Page 1 of Window Seat for Two

ONE

THE MORNING ROUTINE

The alarm shrieked at seven-thirty, yanking Nate from a dream about paintbrushes that sprouted flowers.

He groaned and rolled out of his Murphy bed, bare feet hitting the cool hardwood of his studio apartment.

Sunlight streamed through the massive windows, casting geometric shadows across his art supplies scattered on every available surface.

The apartment was tiny—just a converted space above Mrs. Patterson's bookshop—but those floor-to-ceiling windows made it perfect. Morning light was everything for an illustrator.

Nate shuffled to his kitchenette and reached for his burr grinder.

His parents had given it to him at graduation, back when they'd still harbored hope he might choose culinary school over art school.

They'd been wrong about his career path but right about good coffee.

The rich aroma filled the small space as he went through his daily ritual: careful measurements, precise water temperature, the meditative pour-over process that centered him before facing another day of freelance uncertainty.

He settled into his worn leather chair by the window, sketchbook and scattered pencils within reach. This was his sanctuary—just him, his coffee, and the view of Maple Walk stretching out below in cobblestone charm.

The street was waking up. Mrs. Vasquez swept her flower shop steps, silver hair catching sunlight. The antiquarian bookstore owner arranged rare editions in his window display. And there, in the Blue Moon Bakery directly across the street, a familiar figure moved with easy grace.

Nate's pulse quickened. For three months now, he'd been quietly obsessing over the gorgeous guy who worked at the coffee shop next door to the bakery.

Jamie had to be there early, probably prepping for the morning rush at Grindhouse Café.

Even from this distance, Nate could make out the lean silhouette, the fluid movements that made his artist's eye appreciate every gesture.

He'd filled pages of his sketchbook with imagined details—the exact shade of those eyes, the curve of that mouth, hands wrapped around coffee cups. Maya called it artistic stalking. Nate preferred "romantic optimism."

Taking a steadying breath, Nate raised his coffee mug and waved enthusiastically toward the bakery window. His daily gesture of hope that today might finally be the day Jamie noticed him.

The figure continued moving around, oblivious.

Typical.

Nate opened his sketchbook and began drawing the street scene, his pencil naturally gravitating toward the bakery window.

He added romantic details he couldn't actually see—the precise line of Jamie's jaw, those imagined finger-taps when he was thinking, the kind of smile that would make Nate forget words existed.

His phone buzzed. Another polite rejection from a potential client. *While your work is impressive, we've decided to go with someone whose style better fits our current needs.*

The familiar tightness squeezed his chest. His savings were evaporating faster than his coffee steam, and next month's rent loomed like a storm cloud. Maybe his parents were right about practical careers. Maybe Maya was wrong about not selling out.

He glanced at the bills stacked on his desk, then back at the bakery window. The figure was still there, still moving with that grace that made Nate's financial anxiety temporarily irrelevant.

He raised his mug again, offering another cheerful wave.

The man paused near the window. For one heart-stopping moment, Nate thought he might look up. Might finally see him. Might wave back.

Instead, the figure disappeared into the bakery's depths.

"Someday," Nate murmured, adding another line to his sketch.

His phone buzzed again. Maya this time. *Coffee later? Need to tell you about my latest project.*

Maya's photography career was thriving in ways that made Nate proud and jealous in equal measure. Galleries noticed her intimate portraits, collectors bought her prints, and she was building the artistic reputation he desperately craved.

*Can't afford café prices this week,* he texted back. *Come here? I'll make coffee.*

*That bad, huh? I'll bring pastries.*

*Don't buy them across the street. Too weird.*

* *

Nate moved to his drafting table, positioned for optimal light from both windows. This setup had worked for two years, ever since Mrs. Patterson had rented to him below market rate because she wanted an artist in residence. She felt more like a supportive aunt than a landlady.

He pulled out his current project—concept sketches for a children's book about a mouse who collected lost buttons. Simple story, complex emotional core: finding beauty in discarded things, creating meaning from abandoned fragments.

He understood that mouse.

As his pencil moved through familiar motions, Nate's attention drifted back to the window. The bakery's warm amber lighting made everything look like a Renaissance painting. The figure—Jamie—moved closer to the window, handling what looked like bread with careful reverence.

This was insane. He was developing real feelings for someone he'd never spoken to, whose voice he'd never heard, whose name Maya had discovered through coffee shop reconnaissance. Jamie could have a partner, or not be interested in men, or think morning-wavers were certified stalkers.

But hope was stubborn, and Nate had been raised on fairy tales where persistence paid off. Not in creepy ways, but romantic comedy ways where misunderstandings led to meet-cutes and happy endings.

He raised his mug one more time, holding it high enough to catch the light. This time he committed fully to the gesture, brave and terrifying at once.

The figure in the window paused.

Turned.

And looked directly at Nate's window.