Blake glanced at the window, seeming surprised to see the first rays of dawn peeking through. "I don't know. Since two, maybe? I woke up and it was just... there. The idea. So clear I could almost see it behind my eyelids." She gestured at the painting with her brush. "I had to get it out before it disappeared again."
I came to stand behind her, looking more closely at the canvas. The detail was extraordinary—the way she'd captured the light, the texture of the blanket, the soft curve of Amelia's cheek. I could almost feel the breeze that seemed to be moving through the painted scene.
"It's beautiful, Blake," I said softly. "It's... us."
She nodded, her eyes suddenly shimmering with unshed tears. "It's what I see when I close my eyes now." She set down her brush and turned to face me fully. "I couldn't paint before because I was too caught up in trying to be perfect. In trying to prove something to everyone who ever told me I wasn't good enough. But this—" she gestured between us, "—this is real. And it's messy and complicated and nothing like what I planned, but it's mine. Ours." She took a shaky breath. "You make me feel safe enough to create again, Xander."
I reached out, cupping her face in my hands, feeling the warmth of her skin against my palms. "You did this, Blake. Not me. This was always inside you."
She leaned into my touch. "Maybe. But I needed to feel grounded before I could fly again." She smiled, the kind of smile that made her whole face light up. "And you and Amelia—you gave me roots."
I kissed her then, tasting the faint bitterness of coffee on her lips and something else—joy, maybe. Pure, uninhibited joy. When we pulled apart, she was crying, but they were the kind of tears that came from somewhere good, somewhere healing.
"I have so many ideas," she said, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of yellow paint across her skin. "They're all just... rushing in at once. Like they've been waiting for me to open the door again."
"The show," I said, suddenly remembering. "You could still do it."
Her eyes widened. "I don't know. It's only a few months away, and with Amelia, and it’s so much work—"
"We'll figure it out," I told her, feeling a certainty settle over me. "If this is what you want, Blake, we'll make it happen. All of us."
She bit her lip, looking back at the canvas. "I think... I think I do want it. I need to do this, not just for me, but for her." She nodded in the direction of the cottage. "I want her to see that it's okay to chase your dreams, even when they seem impossible."
"Then that's what we'll do," I said simply. "We're a team, remember? Whatever you need."
Blake leaned her head against my chest, and I wrapped my arms around her, both of us gazing at the painting that seemed to capture not just who we were, but who we were becoming.
"Can I ask you something?" I murmured against her hair.
"Mmm?"
"Is that Toby?"
She pulled back to look at me, surprise and delight dancing across her features. "You remembered!"
"Of course I did. The imaginary dog in your bicycle basket." I gestured to the painting. "He looks exactly like I pictured him."
"You've been picturing my imaginary dog?" She arched an eyebrow, amusement tugging at her lips.
"I picture everything about you, Blake Mitchell," I admitted, feeling heat rise to my face. "Even the things that don't exist yet."
She studied me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Then she stretched up on her tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to my jaw. "Don't say things like that when I'm trying to work, or we'll never make it out of this room."
I laughed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Fair enough. You get back to it. I'll make coffee and check on Amelia."
She nodded, already turning back to her canvas, that focused intensity returning to her expression. It was like watching someone slide back into their own skin after being lost for a long time. Like witnessing a homecoming.
As I turned to leave, she called my name. When I looked back, she was standing in front of her painting, brush in hand, pink hair wild around her face, looking more alive than I'd ever seen her.
"Thank you," she said simply. "For believing in me even when I couldn't."
I swallowed against the sudden tightness in my throat.
"Always," I promised.
And I meant it with everything in me.
I had just finished making coffee when I heard Amelia stirring through the baby monitor.
I hurried to her room, not wanting her cries to interrupt Blake's work. When I pushed open the door, she was already sitting up in her crib, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists.
"Good morning, little bug," I whispered, lifting her into my arms. She immediately nestled against my chest, her sleep-warm body trusting and soft. "Mama's busy making something beautiful. Want to help me make breakfast?"
Amelia babbled something that sounded like agreement, patting my cheek with a drool covered hand. I changed her diaper and dressed her in the little overalls that Blake had bought her last week, complete with tiny ladybugs embroidered on the pockets.
In the kitchen, I settled her into her high chair with some cheerios while I started on breakfast. The domesticity of the moment struck me as both strange and perfect—how quickly this had become my normal, my everything.
Blake emerged from her studio just as I was plating eggs and toast, her hair even wilder than before, a streak of red paint across her forehead. Her eyes were bright with that same creative fire, but softer now, more contained.
"Something smells amazing," she said, crossing to drop a kiss on top of Amelia's head. The baby squealed in delight, reaching up with sticky fingers to grab at Blake's hair.
"Just eggs and toast," I said. "Nothing fancy."
Blake slid onto a stool at the counter, accepting the coffee I pushed toward her. "No, I mean it smells like home." She took a sip, closing her eyes in appreciation. "I never thought I'd be the kind of person who wanted this—the whole domestic package. I always thought I'd be this nomadic artist, living out of a backpack, too free-spirited for roots."
"And now?" I asked, sliding a plate in front of her.
She looked around the kitchen—at Amelia happily mashing cheerios, at the well-worn couch where we curled up every evening, at the fridge covered in shopping lists and doctor appointments and the sonogram picture from Delaney's latest checkup.
"Now I can't imagine wanting anything else," she admitted. "Well, except maybe a slightly bigger studio."
I laughed, leaning across the counter to kiss her. "I think that can be arranged."
As we ate breakfast, Blake told me about all the ideas flooding her mind—the series she wanted to create for the show, the techniques she was excited to try again. Her hands moved animatedly as she spoke, occasionally gesturing with her fork, a piece of egg dangerously close to flying across the room.
"I'm going to need to work like a maniac to get enough pieces done in time," she said, finally pausing to take a breath. "And I'll have to talk to the gallery, make sure they're still willing to give me the space."
"They'd be crazy not to," I said. "And as for working... we'll figure it out. I can take more time with Amelia, maybe see if Delaney or Reece would be willing to help out a few hours a week."
Blake's expression softened. "You'd do that? Rearrange your schedule for this?"
"In a heartbeat," I said without hesitation. "This is important, Blake. Your art is part of who you are. And seeing you like this—" I gestured to her animated face, the light in her eyes, "—it's everything."
She reached across the table and took my hand, squeezing it tightly. "I don't know what I did to deserve you, Xander Farrington."
"You existed," I said simply. "That was more than enough."
Later, after we'd cleaned up breakfast and gotten Amelia dressed for the day, Blake insisted on taking us into her studio to show us what she'd been working on. She held Amelia on her hip, pointing out different elements of the painting, explaining her choices in colors and composition like the baby could understand every word.
"See, that's you with your favorite stuffed bunny," she said, pointing to the canvas. "And there's Daddy, looking at us like we hung the moon."
I grinned at the word 'Daddy,' feeling it reverberate through my entire body. Blake seemed to realize what she'd said at the same moment, her eyes darting to mine, uncertain.
"Is that okay?" she asked quietly.
"I mean, I know we haven't really talked about it."
"It's perfect," I said, my voice rough with emotion.
"I've never wanted anything more in my life than to be her dad. And your—" I caught myself, suddenly unsure if this was the right moment for everything I wanted to say.
Blake's expression turned tender. "My what?"
I cupped her cheek in my hand, my thumb brushing over the dried paint still streaked there. "Your partner. In all of this. In everything."
She leaned into my touch, her eyes shining. "I like the sound of that."
Amelia chose that moment to grab at Blake's hair again, eliciting a small yelp of pain that made all three of us laugh. The sun streamed through the studio windows, casting long, golden rectangles across the floor. Outside, spring was in full bloom, with the oak tree visible in the distance, its leaves creating a canopy of green against the blue sky.
As I watched Blake talking animatedly about her plans for the upcoming show, I thought about how far we'd both come from that first night with Amelia. The woman who'd been afraid to pick up a paintbrush was now bursting with creativity. And me—the man who'd sworn off connections, who'd been determined to stay detached and independent—found myself completely, hopelessly entangled with these two incredible human beings.
In her painting, Blake had captured something I hadn't fully realized until this moment: we weren't just playing at being a family anymore. We weren't pretending. Somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred, and what had started as an arrangement had become as real as anything I'd ever known.
Like we'd finally found our way home.