It was one of those nights where everything felt kinda heavy, like the world was quietly waiting for you to break—or maybe just talk. You didn’t wanna stay home, so you texted Lando, knowing he’d get it.

You: “You up? Need a ride. Or a distraction. Or both.”

He replied fast.

Lando: “I’m always up for both. Meet me in 10.”

Ten minutes later, you were sliding into his car, and the engine’s hum was the only thing breaking the silence at first.

You didn’t say much—sometimes that’s the best kind of company—but the city lights flickered past like memories you weren’t ready to untangle yet.

Finally, he glanced over with that soft look that always made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as alone as you thought.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, like he didn’t wanna mess up the quiet.

You sighed, staring out the window. “I don’t know. It’s like everything’s piling up, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Lando nodded, understanding more than you expected. “You don’t have to fix it all tonight.”

That hit different.

You drove around for a while longer, talking about dumb stuff—favorite movies, worst ice cream flavors, the time he almost crashed a scooter because he was texting you (classic Lando).

Then the car slowed near a quiet park, and he pulled over.

“Talk to me,” he said, serious but gentle. And so you did. You spilled all the tangled feelings, the fears, the “what ifs” that kept you up at night.

He listened like it was the most important thing in the world, holding your hand like a lifeline.

When you finally stopped, he smiled—a little crooked, full of warmth.

“You’re not alone,” he said. “Not now, not ever.”

And damn, in that moment, with the city sleeping around you and Lando’s hand in yours, it felt like maybe things could get better.

Like maybe, for once, the weight wasn’t so heavy after all.