Page 6 of Window Seat for Two

SIX

PEACE OFFERING

The kitchen existed in that blue-gray hour before dawn, when the world held its breath between night and morning.

Ari stood at his work counter, flour dusting the front of his black apron like constellation dust, his hands working dough with more force than the recipe required.

The rhythm should have been meditative—push, fold, turn, repeat—but his movements carried an edge of frustration that had nothing to do with gluten development.

Nate's face kept surfacing in his mind. That moment when understanding had dawned in those expressive dark eyes, followed immediately by horror at what he'd done.

The way he'd stepped back with his hands raised, not arguing when Ari had asked him not to help, not making excuses or trying to minimize the damage.

Just genuine, stricken remorse that had somehow made Ari feel worse about his own reaction.

The dough beneath his palms was perfect now—smooth and elastic, ready for its first rise—but he kept kneading anyway.

Outside, Maple Walk lay quiet except for the distant hum of early delivery trucks on the main avenue.

Soon, the morning commuters would begin their trek to the coffee shop, and Nate would be at his window with his usual mug, probably wondering if their tentative connection had been severed completely.

Ari shaped the dough into a ball and placed it in an oiled bowl, covering it with a damp cloth.

His aunt's recipe cards sat in their wooden box on the counter beside him, reorganized but somehow still feeling fragile, as if yesterday's accident had reminded them of their own mortality.

He'd stayed up until nearly two in the morning, going through each one, making sure none were damaged beyond his ability to read Sofia's careful script.

They were all there. Every recipe, every note, every small piece of wisdom she'd written in the margins. Nothing lost except his own composure, and maybe the first real conversation he'd had with someone new since Marcus had walked out six months ago.

The guilt sat heavy in his chest as he prepared the bakery for opening.

He moved through his routine—checking the display cases, arranging fresh towels, updating the chalkboard menu—while his mind replayed the scene.

Nate hadn't deserved that reaction. Accidents happened, especially in small spaces crowded with furniture and emotion.

Sofia would have laughed about the scattered cards, would have recruited Nate to help sort them while she told stories about each recipe's origin.

But Sofia was gone, and Ari was left protecting her memory with all the grace of a feral cat defending territory.

By the time he slid the morning's first loaves into the oven, he'd made a decision.

The kind of decision that would have terrified him a week ago but now felt like the only reasonable course of action.

An apology was owed, and not the quick, empty kind offered across the street with a sheepish wave.

Something real—an acknowledgment that carried the weight of what had happened and his part in making it worse.

The sourdough he pulled from the oven an hour later was perfect—golden crust with just the right amount of char, the kind of rustic loaf that looked effortless but required years of practice to execute properly.

He wrapped it in brown paper while it was still warm, the heat seeping through to his palms as he reached for a pen to write a note.

"Sorry" looked inadequate on the brown paper. He crossed it out.

"Sorry about yesterday" seemed better, but still insufficient. Another line through the words.

"Peace offering?" felt too casual, like he was making light of Nate's obvious distress.

Finally, he settled on just "Ari" in his careful handwriting. Simple. Personal. An acknowledgment that this came from him specifically, not just the baker across the street.

The French press was an afterthought that became central to his plan.

If he was going to apologize properly, he needed more than the thirty seconds a doorway conversation would allow.

Coffee was a recognized social ritual, a way of asking for time without making demands.

He selected beans from his personal stash—a single-origin Ethiopian that Sofia had special-ordered from a roaster in Portland, saved for occasions that mattered.

The narrow stairs to Nate's apartment felt steeper than they had any right to be.

Ari's heart hammered against his ribs as he climbed, the warm loaf tucked under one arm, French press and coffee beans balanced carefully in his hands.

At the landing, he paused to steady his breathing and organize his thoughts into something resembling coherence.

Apologies weren't his strength. Marcus used to complain about it constantly—how Ari would withdraw instead of engaging, how he'd rather work through problems alone than hash them out in conversation.

"You shut down," Marcus had said during one of their last fights.

"The moment things get difficult, you disappear behind that wall of yours and leave me to figure out what went wrong. "

Maybe Marcus had been right about that. But this—standing outside Nate's door with bread and coffee and a willingness to try—felt like progress.

Three soft knocks. Footsteps from inside, quick and light. The sound of a chain being disengaged, a deadbolt turning. Then the door opened, and Nate appeared in the frame wearing paint-stained joggers and a wrinkled t-shirt that suggested he'd slept poorly, if at all.

Surprise flickered across his features first, followed by something more guarded.

Wariness, maybe, or the careful neutrality of someone who'd been hurt and didn't want to be caught off guard again.

But then his gaze dropped to the bread-shaped package in Ari's hands, and his expression softened into something achingly hopeful.

"I brought coffee," Ari said quietly, lifting the French press slightly. "If you'll let me apologize properly."

The words came out rawer than he'd intended, carrying more weight than a simple request for entry. They hung in the air between them while Nate's dark eyes searched his face, looking for something—sincerity, maybe, or assurance that this wasn't some elaborate setup for further disappointment.

Whatever Nate found in his expression must have satisfied him, because he stepped back and gestured for Ari to come inside. "I was hoping you would," he said simply.

Nate's apartment unfolded like a three-dimensional personality test. Brick walls lined with canvases in various stages of completion, from rough sketches to fully realized illustrations that made Ari pause mid-step.

Morning light streamed through large windows that faced west toward the main avenue, illuminating a space that managed to feel both lived-in and purposeful.

A drafting table dominated one corner, positioned to catch the best light.

Shelves lined another wall, packed with art books, sketchpads, and containers full of brushes and pencils organized with the kind of precision that spoke to professional necessity.

The furniture was minimal but carefully chosen—a worn leather couch that looked like it had stories to tell, a small dining table that clearly doubled as workspace, a Murphy bed folded up against the far wall.

But it was the sketches scattered across the drafting table that made Ari's breath catch.

Quick, confident drawings in charcoal and ink, capturing moments he recognized: himself arranging pastries in the display case, kneading dough at his work counter, standing in the bakery's doorway during a brief afternoon break.

The artist's eye had caught details Ari hadn't realized were visible from across the street—the concentration on his face while shaping loaves, the way he wiped his hands on his apron when he was thinking.

"Those are..." Ari started, then stopped, unsure how to finish the sentence.

"Creepy?" Nate supplied, humor and embarrassment warring in his voice.

"I know how it looks. I swear I'm not some kind of stalker.

I just—you seemed so focused when you worked, and the light in your kitchen is incredible, and.

.." He trailed off, running a hand through already messy hair. "This isn't helping my case, is it?"

But Ari was studying the drawings with genuine fascination.

The skill was evident even to his untrained eye—confident linework that captured not just physical accuracy but something deeper.

The way he held his shoulders when he was tired, the slight smile that appeared when a particularly difficult bread turned out perfectly, the unconscious grace of movements repeated thousands of times until they became instinctive.

"They're good," he said finally. "Really good. I didn't realize anyone was paying that much attention."

"I've been paying attention for months," Nate admitted, leading him toward the couch. "Every morning, watching you work. I kept meaning to come over and introduce myself, but..."

"But I didn't exactly seem approachable," Ari finished.

"I wouldn't say that. More like... intensely focused. Like someone who took their work seriously and didn't want to be interrupted by some random guy who'd probably just order the wrong thing and hold up your line."

They settled on opposite ends of the couch, the French press taking its place on the coffee table between them like a mediator.

Ari unwrapped the bread, filling the apartment with the scent of crust and crumb.

Nate's eyes lit up at the sight of it—a perfect rustic sourdough, golden and irregular in all the right ways.

"This is beautiful," Nate said, reaching out to touch the crust with one fingertip. "And still warm."

"Peace offering," Ari said, echoing the phrase he'd rejected for the note. "For yesterday. For my reaction. You didn't deserve that."