The Bakery Window

Rain came down in sheets, blurring the city into watercolor. She ducked into the bakery, shaking droplets from her coat, hair clinging to her cheeks. A man followed on her heels, pausing just inside the doorway. The bell stuttered once, then fell silent under the hiss of rain.

They stood watching the downpour. In the window’s reflection she saw him already watching her.

She turned, smiled, and walked toward the counter. He hesitated, still caught by her reflection, then followed.

“Two croissants, please,” she said, voice soft but certain. “And a black coffee.” She stepped aside.

He ordered next. “Just coffee. One cream, two sugars.”

Neither looked at the other directly. But when she turned to leave, she slid one croissant across the counter toward him.
“You look like you could use this.”

Before he could reply, she was gone—out the door, back into the rain, the bell crying out behind her.

He blinked, still holding his cup. It took a moment before he reached for the croissant, warm in its thin paper sleeve. He walked to the door and caught her blue dress peeking out under her coat as she vanished around the corner at the end of the block.

He thought about stepping after her—just to say thanks—but something stopped him. Maybe the rain that was coming down harder. Maybe he didn’t know what he’d say.

Instead, he sat by the window with the croissant and his cooling coffee.

Details returned one by one—the auburn hair pulled into a loose twist, the damp edge of her coat brushing his sleeve, the way her eyes had met his reflection just before she smiled. He tried to picture her face clearly, but it blurred when he focused. Only her eyes stayed sharp, brown and bright as polished wood.

He took a bite of the croissant—flaky, soft, faintly sweet.

When he looked up again, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the street outside was empty.

He finished the coffee, left his cup on the table, and told himself it was nothing. A small kindness. A moment to remember.

The Waiting

The next morning, he stopped by the bakery again.

He told himself it was for the coffee—the croissants were good too—but he kept glancing at the door every time the bell rang. She didn’t come in.

By the fourth visit, the barista was smiling at him differently, recognizing him as one of the regulars. That embarrassed him a little. He started varying his timing—early one day, late the next—as if he could trick chance itself into cooperating.

One afternoon, drizzle still damp on the pavement, he walked the block where she’d disappeared. The corner turned onto a quiet stretch of small shops—florist, dry cleaner, a newsstand tucked beneath a green awning. He bought a newspaper he didn’t want and lingered there, folding and refolding the front page, pretending to read. The paper bled ink on his thumb where a raindrop landed. She never appeared.

After that, he gave up. Or at least, he told himself he had.

Summer came, the rain less frequent, the bakery windows lined with peaches and berry tarts. He stopped going. Whatever that moment had been—a spark, a kindness, a trick of the weather—it had done its work and passed.

The Return

Until one Friday in August.

He was running late for a meeting and ducked into a different café—smaller, quieter, the kind of place that smelled of ground beans and sugar. He was waiting in line when a voice behind him said, “They have croissants here too.”

He turned.

She stood there—same hair, though dry this time—her smile quick and uncertain.

“I think I owe you a croissant,” he said.

For a heartbeat he only stared, the weeks between them collapsing like paper in the rain. Then she smiled. “You do, actually.”

They found a small table near the window. Conversation came easily—how the rain that day had flooded half the block, how both of them had kept visiting the little bakery. They agreed the croissants were worth it, even if they’d somehow managed to miss each other every time. She worked nearby, marketing or something creative; he barely heard the details, caught up in her laugh.

It felt ordinary and rare all at once. They talked until the cups were empty, and still he didn’t want to leave.

When she glanced at her watch, she sighed. “I should get going.”

“Me too,” he said, though neither of them moved right away.

Outside, the sun was low, throwing light through the glass. He followed her to the door, hesitating as she reached for the handle.
“I’m glad you came in,” he said.

“Me too.” Her eyes softened. “I’m glad we found each other again. You’re easy to talk to.”

He started to offer his number, but she was already digging through her bag. “Here,” she said, handing him a small notepad sheet torn neatly in half. “Write yours, and I’ll text you.”

He did. When he handed the pen back, their fingers brushed.

For a long second neither spoke.

“I’ll be in touch,” she said finally. Then she reached for his hand, almost formally, and he took it. He bent slightly, brushing his lips against her knuckles—light, a breath of contact more than a kiss.

Her wedding ring caught the light.

He held her gaze a moment longer—long enough for both of them to know he’d seen it—then let her hand go.

She smiled, small and rueful. “Take care.”

“You too,” he said.

She stepped into the street, sunlight glinting off her hair as she disappeared into the crowd. He stood by the window until she was gone.

When he finally turned back, the barista was clearing their table. On the plate sat a single croissant, split neatly in two.

The Bakery Window – Closing Beat

He walked home instead of taking the train, the city soft around him in late-summer light. The air still smelled faintly of rain.

By the time he reached his apartment, he’d almost convinced himself she wouldn’t call. People say things in moments that feel bigger than they are. Maybe that’s all it had been.

He set his keys down, started to unbutton his cuffs—then his phone buzzed on the counter.

Unknown number.

He stared a second too long before swiping it open.

Next time, I’ll buy the coffee. — L.

He smiled—she was taking the lead.

He left the message unanswered for a while, searching for the right words. Then he typed:
I enjoyed sharing the croissant with you. Is there anything else you’d like to share?

He hesitated, then reminded himself—she took the lead—and hit send.

Outside, the rain began again—soft, certain, as if it already knew the answer.

He waited, watching the three little dots flicker on his screen. They flickered, disappeared, returned—like she had a lot to say but no easy way to say it.

A moment later the dots vanished, replaced by her message.

Maybe 🙂

He smiled as he set the phone face-down, thinking of those brown eyes—and the way they had looked at him in the window.

“Frankie”

Rain came down in sheets, blurring the city into watercolor. She ducked into the bakery, shaking droplets from her coat, hair clinging to her cheeks. A man followed on her heels, pausing just inside the doorway. The bell stuttered once, then fell silent under the hiss of rain.

“Some storm,” he said. “The weatherman was right for a change.”

“She sure was,” she teased. “But then my weather lady is pretty accurate.”

“You’ll have to share your weather channel with me.” He grinned.

“Sure,” she said, then turned and headed to the counter. He followed.

The line moved slowly, thick with the scent of butter and beans. She caught his reflection in the pastry case—the faint smile beneath his neatly trimmed facial hair. She’d always liked that kind of face: warm, textured, inviting.

When she reached the counter, she ordered two croissants and a black coffee. He leaned forward as if to study the menu, then grinned.
“Mind if I borrow your idea? Croissant, coffee, exactly like hers—except…” He paused and gave her an apologetic smile. “One cream and two sugars.”

She laughed. “You like it sweet?”

He chuckled, almost to himself. “Doesn’t everybody?”

Her cheeks warmed, her eyes lowering slightly, head tilting the same way it would later—shy, curious, betraying more than she meant to.

By the time they turned from the counter, only one table remained near the window. He gestured to it. “Want to share?”

She hesitated half a beat, then nodded. “Sure.” Her eyes roamed his face as they headed for the table but didn’t quite make it up to his eyes.

They sat. The rain drummed harder, sealing them into their little corner of the world.

***

They started with the safe things—work, commutes, weather that couldn’t make up its mind. He told her he worked in IT; she said she was a graphic designer. When she mentioned her “other half, Frankie,” he nodded as though filing it away.

“Frankie’s a lucky guy,” he said.

She smiled into her cup. “Frankie would like to hear that.”

She didn’t correct him. The tiny thrill of it warmed her more than the coffee.

The lines of his jaw caught the light when he smiled—dark against the rim of his cup—and something about it tugged at an old, half-forgotten place in her. College dorms. The sharp thrill of curiosity. The softness of another girl’s skin against hers, and later, a boy with a beard that brushed like velvet along her collarbone—the mustache that tickled everywhere.

She remembered that texture. Smoothness had always been her preference, but something about the roughness framing his lips made her tingle.

The thought startled her. She focused on the window, on the rain thinning into drizzle.

“Lost in thought?” he asked.

“Just remembering,” she said. “College. Rain like this.”

“Good memory or bad?”

“Complicated,” she said, smiling faintly. Then added, “Still.”

He laughed, low and genuine. It rolled through her like the hum of thunder.

***

Their conversation drifted into the easy space where strangers forget they’re strangers. She found herself watching his hands—the way he turned his cup, the way his knuckles brushed the table when he laughed. Her ring caught against the porcelain when she did the same—thin gold, barely there—and she wondered if he noticed.

He did. He noticed everything. But he didn’t ask.

Outside, the clouds were lifting. Light slid across the wet street, catching in the window.

“Looks like it’s letting up,” he said.

“Already?” She sounded disappointed, even to herself.

He glanced at the window, then back at her. “Guess the storm’s over.”

“It does,” she said softly. “Or maybe it just moved on.”

Again, her eyes dropped, that same tilt of head and color in her cheeks.

***

They stood at the same time. She gathered her bag; he reached for his jacket.

“Can I see you again?” he asked—and she liked the way he didn’t overthink it.

She tore a napkin in half and handed him a pen from her bag. “Write your number. I’ll text you. My other half would laugh if I came home without at least one new friend.”

He smiled. “Then I hope Frankie appreciates your efforts.”

She laughed, warm and genuine. “Frankie always appreciates my efforts.”

At the door, sunlight scattered through the lingering drops. She paused, looking up at him. He was taller, broader up close, the rough edge of his jaw catching the light again. The urge came before she could talk herself out of it.

She touched his chest lightly. “Thanks for sharing the table.”

He smiled. “Thanks for the company.” He paused, waiting—hopeful, surprised.

And before she could think twice, she leaned in and kissed him—a quick, soft press that caught just enough of the tickle of his hair to send a memory spiraling through her: that same sensation trailing down her body from years ago, when she was nineteen and fearless.

She stepped back, breath caught. “I’ve missed that feeling,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

“What feeling?” he asked, blinking—startled and confused all at once.

She smiled, shaking her head. “Never mind.”

She left him there, standing in the open doorway with sunlight spilling around him, wondering what the hell had just happened.

***

That night, before dinner was ready, she texted him:
Thanks, I had a wonderful time. —L.

His message arrived just as she and Frankie were closing up the kitchen.

Hope you and Frankie made it home dry.

She smiled, thumb hovering above the screen. Frankie looked up from rinsing a cup. “Who’s that?”

“Someone I met at the bakery today,” she said, still smiling as she typed.

She did. Thanks for asking.

She hit send, slipped the phone face-down on the counter, and turned to help Frankie dry the dishes, her lips still tingling from the memory of his touch.

He read the message twice, then a third time. Was it a typo, he wondered?

He decided it wasn’t, given the evidence. But then… that kiss.

“So,” Frankie asked, “is he a new friend or a new friend?”

“He’s cute, tall, broad-shouldered, and has a face full of hair,” she said.

“Oh.” Frankie smiled. “He’s that kind of friend.”

“Not yet,” she said, her eyes and head tilting down a little as color filled her cheeks. “Not yet.”