The Girl in the Window
Ella's POV
The oven timer screams like it's personally offended by my existence.
I jump, nearly flinging icing across the tiny kitchen, and whack the button with my elbow. The sound cuts off, but my heart is still racing as I yank the oven door open. A wave of heat rushes over my face, fogging my glasses and turning my curls into instant humidity.
Twelve cinnamon buns stare back at me from the tray, perfectly risen, just on the safe side of golden.
"Don't you dare burn on me," I whisper.
I slide the tray out and set it on the stove, shutting the oven with my hip. My whole apartment smells like sugar, butter, and survival. It's almost midnight, and normal people are in bed, but normal people don't have rent due in ten days and less than fifty dollars in their account.
I grab my phone with sticky fingers and open my banking app anyway, just to torture myself.
Balance: $42.17
I wince. "Ouch."
From the hallway, I hear the creak of bed springs and the distinctive shuffle of fuzzy slippers. A moment later, my best friend/roommate, Ayana, stumbles into the kitchen in an oversized T-shirt, bonnet slightly crooked, blinking like she just crawled out of a grave.
"Are we under attack?" she mumbles. "Or is that just your anxiety timer again?"
I snort. "That was the oven."
She stops in the doorway, sniffs, and suddenly looks very awake. "Is that… cinnamon?"
"Cinnamon buns," I say, reaching for the bowl of glaze. "For tomorrow's order."
Ayana clutches her chest dramatically. "You're making my favorite and it's not even for me? Wow. Betrayal at its highest form."
"You can have the ugly one," I say, smirking. "If any turn out ugly."
"None of your baked children are ugly," she says, shuffling closer to peer at the tray. "They're all beautiful, moist little angels that I would die for."
I roll my eyes, but I can't help smiling. That's the thing about Ayana: she makes it really hard to wallow.
"Don't you have class at eight?" she asks, leaning her elbows on the counter. "You know, that thing called college that you pay money for?"
"Yes, Mother," I mutter, pouring glaze over the warm buns and watching it melt into the spirals. "This is the last batch. I'll sleep."
I don't tell her that after this I still have a reading to finish and a quiz to review for. She already knows. She's seen me fall asleep on my notes more than once.
Ayana's eyes drift toward the window behind me. "He's not there tonight."
My heart does something weird and traitorous, like it's been waiting for those exact words.
I keep my back to the glass, pretending to focus on the glaze. "Who?"
"You know who," she says in that sing-song voice that means chaos is coming. "Mr. Across-The-Street. Window Man. Silver Fox. Your future husband. My future step-uncle."
"Please stop," I say, cheeks heating.
She ignores me, of course. "The man you stare at while kneading dough like you're in a sad romantic indie film."
"I do not stare," I protest. "I occasionally glance."
"Ella." She gives me a look. "You set the timer, walk to the window, look out like a Victorian wife waiting for her sailor husband, and then walk back. That's not 'glancing'. That's a ritual."
I bite down a laugh and shake my head, but my chest feels tight.
It's stupid, really.
I don't know his name. I don't know what floor he actually lives on, just that his window faces ours across Fifth Avenue, one of the many rectangles of light in the old buildings lining the street. But sometimes late at night, when I'm baking and the world feels too loud, I look up—just for a second—and I see him.
The Man Across the Street.
Sometimes he's on the phone, pacing slowly. Sometimes he's sitting with a book. Sometimes a little boy appears, jumping onto the couch, and his whole posture softens. I always look away before he could possibly notice me.
It's safer that way. He's… older. Together. Neat shirts, expensive-looking watch, that quiet confidence of someone who's figured life out.
Meanwhile, I'm twenty, broke, covered in flour, and living in a two-bedroom apartment with a leaky window and a best friend who uses my baking trays as temporary storage for her jewelry.
Ayana nudges me with her hip. "You haven't even checked tonight, have you?"
"I've been busy." I gesture to the tray. "You know, trying not to end up on the street."
She squints at me. "So you're scared he moved."
I open my mouth to argue, then close it.
Because maybe… a little bit, I am.
He hasn't appeared in the window for three nights. Logically, I know people have lives. Maybe he's working late. Maybe he's out of town. Maybe he just closed the curtains properly for once.
But some stubborn, romantic part of me worries that I missed… something. That the tiny, secret comfort I've built around the idea of his quiet existence might disappear without warning, like everything else seems to.
"I just…" I shrug, picking at a smear of glaze on my wrist. "He's probably gone. And I never even knew his name."
Ayana softens. "Hey." She bumps her shoulder gently against mine. "You're allowed to have a crush, you know. Even on Hot Mysterious Apartment Man. You're not signing a marriage certificate. You're just… existing. And appreciating."
"I don't have time for crushes," I mumble.
Which is true. My life is a juggling act: baking orders through my little Instagram page Ella Bakes on Fifth, full-time classes, part-time job at the campus café, helping my mom with my little sister when she calls, trying not to drown in guilt and expectations and overdue assignments.
I rinse the bowl and set it in the sink, then lean on the counter, suddenly tired.
Ayana watches me quietly for a moment. "We're going to make it, you know."
"Make what?"
"Rent. Tuition. Life." She waves her hands like she's stirring the air. "You're not doing this alone. You have me. You have your stand mixer. That's basically a family."
I huff a laugh. "My stand mixer is more reliable than most people."
"Exactly." She grins. "And one day you're going to have your own bakery. Big glass windows. Fancy sign. Me eating for free. We're manifesting."
"Manifest after I pass macroeconomics," I say.
She reaches over and turns off the kitchen light, leaving us lit only by the warm glow from the stove and the streetlights slipping in through the window.
"Okay," she says softly. "Now you can look."
I roll my eyes, but my feet are already moving.
I step closer to the window, heart doing that embarrassing flutter thing. My reflection hovers faintly in the glass: dark curls, tired eyes, cinnamon bun apron. Outside, Fifth Avenue is a strip of amber and shadow. Cars slide by. A bus rumbles past. Somewhere down the block, someone laughs too loudly.
I lift my gaze to the building across the street.
Most of the windows are dark, curtains drawn. A few glow with the cold light of televisions. My eyes automatically seek the one I've watched the most—three floors up, slightly to the left.
It's lit.
My breath catches.
He's there.
Standing near the window, tie loosened, one hand in his pocket, the other cradling a mug. The little boy isn't with him tonight. It's just him, looking out over the street like he's thinking about something heavy.
Even from here, I can see the outline of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. He looks… tired. And somehow, still unfairly handsome.
"Is he there?" Ayana whispers from behind me.
I don't answer. I just watch.
He shifts slightly, gaze sweeping the street. For a second, unreasonably, I panic—like he might somehow see directly into my thoughts.
"I should close the curtains," I murmur.
"Why?" Ayana asks. "You're just looking at the city. Very innocently. With love and affection and possible longing."
"Shut up," I say, but there's no heat in it.
His head tilts, like he's focusing on something. My heart leaps into my throat.
Is he looking this way?
I don't know. We're too far, and our lights are dim, and this is ridiculous. I swallow hard and take a tiny step back into the shadows anyway.
Ayana nudges my shoulder. "One day," she says, "you're going to talk to him."
"Doubt it."
"You are," she insists. "Maybe you'll deliver pastries to the wrong address. Maybe you'll bump into him at the grocery store. Maybe he'll show up at the café. But something's going to happen. I feel it."
"That's just your addiction to drama talking."
She grins. "My addiction to drama has never been wrong."
I don't answer.
Instead, I watch as he lifts the mug to his lips, then turns away from the window, disappearing into the warm light of his apartment.
The glow from his window softens the brick around it, like a tiny, quiet universe suspended across from mine.
Ayana yawns loudly. "Okay, romance movie. I'm going back to bed. Don't stay up too late. Your 8 a.m. professor doesn't care about your tragic heart-eyes situation."
She shuffles off down the hall, humming something off-key.
I stand there for another moment, hand resting on the cool glass.
"You're just a neighbor," I whisper to the empty window. "That's all."
The light in his apartment stays on, but he doesn't come back to the window.
Eventually, I turn away, switching off the stove light and letting the apartment sink into darkness. The cinnamon buns cool on the counter, sweet and perfect, ready for whoever ordered them.
I have no idea that the next box of pastries I make…
will bring me to an unexpected place