Rooftop Honey, City Heart

The roof door stuck a little, then let go with a sigh of rusted hinges. Warm air smelling of tar, basil from someone’s windowsill, and last sun spilled over Maya as she stepped out. The city hummed its own evening chorus, but above it, a more focused sound gathered: a soft, insistent thrumming like a held note. She squinted. Near the parapet, three wooden boxes sat like small suitcases. Bees lifted and fell in a golden stream.

'Careful there,' a voice said.

She turned. A man stood by the boxes, veiled hood thrown back so it rested on his shoulders, gloves tucked into a belt. His hair was dark and messy the way wind likes it. In one hand, he held a smoker shaped like a tiny metal kettle. The leather bellows squeaked as he tested it.

'I didn’t know anyone kept... bees up here,' Maya said, unsure if she should move closer or freeze. One bee ticked against her elbow and zipped away. Her breath came thin and quick anyway, memory snaring on a childhood sting beside a sprinkler, her mother’s cool thumb pressing a coin to the welt.

'Jonas,' he said, stepping just close enough to be heard without shouting. 'They’re gentle. Mostly. I check them at dusk when everyone’s calmer. You live in the building?'

'Maya. Fifth floor. I needed air.' She nodded toward the skyline where windows blushed and blue deepened between heights. 'Your hum was calling.'

Jonas smiled, the kind that curled more to one side than the other. 'They sing when they’re busy. I’m going to add a box. You can watch from here if you want. Just… don’t swat.'

She folded her arms to keep from fidgeting. He lifted the lid of a hive with easy care, smoke drifting like kitchen steam. The smell surprised her: warm, resin-sweet, with a peppery bite that made her think of cedar closets and burnt toast.

A bee landed on her wrist. Panic nipped sharp. She held still, counting her breaths, mouth dry.

Jonas noticed. He came closer, slow movements, and reached without touching her. 'She’s just curious. You smell like… maybe shampoo?'

'Rosemary,' Maya said. Her voice shook.

'Good taste. See? She’ll leave.' The bee tickled up her sleeve hem, took off with a sound like a tiny zipper. Maya unclenched.

The city’s hum swelled with a siren far away. Jonas replaced the lid. 'First time up here?'

'First time finding a whole other neighborhood above mine,' she said.

'You’re welcome anytime,' he said. 'They like visitors who breathe.' He grinned, eyes crinkling. 'And people who don’t swat.'