Page 10 of Window Seat for Two

Nate considered this, watching rain streak down the windows beyond their circle of light. "I think I use optimism sometimes to avoid dealing with things that scare me. If I just keep believing everything will work out, I don't have to face the possibility that it won't."

"And what scares you?"

The question was so quietly asked, so genuinely curious, that Nate found himself answering without his usual filter. "Not being good enough. Having people realize I'm not as talented or interesting as they initially thought. Being too much for someone and not enough at the same time."

Ari's hand had stilled on his jeans, his attention completely focused on Nate's face. "That's a lot to carry around."

"What about you? What scares you?"

"Besides the obvious financial ruin and professional failure?" Ari's tone was light, but his eyes weren't. "Trusting people who haven't earned it. Getting attached to things I can't control. Having someone decide I'm not worth the effort it takes to stick around."

They were sitting close enough now that Nate could see the individual lashes framing Ari's eyes, could count the faint freckles scattered across his nose. Close enough that when Ari spoke, Nate could feel the warmth of his breath.

"For what it's worth," Nate said carefully, "from where I'm sitting, you seem pretty worth it."

Something shifted in the space between them, subtle as a held breath. Ari's eyes searched Nate's face, looking for something—uncertainty, perhaps, or insincerity. Instead, he seemed to find exactly what he'd been hoping for.

"You have flour on your cheek," Nate murmured, lifting his hand almost without conscious thought.

"Occupational hazard."

Nate's fingertips brushed against Ari's cheekbone, gentle as a whisper, wiping away the light dusting of flour that clung to his skin. But instead of pulling back, his hand lingered, palm coming to rest against the curve of Ari's jaw.

"Nate." Ari's voice was barely audible, his name more breath than sound.

"Yeah?"

"I think?—"

But whatever Ari thought was lost as they leaned toward each other, drawn by a gravity that had nothing to do with the lantern light or the storm outside.

Nate could smell the faint scent of vanilla that seemed to cling to Ari's skin, could feel the rapid flutter of pulse beneath his palm.

Their faces were close enough that he could see himself reflected in the blue of Ari's eyes, could feel the tentative brush of breath against his lips.

The distance between them narrowed to nothing, hearts racing in perfect synchronization, the rest of the world fading until there was only this moment, this breath, this perfect, terrifying possibility?—

The power returned with all the subtlety of a lightning strike.

Fluorescent lights blazed to life overhead, flooding the bakery with harsh white brilliance that made them both squint and pull apart like guilty teenagers.

The gentle magic of lantern light and shadow vanished, replaced by the stark reality of industrial lighting that showed every dust mote, every imperfection, every inch of space that had somehow opened between them.

Ari blinked rapidly, running a hand through his hair. Nate found himself staring at his own hands, still warm from where they'd touched Ari's skin, unsure whether to apologize or pretend nothing had happened.

"I should—" Nate started.

"The ovens," Ari said at the same time, then stopped. "Sorry. I should check the ovens, make sure everything reset properly."

"Right. Of course." Nate pushed to his feet, suddenly aware that his jeans were still damp and his hair was probably standing at odd angles. "I should get back. Let you work."

"Nate." Ari was looking at him now, really looking, despite the harsh lighting. "I?—"

"It's okay," Nate said quickly, though he wasn't entirely sure what he was saying was okay. "Storm makes people do strange things, right?"

Something flickered across Ari's face—disappointment, maybe, or relief. Possibly both. "Right. Just the storm."

They stood there for another moment, both running hands through their hair in unconscious mirror movements, both touching their lips as if checking that they were still there, still sensitive to the ghost of what might have been.

"Goodnight, Ari."

"Goodnight."

Nate retrieved his jacket from where he'd dropped it by the door, hyperaware of Ari's eyes following his movement. When he looked back, the baker was still standing in the circle where the lantern had been, hands uncertain at his sides, looking somehow smaller under the harsh fluorescent glare.

The rain had gentled while they'd been inside, settling into a steady patter that was more melody than percussion. Nate crossed the street slowly, feeling the weight of eyes on his back, and climbed the stairs to his apartment without looking back.

But once inside, laptop long forgotten, he found himself at the window again. Across the street, Ari was indeed checking his ovens, moving between them with practiced efficiency. But every few minutes, he'd pause and glance toward the spot where they'd sat, where they'd almost?—

Nate touched his own lips, still tingling with the memory of breath that wasn't quite a kiss, and wondered what might have happened if the lights had stayed off just a few moments longer.