The morning sun warmed the concrete tiles under their feet. Vera glanced sideways at Ellie, who was kneeling at the planter, her braid almost brushing the spearmint. The tomato plant, leggy after a season of stretching toward the city sky, held just one bright red fruit at the tip of its vine. Vera cleared her throat.

“Looks just about ready,” she said, folding her arms as if she were shooing away pigeons rather than staking her claim.

Ellie’s hand hovered over the tomato. “I saw it turn red first,” she said. The words came out soft, but Vera heard the stubbornness under them, the way the sentence tilted upwards, testing.

Vera pressed her lips together, glancing at the surrounding buildings. Someone on a balcony across the street was watering hanging petunias. She looked back at Ellie. “You picked the last one, remember? With the little split in the skin.” She nudged her glasses up—as if that might help her see the rules of tomato-picking more clearly.

Ellie sat back on her heels. The rooftop felt quieter. The city rumble seemed further away up here, between lemon balm pots and empty seed packets. She ran a fingernail over the planter's corner, not quite meeting Vera’s gaze.

Vera relented first, reaching out to steady the vine. “Well, go on. I suppose you should have it, then. It’s only fair.”

Ellie grinned, but took the tomato gently, twisting it off the stem so it didn’t tear a branch. She held it up in the sun, its skin shining. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Ellie split the tomato in two, juice running down her palm. “Here,” she said, holding out the bigger half. Vera took it, brushing the leaves with her other hand. Behind them, the city’s car horns, somewhere far below, bled into the sound of bees fussing in the lavender.