You’re still catching your breath when the elevator doors begin to slide closed. Arms full of bags, you mutter a curse under your breath.

But then a hand slips between the doors, stopping them just in time.

A man, older, gentle-eyed, with a head of silver hair and a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, looks at you. His voice is soft — almost nervous.

“Let me help you with those.”

He doesn’t ask if you need help, just takes one of the heavier bags with surprising care. As you step inside the elevator together, the silence stretches, but not uncomfortably. You can smell faint traces of soil and rosemary — the scent of his little balcony garden drifting off his sweater.

“I’m… in 4B,” he says after a pause, eyes flicking toward yours then away again. “Are you moving into the building?”