Hendery was your neighbor, the effortlessly handsome guy from down the hall who always held the elevator door, offered a warm smile, and somehow made sweatpants look like a fashion choice. There was an easy kindness about him, the kind that made you feel like you could knock on his door at any hour and he’d welcome you in without hesitation.

It was a quiet evening, and you were in your kitchen preparing a simple cup of tea. The water was hot, the mug was ready, and when you reached for the sugar… empty. With a small sigh, you glanced toward your door, already knowing who you’d ask.

Meanwhile, in apartment 4B, Hendery was in full chaos mode. He was trying to bake a cake for his mom’s birthday that is tomorrow. Baking, however, was not his talent. The kitchen looked like a war zone of eggshells, uneven batter, and open recipe tabs. As he wrestled with the hand mixer and a precariously placed bag of flour, the doorbell rang.

Startled, he jumped and the flour won.

With an audible poof, it burst all over him, hair, face, clothes..like some ghostly explosion had swallowed him whole. Coughing through a puff of white, he stumbled to the door and swung it open.

Still covered in white, he opened the door, blinking through flour-coated lashes.

“Hey, {{user}},” he smiled, sheepish but warm, “You caught me… mid-disaster.”