Page 12 of Window Seat for Two

TEN

LOVE AND LIES OF OMISSION

Morning light filtered through Ari's bedroom windows, carrying the scent of yesterday's rain and something sweeter—the ghost of Nate's cologne on the pillow beside him.

His fingers drifted to his lips, tracing where Nate's mouth had pressed against his under the string lights.

The memory sent unfamiliar warmth through his chest, happiness so foreign after months of numbness that he barely recognized it.

His alarm shattered the spell. Reality flooded back: the bakery downstairs, mounting bills, the walls he'd spent last evening dismantling kiss by kiss.

He sat up slowly, running both hands through his hair, trying to reconcile the man who'd melted into Nate's arms with the one facing eviction in three weeks.

The apartment felt smaller in daylight, cramped with secrets.

Downstairs, morning prep offered no comfort.

His hands shook as he measured flour, muscle memory guiding him while his mind replayed every rooftop moment.

The way Nate had looked at him when he'd described Sofia's garden.

How natural it felt when Nate's fingers traced his jaw.

That soft sound when Ari finally kissed him back.

A paper corner jabbed his palm as he reached for invoices. The eviction notice he'd buried weeks ago stared back, that damning red stamp screaming FINAL NOTICE. His stomach dropped as numbers swam before his eyes: $12,000 in back rent, due in twenty-one days.

Twenty-one days to find money he didn't have.

Twenty-one days before Nate discovered he'd fallen for someone who couldn't even keep a roof over his head.

The mixing bowl clattered as his grip slipped. Ari steadied it with white knuckles. He could imagine the conversation: *Actually, about those plans you mentioned...*

The front door chimed. Ari shoved the notice under invoices and watched the morning rush through his pass-through window—Mrs. Hendricks with her scone order, the construction crew grabbing coffee.

Normal people living normal lives without crippling debt or heartbreak lingering from their last relationship.

He focused on kneading, finding rhythm in the familiar motion. Dough yielded under his palms, elastic and forgiving in ways people rarely were. Sofia used to say bread didn't lie—it rose or it didn't, no middle ground, no false promises.

Unlike the version of himself he'd shown Nate last night.

The bell chimed again. This time his whole body responded before his brain caught up. Nate stood in the doorway with two coffee cups, face brightening when their eyes met. That smile hit Ari like a physical force, warm and uncomplicated and completely undeserved.

"Morning." Nate approached with careful steps, testing new ground. "Thought you might want actual coffee instead of whatever you usually drink."

Ari accepted the cup, hyperaware of the space between their fingers, how Nate's eyes searched his face. "Thanks."

Such a simple word for something that felt enormous. Thanks for the coffee. Thanks for last night. Thanks for looking at me like I'm worth something.

"Sleep okay?" Nate leaned against the counter, close enough for Ari to catch that familiar scent.

"Fine." The lie came easily, practiced. He'd slept in fragments, waking every hour to reach for warmth that wasn't there.

Nate's smile faltered. "Everything alright? You seem..."

"Just tired." Another smooth lie. Ari turned toward the display case, avoiding Nate's perceptive gaze. "Early morning."

But Nate stepped around the counter, close enough to brush flour from Ari's cheek with gentle fingers. The touch lasted three seconds, but Ari's breath caught.

"There." Nate's hand lingered. "Better."

Ari stepped back before he did something stupid like lean into that touch. "Ovens need checking."

He escaped to the kitchen, pressing against the prep table while staring at the eviction notice. The red stamp pulsed in his peripheral vision, a countdown timer he couldn't stop.

Three weeks to tell Nate the truth.

Three weeks to find twelve thousand dollars.

Three weeks to prepare for the look on Nate's face when he realized what he'd fallen for.

The bell rang throughout the morning, marking neighborhood rhythms. Ari moved underwater, measuring and mixing while his chest tightened. Every glimpse of Nate through his window—bent over his drafting table, coffee steaming—sent guilt spiraling through his ribs.

Mrs. Vasquez arrived for her afternoon tres leches cake, settling into her usual window chair with territorial satisfaction.

"You look tired, mijo." She studied him with eight decades of accumulated perception. "Everything okay?"

"Just busy." Ari sliced her cake with mechanical precision, arranging it on Sofia's good china. "How are the plants?"

"Don't change the subject." Gentle authority that probably terrified her children into honesty. "Something's bothering you."

"I'm fine, Mrs. V. Really."

She hummed skeptically—the sound older women make when they know you're lying but aren't ready to call you on it. "That nice boy from across the street was here this morning."

"Nate." His name felt different now, weighted with meaning Ari couldn't examine too closely.

"Handsome. Kind eyes." Mrs. Vasquez took a delicate bite, watching him over her fork. "Sofia always said good things come to those who open their hearts."

The irony closed Ari's throat. Sofia had also left him a business drowning in debt, but Mrs. Vasquez didn't need to know that.

"Sofia said a lot of things."

"Wise woman, your aunt. Stubborn, too—wonder where you got that." Mrs. Vasquez's eyes twinkled with mischief that didn't quite mask concern. "Sometimes the best thing we can do is let people help us."

Ari wiped already-clean surfaces. Help required honesty, and honesty required trust—luxuries he couldn't afford when the stakes meant losing everything.

Around three, Nate appeared with a folded paper, expression soft with something that made Ari's chest ache.

"Made you something." He slid it across the counter, suddenly shy.

Ari unfolded it carefully, breath catching. A pencil sketch of last night's rooftop garden viewed from above—string lights creating constellations around herb boxes, the city skyline stretching beyond. There, settled against old cushions, were himself and Nate sharing dinner under stars.

But his own face in the drawing stopped Ari cold. Nate had captured something there—contentment, maybe. Peace. The expression of someone who belonged exactly where he was. Someone who deserved good things.

"It's beautiful." The words scraped his throat. "You made me look..."

"Happy." Nate's voice held wonder, like he'd discovered something precious. "You looked so happy up there."

Ari's hands trembled studying the sketch. When had someone last seen him like this? When had he last felt like the person in this drawing—relaxed, unguarded, worth capturing?

"I have ideas for more," Nate continued, leaning closer. "Maybe a series about the neighborhood, how it changes throughout the day. Mrs. Vasquez with her flowers, Jamie at the coffee machine, you with your bread..." He paused, uncertain. "If that's okay. If you don't mind me including you."

Mind being seen through eyes that found him worth drawing? Mind being included in Nate's vision of a future stretching beyond next week's rent?

"I don't mind." The understatement of the century.

Nate's smile could have powered the entire block. "I was thinking we could collaborate sometime. Your baking expertise and my illustration—maybe a cookbook for kids? With that bear character I mentioned?"

Future plans. Projects requiring months, stability, time—everything Ari couldn't promise. The sketch felt like evidence of fraud by omission, stolen hope he couldn't repay.

"That sounds..." Impossible. Heartbreaking. Perfect. "Really nice."

The dinner rush interrupted them—neighbors grabbing day-old bread, office workers seeking caffeine salvation. Ari moved through motions while hyperaware of Nate sketching at his corner table, occasionally glancing up to catch light and shadow, community in motion.

When the last customer left and Nate helped flip the door sign to closed, quiet loaded with possibility settled around them. Nate's fingers brushed his as they reached for the same cloth, and suddenly they stood close enough to count eyelashes.

"Come here," Nate said softly, and Ari stepped into those arms like coming home.

This kiss was different—less desperate exploration, more quiet certainty. Nate's hands framed his face like he was something precious, and Ari sank into the illusion for thirty stolen seconds. Let himself believe in futures and collaborations and morning coffee delivered with shy smiles.

When they broke apart, Nate rested his forehead against Ari's. "I keep thinking about last night."

"Me too." More truth than he'd intended.

"Mrs. Vasquez invited me to dinner Sunday. Family style, she said. Will you be there?"

Sunday dinner with neighbors who'd become family, sitting around Mrs. Vasquez's table like he belonged. Like he wasn't counting down to homelessness.

"Probably. If I can get away from the bakery."

Another lie wrapped in truth. He'd be there if he could, if walls hadn't closed in completely, if he hadn't already broken both their hearts by necessity.

Nate kissed his cheek, soft and sweet, before stepping back reluctantly. "I should let you close up. But maybe... maybe I could bring dinner tomorrow? We could eat upstairs again."

"I'd like that." The most honest thing he'd said all day.

That evening, Ari sat at his kitchen table with the eviction notice spread like a death sentence. His phone lay beside it, Nate's contact glowing on the screen. He'd started typing messages a dozen times—explanations, confessions, apologies for feelings he couldn't afford.

*I need to tell you something important.*

Delete.

*The bakery is in trouble. I'm in trouble.*

Delete.

*I'm falling for you and I can't afford to fall.*

Delete.

Each deleted word felt like another small betrayal, another choice to protect himself at Nate's expense. But how could he explain that love felt like luxury when survival took everything? How could he ask Nate to care about someone who couldn't even save his aunt's legacy?

He set the phone aside and stared at Nate's sketch, propped against the salt shaker. The version of himself in that drawing looked capable of deserving love, of building something lasting.

Tomorrow he'd find courage to be honest.

Tomorrow he'd figure out how to save everything at once.

Tomorrow the math would add up differently, and red stamps wouldn't feel like countdown timers.

Tonight, he touched his lips and remembered what hope tasted like, even knowing he couldn't keep it.