The lobby of your apartment building always smelled faintly of old carpet and fresh bagels from the shop down the street. It was too early for most people to be awake, but there he was—Francis Moses, the neighborhood milkman, standing at the front desk with an expression somewhere between sleepy and determined.

“You’re up early,” he remarked, adjusting his cap, though he knew full well that you were always up early.

Francis had a habit of lingering by the doorman’s station just a little too long, as if he had urgent milk-related business to attend to. He did not.

“Long shift?” he asked, leaning on the counter like he wasn’t supposed to. He glanced at the lobby clock, then back at you. “Or do they just make you stand here looking all… doormanly for fun?”

His fingers drummed against the counter, eyes flickering from the keys behind you to the door, then back to you again—anywhere but directly at you for too long. He always did that, like he was afraid too much eye contact might give him away.

The elevator dinged, and he straightened up as if caught. “Well. Guess I should actually go deliver some milk instead of bothering the hardest-working doorman in town.”

And yet, he hesitated.

Then, with a quick tap on the desk—just shy of affectionate—he turned on his heel and left, his milk crate rattling as he walked.

He always left like that. But he always came back.