Page 5 of Window Seat for Two

FIVE

AWKWARD INTRODUCTIONS

The sketchbook felt heavier than usual in Nate's hands as he stood at his window, watching Ari move through the morning routine that had become as familiar as his own.

Three days had passed since their first exchange of waves, three days of increasingly elaborate gestures that left Nate's heart hammering against his ribs each morning.

Today, the baker had even held up what looked like a cinnamon roll, pointing at it and then at Nate's window with a questioning tilt of his head.

The gesture had been so unexpectedly charming that Nate had nearly pressed his face against the glass like an overexcited puppy.

Instead, he'd given an enthusiastic thumbs up and watched Ari's face break into what might have been an actual smile before disappearing back into the depths of his bakery.

Now, clutching the pristine sketchbook he'd been saving for a special project, Nate tried to summon the courage that had carried him through art school critiques and client presentations.

How hard could it be to cross a narrow street and introduce himself to someone who'd been waving at him for three consecutive days?

His reflection in the window showed ink-stained fingers and hair that defied any attempt at styling, but his vintage Arcade Fire t-shirt was clean and his jeans were his best pair. Good enough for a casual introduction to the man who'd been occupying his thoughts with increasing frequency.

The morning air carried the scent of fresh bread as Nate crossed Maple Walk, dodging an early jogger and a woman walking her ancient corgi. The bakery's windows glowed warm and golden, and through them he could see Ari arranging pastries in the display case with careful precision.

The heavy glass door required more effort than expected, and Nate stumbled slightly as it finally gave way, sending a small bell chiming overhead.

The interior hit him like a warm embrace—yeast and butter and cinnamon swirling together with something comforting that reminded him of his grandmother's kitchen.

Exposed brick walls held vintage tin signs and framed black-and-white photographs, while mismatched wooden tables and chairs created cozy conversation nooks.

Edison bulbs cast everything in soft amber light, and a chalkboard menu promised daily specials in cheerful handwriting.

Behind the counter, Ari looked up from his pastry arrangement, flour dusting the front of his dark apron like snow.

Up close, he was even more striking than Nate had imagined—silver threading through light brown hair that looked soft despite its practical cut, laugh lines marking the corners of sharp blue eyes, and careful hands that moved with the confidence of long practice.

When Ari set down his pastry tongs and really looked at Nate, something warm unfurled in the space between Nate's lungs.

"Hi." The word came out slightly breathless, and Nate cleared his throat, trying again. "I'm Nate—I live across the street." He gestured toward his window, visible through the bakery's front glass. "I think we've been having some interesting conversations without actually talking."

Recognition dawned across Ari's features, followed by something that might have been relief. He wiped his hands on his apron before extending one in greeting, and when their palms met, Nate noted the calluses and small burns that spoke of serious kitchen work.

"Ari," the baker said, his voice carrying a slight accent that Nate couldn't quite place. "I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come over here, or if we'd just wave at each other until one of us moved away."

The dry humor in his tone made Nate laugh, some of the nervous energy in his chest settling into something warmer. "I was working up the courage. Seemed important to make a good first impression on someone who's been brightening my mornings."

Ari's cheeks colored slightly at the compliment, though he didn't look away. Instead, he gestured at the display case between them. "Well, since you're here, I should probably feed you. Can't have my morning entertainment wasting away across the street."

"What would you recommend?" Nate moved closer to examine the pastries, noting how each item was perfectly placed, golden crusts gleaming under the warm lights.

"Depends on your taste. Sweet tooth or more practical?" Ari leaned against the counter, and Nate caught a hint of vanilla and flour clinging to his clothes. "Though honestly, you can't go wrong with my aunt's honey wheat bread. It's what built this place's reputation."

"Your aunt's recipe?"

"Sofia. She opened Blue Moon thirty years ago." Pride and something deeper—grief, maybe—flickered across his expression. "She left it to me six months ago."

The simple statement carried weight that Nate recognized from his own experience with loss. "I'd love to try the honey wheat, then. Seems like the right way to honor a legacy."

While Ari moved to slice the bread, Nate let his gaze wander around the bakery, taking in details his window view had missed.

Vintage baking tools displayed on floating shelves, their copper and wood gleaming with age and care.

A small corner table stacked with what looked like neighborhood newsletters and community flyers.

Everything spoke of deliberate curation, of someone who understood that atmosphere mattered as much as product.

His attention caught on a beautiful wooden box sitting on the counter near the register—clearly handcrafted, with intricate carved details around the edges.

Without thinking, he stepped closer to admire the craftsmanship, leaning forward to get a better look at what appeared to be small flowers worked into the design.

His hip caught the corner of the counter with more force than he'd intended, and the impact sent the wooden box sliding toward the edge. Time seemed to slow as Nate made a desperate grab for it, but his fingers closed on empty air as the box tumbled to the tile floor with a sound like breaking.

The lid popped open on impact, and dozens of yellowed index cards scattered across the bakery floor like fallen leaves. Handwritten text in faded ink covered each card, some with small sketches in the margins, others bearing what looked like decades of accumulated stains and annotations.

"Sofia's recipes," Ari whispered, the words barely audible.

When Nate looked up from the scattered cards, Ari had transformed completely. All the warmth had drained from his face, leaving behind something raw and devastated. He dropped to his knees beside the fallen box, his hands shaking as he began gathering the cards with desperate, careful movements.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—let me help," Nate said, crouching down and reaching for the nearest card.

"Don't." The word came out sharp enough to make Nate freeze, his hand suspended inches from a card covered in what looked like measurements for pie crust. "Please, just don't touch them."

Ari continued collecting the recipes, cradling each card against his chest before placing it carefully back in the box.

His movements held the reverence of someone handling holy relics, and Nate remained frozen in his crouch, afraid that any motion might cause more damage to something clearly precious beyond measure.

"These were my aunt's," he said without looking up, his voice carefully controlled but trembling at the edges.

"Every recipe in this bakery came from these cards.

Thirty years of her handwriting, her notes, her experiments.

" He paused over a card that looked older than the rest, thumb tracing words Nate couldn't read from his position. "She's gone now."

The simple statement hit Nate like a physical blow.

He watched Ari continue gathering the scattered pieces of his inheritance, understanding too late that he'd stumbled into something sacred, something irreplaceable.

The careful way the baker handled each card spoke of fresh grief, of loss too recent to have developed protective scar tissue.

"I'm truly sorry for your loss," Nate said quietly, making no move to help since his assistance clearly wasn't wanted. "And for being careless with something so precious."

He didn't offer platitudes about how Sofia would want Ari to be happy, or how accidents happen, or any of the other empty phrases people had thrown at him after his grandfather died.

Instead, he remained still and let his genuine regret fill the silence while Ari finished collecting the scattered recipes.

When the last card was safely back in the box, Ari stood slowly, clutching it against his chest. His jaw was tight, his earlier warmth replaced by walls that seemed to have slammed down between one breath and the next.

The ease they'd been building lay scattered on the floor alongside the memory of fallen recipe cards.

"I should go," Nate said, understanding that his presence had become a reminder of carelessness, of potential loss in a life that had already endured too much of both.

Ari nodded stiffly, then seemed to remember himself. "The bread." He set the recipe box on a high shelf behind the counter, movements careful and deliberate, before returning to the half-sliced loaf he'd abandoned.

"You don't have to?—"

"I said I'd sell you bread." He finished slicing with mechanical precision, not meeting Nate's eyes as he wrapped the honey wheat in brown paper. "Eight dollars."

Nate left exact change on the counter, not wanting to force any more interaction than necessary.

The bread felt substantial in his hands, still warm from the oven, and he could smell the honey sweetness through the paper.

Under different circumstances, he might have stayed to savor that first bite, to continue the conversation that had been developing so promisingly.

Instead, he moved toward the door, each step feeling like a small retreat from possibility. At the threshold, he paused without turning around.

"Thank you for the bread recommendation," he said to the morning light beyond the glass. "And I really am sorry."

The bell chimed overhead as he stepped back onto Maple Walk, leaving Ari alone in his bakery.

Through the window, Nate caught a glimpse of him standing motionless behind his counter, staring at the wooden box on its high shelf.

Disappointment and understanding warred across features that had been so animated just minutes earlier.

The honey wheat bread was as perfect as promised—complex and sweet with a texture that spoke of generations of refinement.

Nate ate it at his kitchen counter, looking down at the bakery where Ari moved through his morning routine with the mechanical efficiency of someone working around fresh wounds.

Their window remained empty of waves for the rest of the morning.

When Nate finally settled at his easel to work, he found himself sketching not the cheerful baker who'd recommended his aunt's bread, but the grieving man who'd gathered scattered recipes like fallen prayers, protecting what remained of love made tangible through flour and time.

Outside his window, Blue Moon Bakery glowed with warm light, but the figure behind the counter never once looked up toward the third-floor apartment where someone sat surrounded by drawings of a stranger's careful hands and guarded heart.