Page 7 of Window Seat for Two

He busied himself with the coffee preparation, measuring grounds with more precision than strictly necessary while he organized his thoughts. The ritual of brewing gave him time to find the right words, or at least approximate them.

"Those recipe cards," he began, watching hot water steep with the coffee grounds.

"They're all I have left of my aunt Sofia.

Her handwriting, her notes, her voice telling me to adjust the salt or try a different technique.

When they scattered yesterday, for a moment it felt like losing her all over again. "

Nate nodded slowly, breaking off a small piece of bread crust and chewing thoughtfully. He didn't interrupt or rush to fill the silence, just listened with the kind of focused attention that invited continued honesty.

"Sofia raised me after my parents died," Ari continued, pressing the plunger down slowly.

"She taught me everything about baking, but more than that, she taught me that feeding people was a way of caring for them.

That bread wasn't just flour and water, but time and attention and a little piece of yourself worked into the dough. "

The coffee bloomed aromatic and dark as he poured it into two mismatched mugs Nate had retrieved from his kitchen area. Steam rose between them, carrying hints of chocolate and berry that would have made Sofia nod in approval.

"I haven't talked about her with anyone since the funeral," Ari admitted, surprising himself with the confession.

"Not really talked, I mean. Everyone wants to know how the business is doing or whether I'm keeping her suppliers, but no one asks about the woman who stayed up all night when I had pneumonia at fourteen, or who taught me that the secret to perfect pie crust is keeping your ingredients cold and your heart warm. "

Nate's expression had gone soft, understanding replacing the wariness from earlier.

"My grandmother had a pottery wheel," he said quietly.

"She tried to teach me when I was little, but I was too impatient.

Always wanted to skip ahead to the glazing part without putting in the work on the fundamentals.

She died when I was in high school, and my family still has her wheel in the garage.

No one wants to get rid of it, but no one knows what to do with it either. "

The parallel wasn't exact, but it was close enough to matter. They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, sharing bread and coffee and the recognition of loss that shaped but didn't define them.

"I'm sorry about your aunt," Nate said eventually. "And I'm sorry about knocking over the cards. I know accidents don't hurt less just because they're unintentional."

Ari studied his face—the genuine remorse, the careful way he was holding himself as if prepared for rejection. This man who drew with such precise observation, who had been watching him work for months without presuming to interrupt, who was offering connection without demands or expectations.

"You don't have to apologize again," Ari said. "I think we've both done enough apologizing for one morning."

The smile that spread across Nate's features was like sunrise—gradual, then sudden, transforming his entire countenance. "Does that mean we're okay?"

"We're okay," Ari confirmed, and felt some tension he hadn't realized he was carrying release from his shoulders.

The conversation flowed easier after that, lubricated by good coffee and the relief of crisis averted.

Nate asked about the different types of bread Ari baked, showing genuine curiosity about fermentation times and the difference between commercial and wild yeast. Ari found himself explaining techniques he usually kept to himself, describing the way properly developed gluten felt under his hands and the sound a perfect loaf made when tapped on its bottom.

In return, Nate talked about his illustration work—the challenge of visual storytelling, the difference between commercial and personal projects, the way light and composition could convey emotion without words.

He pulled out his laptop to show Ari some recent book covers he'd designed, images that captured the essence of stories in single, compelling frames.

"This one was for a mystery novel," Nate explained, showing a cover dominated by shadow and negative space. "The author wanted something that suggested secrets without giving anything away. I must have gone through twenty different concepts before I found the right balance."

"It's like developing a new recipe," Ari observed. "You know what you want the end result to taste like, but finding the right proportions takes experimentation."

"Exactly," Nate said, his enthusiasm infectious. "And sometimes the best discoveries happen by accident. Like when you're trying for one thing and stumble into something even better."

The morning sun had shifted higher during their conversation, casting warm rectangles across Nate's wooden floors and highlighting the dust motes that danced in the air between them.

Ari realized he'd been here for over an hour—longer than he'd spent in purely social conversation since Marcus had left.

The thought should have made him anxious, but instead it felt natural, like settling into something that had been waiting for him to discover it.

Eventually, though, the reality of his bakery responsibilities intruded. He had customers who would be looking for their morning pastries, bread orders to prepare for the lunch rush, a business to run despite his momentary indulgence in connection.

"I should get back," he said, standing and gathering the empty French press. "Friday mornings are usually busy."

Nate stood as well, following him toward the door. At the threshold, they paused, both seeming to realize that this conversation had shifted something between them but neither quite sure how to acknowledge it.

"Thank you," Nate said finally. "For the bread, and the coffee, and... this. For coming up here instead of just waving from across the street and pretending nothing happened."

"Thank you for letting me," Ari replied. "And for listening. I haven't... it's been a while since I talked about Sofia like that."

They stood at Nate's window together, looking down at the bakery across the street where a few early customers were already gathering outside the locked front door.

Mrs. Vasquez was among them, probably hoping to catch Ari before he got too busy to chat about whatever community project she was organizing this week.

"So," Nate said softly, "tomorrow morning?"

The question carried more weight than its simple words suggested.

It was asking whether their ritual would resume, whether the connection they'd reestablished would survive the transition back to daily life, whether friendship might be possible between a withdrawn baker and an optimistic artist who saw beauty worth capturing in ordinary moments.

Ari nodded, something tight in his chest loosening at the prospect. "Tomorrow morning."

The smile that spread across Nate's face was warm enough to rival the morning sun, and as Ari made his way back down the narrow stairs to open his bakery, he felt lighter than he had in months.

Not healed—grief didn't work that way—but hopeful in a manner that had seemed impossible just hours before.

Perhaps forgiveness wasn't as complicated as he'd made it. Perhaps connection didn't require perfect words or flawless timing. Perhaps sometimes peace offered freely was enough to build something new on the foundation of what had been broken.

The morning rush was waiting, and Ari unlocked his door to greet it with flour-dusted hands and a heart cautiously open to possibility.