Page 7 of Window Seat for Two
While Ari moved to slice the bread, Nate let his gaze wander around the bakery, taking in details his window view had missed. Vintage baking tools displayed on floating shelves, their copper and wood gleaming with age and care. A small corner table stacked with what looked like neighborhood newsletters and community flyers. Everything spoke of deliberate curation, of someone who understood that atmosphere mattered as much as product.
His attention caught on a beautiful wooden box sitting on the counter near the register—clearly handcrafted, with intricate carved details around the edges. Without thinking, he stepped closer to admire the craftsmanship, leaning forward to get a better look at what appeared to be small flowers worked into the design.
His hip caught the corner of the counter with more force than he'd intended, and the impact sent the wooden box sliding toward the edge. Time seemed to slow as Nate made a desperate grab for it, but his fingers closed on empty air as the box tumbled to the tile floor with a sound like breaking.
The lid popped open on impact, and dozens of yellowed index cards scattered across the bakery floor like fallen leaves. Handwritten text in faded ink covered each card, some with small sketches in the margins, others bearing what looked like decades of accumulated stains and annotations.
"Sofia's recipes," Ari whispered, the words barely audible.
When Nate looked up from the scattered cards, Ari had transformed completely. All the warmth had drained from his face, leaving behind something raw and devastated. He dropped to his knees beside the fallen box, his hands shaking as he began gathering the cards with desperate, careful movements.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—let me help," Nate said, crouching down and reaching for the nearest card.
"Don't." The word came out sharp enough to make Nate freeze, his hand suspended inches from a card covered in what looked like measurements for pie crust. "Please, just don't touch them."
Ari continued collecting the recipes, cradling each card against his chest before placing it carefully back in the box. His movements held the reverence of someone handling holy relics, and Nate remained frozen in his crouch, afraid that any motion might cause more damage to something clearly precious beyond measure.
"These were my aunt's," he said without looking up, his voice carefully controlled but trembling at the edges. "Every recipe in this bakery came from these cards. Thirty years of her handwriting, her notes, her experiments." He paused over a card that looked older than the rest, thumb tracing words Nate couldn't read from his position. "She's gone now."
The simple statement hit Nate like a physical blow. He watched Ari continue gathering the scattered pieces of his inheritance, understanding too late that he'd stumbled into something sacred, something irreplaceable. The careful way the baker handled each card spoke of fresh grief, of loss too recent to have developed protective scar tissue.
"I'm truly sorry for your loss," Nate said quietly, making no move to help since his assistance clearly wasn't wanted. "And for being careless with something so precious."
He didn't offer platitudes about how Sofia would want Ari to be happy, or how accidents happen, or any of the other empty phrases people had thrown at him after his grandfather died. Instead, he remained still and let his genuine regret fill the silence while Ari finished collecting the scattered recipes.
When the last card was safely back in the box, Ari stood slowly, clutching it against his chest. His jaw was tight, his earlier warmth replaced by walls that seemed to have slammed down between one breath and the next. The ease they'd been building lay scattered on the floor alongside the memory of fallen recipe cards.
"I should go," Nate said, understanding that his presence had become a reminder of carelessness, of potential loss in a life that had already endured too much of both.
Ari nodded stiffly, then seemed to remember himself. "The bread." He set the recipe box on a high shelf behind the counter, movements careful and deliberate, before returning to the half-sliced loaf he'd abandoned.
"You don't have to?—"
"I said I'd sell you bread." He finished slicing with mechanical precision, not meeting Nate's eyes as he wrapped the honey wheat in brown paper. "Eight dollars."
Nate left exact change on the counter, not wanting to force any more interaction than necessary. The bread felt substantial in his hands, still warm from the oven, and he could smell the honey sweetness through the paper. Under different circumstances, he might have stayed to savor that first bite, to continue the conversation that had been developing so promisingly.
Instead, he moved toward the door, each step feeling like a small retreat from possibility. At the threshold, he paused without turning around.
"Thank you for the bread recommendation," he said to the morning light beyond the glass. "And I really am sorry."
The bell chimed overhead as he stepped back onto Maple Walk, leaving Ari alone in his bakery. Through the window, Nate caught a glimpse of him standing motionless behind his counter, staring at the wooden box on its high shelf. Disappointmentand understanding warred across features that had been so animated just minutes earlier.
The honey wheat bread was as perfect as promised—complex and sweet with a texture that spoke of generations of refinement. Nate ate it at his kitchen counter, looking down at the bakery where Ari moved through his morning routine with the mechanical efficiency of someone working around fresh wounds.
Their window remained empty of waves for the rest of the morning. When Nate finally settled at his easel to work, he found himself sketching not the cheerful baker who'd recommended his aunt's bread, but the grieving man who'd gathered scattered recipes like fallen prayers, protecting what remained of love made tangible through flour and time.
Outside his window, Blue Moon Bakery glowed with warm light, but the figure behind the counter never once looked up toward the third-floor apartment where someone sat surrounded by drawings of a stranger's careful hands and guarded heart.
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 Natewould be at his window with his usual mug, probably wondering if their tentative connection had been severed completely.
