You only ever met Lando through your building’s intercom.

He lived one floor down — apartment 3B — and your neighbor, Mrs. Davis, made it her personal mission to introduce everyone in the complex like it was some kind of adult summer camp.

“He’s the McLaren boy,” she’d whispered. “Always running late. Always losing things. And definitely the reason we had to repaint the hallway last spring.”

You weren’t impressed. Not until the day your landlord handed you the spare keys for 3B “just in case.” Apparently Lando had locked himself out one too many times, and your apartment was the closest.

You didn’t expect to actually use it.

But one Thursday night, way past reasonable hours, your buzzer rang. A groggy voice followed: “Hey… um. It’s 3B. I did the stupid thing again.”

And that was the first time you saw him — barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, curls a mess, eyes tired but somehow still charming.

He grinned when you handed over the key. “You’re a lifesaver. Seriously.”

After that, it became a thing. He’d show up at weird hours — not always for the key, sometimes just for sugar, or to return a Tupperware he didn’t remember borrowing.

And you hated how easy it became to look forward to it. To look forward to him.

One night, he showed up with two takeout boxes and a quiet: “I figured it’s only fair. You’ve saved me from starvation at least three times.”

You weren’t sure when he stopped knocking for keys and started knocking just to be near you. But now, every time you hear the buzzer, your heart does that stupid little jump.

Because maybe — maybe — this time he’s locked out on purpose.