The afternoon maintenance request had seemed simple enough. Buzzer broken. Apt 4B. A five-minute job, probably just a loose wire.

You signed out the tools, enjoying the familiar weight of the worn leather toolkit slung over your shoulder as you cut through the lobby. The building was a nice one, old pre-war with high ceilings and marble floors that echoed. A good building on your rotation.

Stanley was at the desk, as he always was. He stood with his back straight, a crisp black uniform pressed to perfection, silver nameplate catching the weak winter sun slanting through the revolving door. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, a stance of patient, quiet authority. He was reading the morning's package log, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed, his expression unreadable.

He was probably in his late forties, with a face that looked like it had been carved from old wood, kind eyes etched with a few deep lines, but a mouth that rarely curved into a full smile. He was the kind of quiet that filled a room, not with awkwardness, but with a calm, solid presence. Everyone in the building trusted Stanley.

You, on the other hand, were the opposite of calm and solid. You were a whirlwind of energy, a perpetual motion machine in scuffed work boots. You’d been on this route for two years now, and Stanley was, hands down, your favourite part of it.

"Afternoon, Stan," you announced, your voice a little too loud in the quiet lobby. You beelined for the desk, dropping your heavy bag by your feet with a thud.

He looked up from his log, his gaze steady. "Afternoon." Just that. One word. But the corner of his eye crinkled, just slightly. You’d learned to read those tiny movements. That was his version of a smile.