Page 9 of Window Seat for Two

EIGHT

STORM WARNING

The cursor blinked mockingly at Nate from his laptop screen, the same stubborn rhythm it had maintained for the past hour.

Three sentences. He'd managed three sentences of his latest freelance pitch, each one more desperate than the last. Outside his window, the evening had taken on that peculiar green-gray cast that meant weather was coming, though the forecast had promised clear skies.

He rubbed his eyes and glanced across the street.

The bakery's warm light spilled onto the empty cobblestones, and he could just make out Ari's silhouette moving between the ovens.

Even from this distance, Ari's movements had a rhythm to them—practiced, efficient, like watching someone perform a dance they'd perfected over years.

The memory of yesterday's drawing exchange still sat warm in his chest. Such a small thing, really. Pastries left at a door, a sketch slipped through a mail slot. But it felt like the beginning of an actual conversation, one conducted in gestures rather than words.

Thunder rumbled somewhere far off, and Nate's lamp flickered. Once. Twice.

Then the world went dark.

His laptop screen provided the only light for exactly three seconds before it, too, died.

The familiar hum of his refrigerator cut off mid-cycle, leaving behind a silence so complete it made his ears ring.

Even the streetlights had vanished, swallowed by whatever had knocked out power to the entire block.

"Shit." The word hung in the absolute blackness of his apartment.

Nate fumbled for his phone, thumbs finding the flashlight function through muscle memory.

The narrow beam carved out a small circle of his world—the edge of his drafting table, the corner of his easel, his coffee mug sporting a ring of cold dregs.

He made his way to the window, phone light dancing across the glass.

Maple Walk looked like something from another century, all shadows and mystery.

But as his eyes adjusted, he caught it—a warm, golden glow moving slowly through the bakery's front windows.

A lantern, maybe, or candles. Ari was still there, probably dealing with whatever complications a power outage brought to a business that depended on refrigeration and precise timing.

Another rumble of thunder, closer now, and the first fat raindrops began spattering against his window. Within seconds, the gentle patter became a steady drumming, then a full downpour that turned the street into a rushing stream.

Nate found himself reaching for his jacket before he'd consciously decided to move.

The rational part of his brain whispered about boundaries, about assuming Ari needed help, about showing up unannounced.

But the larger part—the part that had been sketching the baker's profile from memory and carefully positioning drawings where they might be found—was already heading for the door.

The rain hit him like a cold slap the moment he stepped outside.

By the time he'd crossed the narrow street, his hair was plastered to his skull and water was running down the back of his neck.

He stood for a moment under the bakery's small awning, suddenly uncertain.

What if Ari had everything under control?

What if this was exactly the kind of overeager gesture that would make the cautious baker retreat behind his walls again?

Before he could lose his nerve entirely, Nate knocked. Softly, in case Ari was dealing with something delicate.

Footsteps approached, and then the door opened to reveal Ari holding an old camping lantern, its warm light casting dancing shadows across his face. Flour dusted his black t-shirt and his hair was slightly mussed, dark strands falling across his forehead. He looked surprised, but not unwelcoming.

"Power's out," Ari said, which was possibly the most unnecessary statement in the history of conversation.

"I noticed." Nate wiped rain from his face. "I saw your light from across the street and thought—well, I thought you might be dealing with complications. Refrigeration, ovens, that sort of thing."

Something shifted in Ari's expression, the wariness softening. "You came over to check on my bread?"

"Among other things." The admission slipped out before Nate could stop it, and he felt heat creep up his neck despite the cold rain still dripping from his jacket.

Ari stepped back, holding the door wider. "Come in. You're soaked."

The bakery felt transformed in the lantern's glow.

Shadows danced across the exposed brick walls, and the familiar space had acquired an intimacy that harsh fluorescent lighting never allowed.

The scent of tomorrow's bread hung in the warm air—yeast and flour and something indefinably comforting that made Nate's shoulders relax.

"Everything okay back there?" Nate nodded toward the kitchen area, shrugging out of his wet jacket.

"So far." Ari set the lantern on the counter, its light pooling between them.

"The gas ovens are fine, and most of tonight's dough is already proofing.

I was just checking the schedules, making sure I wouldn't lose anything critical.

" He paused, then added with the faintest hint of a smile, "Though I appreciate the concern. "

They stood there for a moment, neither quite sure what came next. The storm was picking up outside, rain lashing against the windows with increasing intensity. Thunder rolled overhead, close enough to feel in their chests.

"Sofia taught me to bake during power outages," Ari said suddenly.

He gestured toward the back of the kitchen, where Nate could just make out the bulk of an older oven.

"There's a wood-fired unit back there from when this place first opened.

She'd fire it up whenever the weather got rough, said it was good practice for when the modern world failed you. "

"Smart woman."

"The smartest." Ari's voice carried that particular note it always took on when he mentioned his aunt—grief and love and gratitude all tangled together. "She'd make me hand-knead everything on storm nights, no electric mixers allowed. Said my hands needed to learn what the dough was telling them."

Nate found himself drawn toward the counter, close enough that the lantern light caught them both in its warm circle. "What does it tell you?"

"Depends." Ari leaned against the counter, his posture more relaxed than Nate had ever seen it. "Sometimes it's thirsty—needs more water, more time to develop. Sometimes it's tired and needs to rest. Sometimes it's ready for whatever comes next."

"You make it sound alive."

"It is, in a way. Every batch is different, even when you follow the same recipe.

Temperature, humidity, the mood you're in when you mix it—all of that matters.

" Ari's hands moved as he spoke, and Nate found himself watching the graceful gestures, the way flour still clung to his fingers despite countless washings.

"I had a professor who said something similar about drawing," Nate offered.

"That every line is influenced by your breathing, your heartbeat, whether you had coffee that morning.

She made us sketch by candlelight once, said we needed to understand how observation changes when you can't rely on seeing everything clearly. "

"Did it work?"

"Actually, yeah." The memory surfaced with surprising clarity—hunched over newsprint in his tiny dorm room, candle wax dripping onto his desk as he struggled to capture the play of light and shadow across a still life.

"Some of my best work that semester. There was something about not being able to see every detail that forced me to focus on what was actually important. "

Thunder crashed overhead, close enough to rattle the windows. Both men glanced up, then back at each other. The storm seemed to be settling in for the long haul, and neither of them suggested that Nate should head home.

Instead, they found themselves settling onto a pair of flour sacks near the counter, close enough that their knees almost touched in the circle of lantern light.

The position felt natural somehow, as if they'd been having conversations like this for years instead of barely knowing each other's names a week ago.

"Can I ask you something?" Nate's voice was quieter now, matching the intimacy of their makeshift seating.

"Depends what it is."

"The waves. Our morning waves. How long were you actually noticing them before you started waving back?"

Ari was quiet for so long that Nate began to worry he'd pushed too far. But when the baker finally spoke, his voice held a note of reluctant honesty.

"Longer than I want to admit." He picked at a loose thread on his jeans, not quite meeting Nate's eyes. "At first, I thought you were just this relentlessly cheerful guy who waved at everyone. But then I realized you were always looking at the same spot, same time every morning. Very... dedicated."

"Dedicated to the wrong person, it turned out."

"Yeah, well." Something that might have been a smile ghosted across Ari's face. "Their loss."

The words hung in the air between them, heavier than they should have been. Nate felt his pulse pick up, hyperaware of how close they were sitting, how the lantern light caught the blue of Ari's eyes and made them seem almost luminous.

"I've been looking forward to them," Ari continued, his voice so soft Nate had to lean closer to hear it over the rain. "The waves. More than I want to acknowledge, if I'm being honest."

"What's wrong with acknowledging it?"

"Nothing." Ari's laugh held no humor. "Everything. I'm not exactly known for my optimism about new people."

"Maybe that's okay. Maybe not everyone needs to be optimistic about everything all the time."

"You say that like you speak from experience."