Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

He left mint on her doorstep on a Tuesday, and she spent the whole morning convinced it was a mistake, intended for next door. On Wednesday he left thyme. On Thursday it was rosemary and a small card that said ‘From the allotment. Roof garden on the right. — Seb.‘

She lived alone in the top flat. He, apparently, grew things on the roof.

She’d lived in the building for three years and not known there was a roof garden.

She found him on Friday, as instructed, up a narrow flight of stairs and through a door she’d always assumed was storage. He was on his knees between two raised beds, doing something careful with a trowel, and he looked up when she appeared and smiled like he’d been expecting her.

“You found it,” he said.

“You’ve been growing a garden on our roof for how long?”

“Two years. The landlord knows. He’s fine with it.”

“And nobody else?”

“You know now.”

She stood in the doorway and looked at what he’d built. It was modest and extraordinary — raised beds, trellises, tomatoes coming in heavy on the vine, a fig tree in a pot that had no business looking so content at this altitude, herbs in every direction filling the air with something warm and complicated.

“You left me rosemary,” she said.

“I leave some for the neighbours sometimes. You’re the first one who came up.”

“The others didn’t come?”

“Some left a thank-you note. One left a jam jar of coins.”

“What did you do with the coins?”

“Bought more seeds,” he said, like this was obvious.

She stepped fully onto the roof. He handed her a tomato — small, sun-warm, still on the vine.

“Try it,” he said.

She did. It tasted like a tomato was supposed to taste, which was a thing she’d mostly forgotten was possible.

“Sebastian,” she said.

“Seb.”

“How does one become a person who grows a garden on a roof?”

He sat back on his heels. “You lose someone,” he said, without drama. “And you need something living to take care of. And the first thing is easier than people think, and the second thing is harder, and eventually the two balance out.”

She looked at him. At the garden.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For your loss.”

“Thank you.” He said it like he meant it. “It was two years ago. The garden helps.”

She sat down on the low wall running along the roof.

“I make tea badly,” she said. “I’ve been told it’s actually a skill to make it this bad.”

He looked amused. “How does one make tea badly?”

“I forget it exists halfway through brewing. I find it cold an hour later and either drink it or start again, with equal probability.”

“That is,” he said, “technically impressive.”

“I mention it because I would offer to make you tea in exchange for the herbs and it would be genuinely poor compensation.”

“You could bring biscuits,” he said. “That would balance it.”

“I’m an excellent judge of biscuits.”

“Then come back Saturday,” he said. “Bring biscuits. I’ll harvest the courgettes and we can have lunch up here if the weather holds.”

The weather held.

The biscuits were excellent.

She came back the Saturday after that, and the one after that, and one morning she found herself on her knees in the bed beside him, learning the names of things that grew, and felt entirely happy without knowing quite when that had started.

---

So you made it to the end… which probably means you’re the kind of person who enjoys a little romance with their coffee. If you’re in the mood for more stories about messy feelings, stubborn attraction, and women who absolutely refuse to settle for boring love, you can find all my books here.

Fair warning though. One story tends to lead to another. I’ve seen it happen. Repeatedly.