Page 11 of Window Seat for Two
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 productivenight. 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.
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 backof 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."
