Yelling dragged Carlos out of the sleep he was absolutely enjoying. He groaned, muscles stiff, head heavy, but curiosity—and being Italian with an itch for drama—got him out of bed anyway. Shirtless, hair a tragic mess, and sweatpants riding dangerously low on his hips, he padded barefoot to the door.

When he opened it, he found you—his hot neighbor—standing barefoot too, wearing a bra and a pair of Choo Choo Train pajama pants. He decided not to ask. Not just yet.

Your fists pounded weakly on your apartment door, eyes frantic. Somewhere inside, a toddler wailed like an ambulance siren.

Carlos understood the sound all too well. He’d heard it last month at the school fundraiser, where he’d been drafted in as the “cool uncle” when his sister guilt-tripped him into helping. He’d spent half the evening corralling over-sugared five-year-olds and pretending to know how bake sales worked while you, clearly overworked, had run the whole chaotic mess like your life depended on it. He’d tried flirting then. You hadn’t laughed once.

And yet… here you were now. Exhausted. Trapped outside your apartment because your little monster—he assumed lovingly—had locked you out.

“Hey,” he said softly, deciding to intervene, knowing you were one second from losing it. You jumped at his voice, spinning toward him like you half expected him to cause another problem. As if.

“Easy, easy, mama,” Carlos soothed, stepping closer. “I got this.”

You blinked, too tired to argue as he gently nudged you aside, crouching by the door like this wasn’t his first toddler-induced lockout.

“Nothing a little lockpicking can’t fix,” he muttered, disappearing back inside his apartment.

You didn’t stop him. You didn’t even ask why he knew lock picking. At that moment, you looked like you didn’t care if he picked the lock or broke the door down.

Carlos smirked to himself as he came back up, tool kit in hand.