Page 8 of Window Seat for Two

SEVEN

NIGHT OWLS

The last customer left at eight-thirty, and by nine, Ari had finished wiping down the display cases and sweeping flour from beneath the mixers.

His hands moved through the familiar routine of closing—checking tomorrow's proofing schedule, adjusting the refrigerator temperature, ensuring the ovens were properly shut down.

The ritual should have been soothing, but tonight his attention kept drifting to the window.

Across the street, Nate's studio glowed with warm yellow light. Even from this distance, Ari could see him hunched over his drawing tablet, shoulders curved in that way that meant his neck would be screaming later. The same position Ari recognized from watching him work these past few weeks.

Ari dried his hands on his apron, flour still caked under his fingernails.

How long had Nate been sitting like that?

The light had been on when Ari started closing two hours ago.

As he watched, Nate's hand shot up to rake through his hair—the same frustrated gesture Ari made when a recipe wouldn't cooperate.

Before he could think twice about it, Ari walked to the display case. Two pain au chocolat sat on the top shelf, their golden surfaces still perfect from this afternoon's batch. One of Sofia's best recipes, the kind that could fix a bad day just by existing.

His pulse quickened as he reached for parchment paper. This was ridiculous. What if Nate didn't want to be bothered? What if bringing food was too much, too soon?

But Nate had spent three hours here this afternoon, asking real questions about baking, looking at Sofia's recipe cards like they mattered. He'd understood somehow that those faded index cards weren't just instructions—they were love made tangible.

Ari wrapped the pastries carefully and grabbed a pen. What did you write to someone who'd listened to stories about your dead aunt without trying to fix anything?

*Fuel for late-night creativity. - A*

Simple. No pressure.

The stairway to Nate's apartment felt steeper in the dark. Each step echoed too loudly. His heart hammered as he climbed, the wrapped pastries warm in his hand. Such a small thing—why did it feel so huge?

At the top, he could hear soft music through the door. Light leaked from underneath. Nate was definitely still working. Ari raised his hand to knock, then stopped.

What if Nate felt obligated to invite him in? Their afternoon had ended naturally, comfortable. Showing up at nine-thirty might ruin that.

Instead, Ari placed the pastries on the doormat and bolted, taking the stairs two at a time before he lost his nerve. He slipped back into the bakery and locked the door, breathing hard from the quick escape.

His apartment was dark, which gave him perfect cover to watch through his living room window. He settled into the chair by his kitchen table, feeling ridiculous but unable to look away.

Twenty minutes crawled by. Then the light across the street shifted. A shadow moved toward the door, disappeared, then came back to the window.

Even from here, the smile was obvious—quick and delighted, transforming Nate's tired face into something bright. He held up the package, examining it, then disappeared again.

Warmth spread through Ari's chest. When had such a small gesture created such visible happiness? Marcus had always taken these things for granted, never showing real appreciation. But Nate's reaction said he got it—food freely given, no strings attached.

Ari turned away from the window. That was that. Nate seemed happy, the pastries would fuel his late-night work, and they could both get back to their evenings.

The soft sound of paper sliding under the bakery door changed everything.

Ari stared at the white edge poking through the gap. He'd been upstairs barely thirty minutes. When had Nate come down? How had he moved so quietly?

The paper was thick drawing stock, folded once.

*Ari* written on the outside in confident script.

Inside was a detailed ink illustration of the pain au chocolat, but not just technical accuracy—Nate had captured its soul.

Chocolate oozing from one corner, delicate spiral layers, tiny wisps of steam.

Stars surrounded it, and at the bottom: *Perfect timing. Thank you.*

Ari traced the confident pen strokes. This wasn't amateur work. Every line was purposeful, suggesting warmth and texture through simple black ink and touches of color. And Nate had used that skill to immortalize two pastries that would be gone by tomorrow.

Sitting in his kitchen, something shifted in Ari's chest. Since Sofia died, every interaction felt scripted. Customers wanted cheerful service, suppliers wanted efficiency, neighbors offered condolences that required gracious responses. Everything had clear rules.

This was different. The drawing was time and skill freely given, talent invested in connection rather than obligation. When had someone last made something beautiful just for him?

He looked around his sparse kitchen, then at Sofia's shopping list on the fridge. *Butter, eggs, vanilla, love* in her shaky handwriting from those final weeks. He'd kept it there to remember her voice, her belief that baking was always about care.

Nate's drawing belonged beside it. Sofia's uncertain letters next to Nate's bold illustrations—past and present sharing the same space. Somehow it felt right. Both were care made visible.

He secured the drawing with one of Sofia's butterfly magnets and stepped back. The fridge looked less like a shrine now and more like a collection of good moments. Maybe that was progress.

He tried returning to his evening routine—inventory, tomorrow's schedule, checking the proofing bread. But he couldn't concentrate. His mind kept circling back to the drawing, to Nate's smile, to how their simple exchange had created more real warmth than anything since Sofia's funeral.

The thought unsettled him. For months, feeling nothing had been protection. Caring meant risking loss. Getting attached only made it hurt worse when people left.

But maybe that was wrong. Nate's drawing suggested something different—that care could be exchanged without keeping score, connections made without consumption.

Their afternoon conversation had felt natural.

Nate had listened about Sofia without trying to fix anything, shared his own losses without making it a competition.

Maybe some people could be trusted. Maybe.

Around midnight, Nate's studio finally went dark. Ari watched the familiar silhouette move away from the window, probably headed to bed after what looked like a productive night. The darkening window triggered unexpected loneliness, as if their connection had been severed.

For the first time in months, his apartment felt truly empty rather than peacefully quiet. There was a difference. Quiet was choice; empty was just endurance. Tonight he found himself wanting company instead of just accepting its absence.

In bed, staring at the ceiling, Ari faced what he'd been avoiding all evening. The protective wall around his heart—the one that had made Marcus's leaving bearable, Sofia's death survivable, the bakery's struggles manageable—had cracked.

And for the first time in months, that didn't completely terrify him.