Chapter Text
The next day, Lando blinked awake and squinted at the time glowing faintly from his phone screen. He’d overslept.
Rubbing at his eyes, he yawned and swung his legs over the side of the bed, already making his way down the hallway in a sleepy rush. There was no coffee in his system yet—he hadn’t even bothered flicking on the kettle—but something tugged at him, some small, hopeful habit.
There was only one thing on his mind as he reached the front door.
And there it was.
A gentle gasp slipped from his lips as he picked up the letter and carefully tore the top open, fingers slightly shaky with anticipation. The envelope fluttered to the floor, forgotten as his eyes landed on the neatly written words inside.
You don’t know me, but watching you draw has become the best part of my mornings.
A soft blush bloomed across his cheeks. His heart stuttered.
They’d seen him draw? More than once?
He clutched the letter gently to his chest, smiling like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried. The words echoed in his mind, looping again and again as he finally made his way to the kitchen.
“Best part of your mornings, huh…” he mumbled under his breath, dreamy and dazed, nearly tipping the milk carton over the edge of the counter in his distracted state.
Back in his room, he set the letter carefully on his desk beside his freshly made coffee. He took a sip without thinking—too hot—and let out a quiet curse, tongue burning.
But even with the burn, even with his pulse still slightly too fast, he couldn’t take his eyes off the letter.
The handwriting was smooth, careful. He ran his fingers just beside the ink, thoughtful. And somewhere, buried beneath his lingering surprise, he already felt the first itch in his fingers—an urge to draw again. To try and imagine the face behind the words.
Whoever they were… they were changing his mornings too.
Lando sat at his desk for a while, the letter still resting just beside his elbow, as though its presence alone was keeping him grounded. The mug of coffee had gone lukewarm, forgotten.
His sketchbook lay open, the page blank and waiting. He stared at it, pencil held lightly in his fingers. There was no reference photo. No muse sipping tea in the cafe window across the street. Just words on a page—simple, thoughtful words—and the quiet feeling they left behind.
He tapped the pencil against the edge of the page once, twice. Then he began to draw.
Not with certainty. Not even with intent. It was more of a quiet suggestion at first—lines that curved where they felt natural. Lando’s pencil moved in slow, deliberate lines, his fingers smudged with graphite as he shaped the curve of a jaw he’d never seen. Hair that fell slightly messy over a brow furrowed in thought. He didn’t know what the sender looked like, he didn’t even know their name, but somehow, he felt like he knew this person—knew the softness in their voice, the stillness in their presence.
He added the smallest crease near one corner of the mouth—like the beginning of a smile not fully formed, gentle eyes, a slight tilt of the head. Lando drew slowly, thoughtfully, letting his imagination fill in the blanks.
It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t need to be, it was just purely driven by feeling.
And when he finally set the pencil down, he realized he’d been holding his breath.
He looked down at the sketch, lips parting slightly.
“Who are you?…” he murmured, barely above a whisper.
But the paper offered no answers. Just the faint pencil markings of a stranger’s imagined smile, and the soft echo of their letter lingering in the morning light.
*
Now there was a third letter, and a fourth, folded and tucked neatly into the mail slot at 4B, with no name, no clue, just ink, nerves and a ridiculous amount of heart from the guy who sent them.
Oscar had managed to come up with a different tactic, feeling like it would be better to slide the anonymous letters through the letterbox at random times of the day instead of each morning whilst he was on his shift to avoid suspicions. Lando would be bound to catch him one day if he continued delivering them with his postman uniform on and then piece everything together.
Daily letters had quietly woven themselves into Lando’s routine. Each day, he'd find another envelope slipped through the door, waiting like a secret. Inside—more sweet, romantic, and sometimes strangely specific words from the anonymous sender.
I caught myself waiting for your silhouette in the cafe window this morning.
Wore that purple hoodie again today. Risky choice, I nearly walked into a lamppost staring.
You probably smell amazing. Sorry if that’s weird.
Each one made his cheeks flush and his chest feel a little too warm.
He would go down to the studio everyday, working on his latest commissions: a couple of car drawings, or a mural for the local library. Then came his newest project—a book cover for an upcoming romance novel. Little did he know he was quietly living out one of his own.
The sender lingered in his thoughts more than he cared to admit. Their words, their imagined voice, the way they seemed to see him so closely—it all took up quiet space in his mind. Soon, Lando found himself beginning to sketch portraits of the sender during work—not just for fun, but almost ritualistically.
He drew variations. One had glasses, one had a distinct mole on his neck, one wore a cap. Each face was different, yet held the same imagined softness.
He told himself it was just curiosity. Artistic habit. But with each drawing, something else settled in. Something warmer.
He was getting attached.
One afternoon at the studio, the soft buzz of pencils and brushes was broken only by the occasional shuffle of feet or hum of conversation. Lando sat tucked in the corner, hunched over his sketchpad, charcoal moving in slow, thoughtful loops. He was drawing it again—that same tousled hair. The imagined strands fell over a brow he couldn’t quite place, but kept drawing anyway. He outlined it again, and again. Noticing the way it curled near the ear. Fixating on it.
He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until a gentle hand settled on his shoulder, the hand of a fellow artist and friend who felt too curious about the whole situation.
“Mate,” came Charles’ voice, warm but curious.
“You alright? You’ve been zoning out for days, like you’re waiting for something to happen.”
Lando blinked hard and looked up, his eyes still adjusting from the tunnel of focus. Charles stood over him, brow arched, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Wha— huh..” Lando said quickly, clearing his throat.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just… stuff at home. Nothing big.”
Charles glanced at the sketchbook before Lando could close it—one of the many portraits, familiar now in its repetition. That same mysterious hair. That same softness.
“Right,” Charles said slowly, clearly unconvinced.
“Well… if the ‘stuff at home’ starts writing love letters or turning into a full-blown muse, let me know. I’ll start charging it rent.”
Lando let out a short laugh, cheeks warming.
“It’s not like that.”
“Didn’t say it was” Charles said, already turning to walk back to his easel.
“But you might want to tell your hands that, because you’ve drawn that guy’s hair like... six times this week.”
Lando watched him go, then looked down at the sketch again. The curls were there, soft and familiar, like someone he’d seen in a dream.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Okay. Maybe it is like that…” he whispered to himself, smiling softly.
After enduring a full day of Charles’s relentless eyebrow wiggles—and the not-so-subtle glances he kept shooting across the studio since their last conversation—Lando finally returned home, the weight of the day still hanging heavy across his shoulders, thoughts scattered somewhere between commissions and curls he couldn’t stop drawing. He climbed the stairs to his apartment, keys jingling softly in his pocket, the stairwell dim in the golden light of dusk.
When he reached his door, something caught his eye. A single envelope, resting just inside the letterbox slot, tilted at an angle like it had been slipped through in a rush.
His breath caught.
He stooped to pick it up, fingers brushing over the now-familiar paper. The neat handwriting had become a quiet kind of comfort.
Lando opened it carefully, almost reverently. A small smile spread across his face as his eyes scanned the words—words that arrived just when he needed them most. Like whoever wrote them had known.
Hope your drawings turn out like you want.
His chest fluttered, warm and full.
“Do they know about all those sketches?” he asks himself hopefully.
“Nah.. must be the stuff I drew down at the cafe.” he sighed, turning towards the door again.
He stumbled inside the apartment and wandered into his room, letter still in hand, tucking the note into the small box on his bedside table—the one where he kept them all. Like tiny treasures.
He placed the lid back on gently, fingers lingering for a moment.
Sitting down on the edge of his bed, a quiet smile still ghosted his lips—heart light, thoughts drifting toward the next letter, and the individual that wrote it.
*
With the arrival of a new day, Lando stirred awake, the weight of his looming deadline already pressing on his chest. Today, he had to be at the studio earlier than usual to finally make a start on the romance novel cover he'd been putting off — the one that had been swirling around in his head but hadn’t yet found form on paper.
Letting out a tired groan, he sat up and pulled on a crisp white graphic tee, slipping a black jacket over it and matching it with dark trousers. A silver chain hung around his neck as a finishing touch, casual but thoughtful.
He grabbed his backpack, keys jingling in hand as he twisted the lock open, hopping on one foot to shove his trainers on, half-balanced in the morning rush.
What he didn’t know was that Oscar was already on his way up the stairwell to his apartment—and much earlier than usual.
Oscar had been careful over the past few weeks. Delivering letters at odd hours, mixing up the schedule just enough to avoid suspicion. But today, he didn’t have the luxury of time. A mandatory work conference meant this delivery had to be squeezed into his regular route, not the quiet evening drop-offs he’d gotten used to.
His morning had been a blur: a rushed uniform change, a letter nearly forgotten on the table, keys left dangling in the door. Still, all he could think about was getting to Lando’s building in time—and unseen.
He arrived breathless, jogging up to the familiar door with his mailbag slung over one shoulder. Steadying his breathing, Oscar paused at the bottom of the stairs, staring up, willing himself to move quietly. Step by step, he crept upward, hoping luck might be on his side just once more.
But before he could reach the top—
The front door swung open with a sudden whoosh, revealing Lando mid-motion, slipping into his second shoe with distracted urgency. His head snapped up, eyes wide at first, then softening in recognition, seeing a familiar face amongst the mess of the morning.
The younger man froze, his expression dropping.
There he was.
Him.
“Gguh.”
That was all Oscar—a professional, government-employed deliverer of important things—managed to say.
Lando blinked at him, baffled but vaguely amused.
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting… Are you delivering something?” he asked, still breathless from the rush, hand braced on the doorframe.
Oscar just stood there, looking like he might fall backwards down the stairs at any second. His knees weren’t exactly cooperating.
Lando, now properly in both shoes, stepped out onto the top stair, narrowing the distance between them. He tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning the flushed and fumbling man below him.
Oscar’s brain caught up, just barely. His hand reached instinctively for the flap of his mailbag, where the letter was burning a hole against his fingers—too familiar, too obvious.
He clutched the bag tighter, like he was guarding a secret.
“Uh. Nope. Just… wrong address,” he stammered, far too quickly.
Lando tilted his head, unconvinced.
“Really? You came all the way up here to say that?”
Oscar gave a tight, crooked smile—the kind that looked more like a wince.
“Yep. It’s… commitment to the bit, I guess.”
Lando let out a soft laugh, folding his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. His gaze lingered, curious now.
“Bit of a dramatic entrance for a mailman, don’t you think?”
Oscar blinked.
“Guess I’m just really passionate about stairs.”
Lando smiled at that—a soft, amused thing that curled at the edges and made Oscar feel like his knees might give out entirely.
“Well, good to know someone’s dedicated around here.”
There was a brief pause, filled only by the quiet rustle of leaves outside and the steady hum of a city waking up.
Then Lando added, gentler this time,
“Hey… you okay?”
Oscar swallowed, caught in the warmth of those words. He glanced down at his bag again, knuckles tightening around the strap. Inside, the letter waited—folded, sealed, far too honest.
He nodded a little too quickly.
“Yeah. Just a weird morning.”
Lando studied him for a moment longer, then stepped back slightly.
“Alright. If you say so.”
He turned to lock the door behind him, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. Then, just before heading down the stairs, he threw one last look back at Oscar.
“Well,” he said, voice light,
“If you ever do have something for me, you know where to find me.”
Oscar stood frozen as Lando passed him on the steps, their shoulders nearly brushing.
He didn’t deliver the letter.
Not yet.
But in his chest, the words inside were starting to press harder—like they didn’t want to stay secret much longer.
Oscar stood there for a long moment, watching as Lando disappeared down the street—all easy strides and sleepy charm, his backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. The morning sun caught in the curls of his hair, painting him golden before he turned the corner and was gone.
He let out a quiet breath, one he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He rubbed the back of his neck, heart still thudding like it hadn’t caught up with the fact that Lando hadn’t figured it out—not yet.
With a final glance at the door, he descended the stairs, his steps slower, more uncertain. His fingers brushed the edge of the envelope still hidden in his bag. Too close. Too much.
Maybe it was best to take a step back—just for a while. Give Lando space. Let the letters breathe. Let his own nerves settle.
He tightened the strap across his chest and continued on with his route, the weight of the day feeling heavier than usual.
Meanwhile, Lando kept walking, hands tucked into his pockets as he passed the quiet cafe fronts and familiar street corners. The encounter replayed in his mind—the strange tension in the postman’s voice, the way his eyes widened like he’d been caught mid-secret.
Odd. But somehow… oddly comforting.
That face, usually a blur in the mornings, had become something familiar now. Not just the man who delivered his letters, but someone who made the world feel just a little more interesting—a little warmer.
*
A few days passed, and the silence began to settle in.
Oscar had made himself a promise—no more letters. At least not for now.
He kept his head down, delivering parcels with mechanical efficiency, never straying from his route, never lingering longer than necessary.
Each time his mind drifted toward Lando, to his soft voice at the door, to that fleeting smile that had almost undone him, he forced the thoughts away.
A distraction, he told himself. A temptation he couldn’t afford.
But the absence of routine—of folded paper and midnight scribbles—was starting to ache.
Meanwhile, across town, Lando felt the quiet in a different way.
It started as a passing thought: maybe the sender was just busy. Then, a day later, a seed of doubt. By the third day, it had settled into something heavy, like waiting for a call you know isn’t coming.
Each morning, he walked to the cafe, taking his usual seat by the window. His sketchpad lay open beside his cup of coffee, pages filled with gentle strokes of imagined smiles and curls that didn’t quite belong to anyone.
He tried to focus on the romance novel cover he’d been commissioned to design, thumbing through the summary the author had sent. A royal love story. A prince torn between duty and desire.
He pictured the prince with kind eyes, flushed cheeks, a hesitant smile. He pictured Oscar.
But even his art had betrayed him lately. Lines abandoned halfway through, ideas fizzling out before they reached the page. His coffee grew cold more often than not.
At the studio, he sat surrounded by half-finished work. A mural concept leaned against the far wall, a sketch of a vintage car waited for clean-up lines. But Lando’s attention drifted, again and again, to his own scattered portraits—versions of someone he’d never truly seen, all pulled from memory and longing.
Charles noticed.
He’d glance over every so often, pausing mid-brushstroke or while cleaning his palette, his gaze lingering on Lando in that knowing way.
“You’re either in love,” he finally said one afternoon, “or haunted. Possibly both.”
Lando didn’t respond. He just smiled faintly, biting his lip, and returned to his sketchpad, tracing the outline of a jaw he knew far too well in theory.
That night, back in his apartment, the silence felt louder than usual.
No letters.
He stood in front of the door for a long moment, hoping, irrationally, that maybe something had arrived while he was out. But there was nothing.
Finally, with a quiet breath, he padded down to his room and pulled out a pen.
If the letters had stopped, maybe it was time he sent one.
He sat down, grabbing the most previous letter that the anonymous writer had sent, flipping it round to the empty side. He took the time to write the words that came to mind, constantly pausing in the process. Then, with a piece of tape, he fixed the envelope to the outside of the front door, low enough so that it would be noticeable to someone who always bent down to reach the mailbox.
He didn’t know if Oscar would find it. He didn’t know if he’d come.
But he needed to try.
And for the first time in days, he slept with a flutter of anticipation in his chest.
*
As if it was meant to be, Oscar sees it before his fingers touch the cold metal of the mailbox later that week. The envelope is taped gently to the front of the mailbox—cream-colored paper, his own handwriting staring back at him, returned like a question waiting to be answered.
Only this time, the slanted and almost calligraphy-like handwriting of the other man is scribbled over the back of the note.
It’s neat. Purposeful. The kind of writing someone does when they sit down and think about what to say thoroughly.
To whoever’s been sending me these letters…
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be creeped out at first.
But then you wrote about how I see the world differently through my drawings and how you take your route a little slower just in case I'm at the cafe.
You’re watching, but you’re also… noticing. And that feels different.
If this is your way of telling me something—anything—then okay. I’m listening.
If you’re real, and this is real, would you meet me at the coffee shop down the block tomorrow at 9:45? I’ll sit by the window in my usual spot. I’ll order two drinks.
If no one shows up, I’ll assume you were a beautiful daydream.
But I hope you’re not. – L
Oscar’s jaw slackened, eyes widening the moment he read the taped-up note. He hadn’t expected that. Not even close.
A direct invitation.
To him.
He stood frozen at Lando’s door, the paper trembling slightly in his hand. For a split second, he glanced around—a reflex— to see if anyone was watching him. As if the entire street might be in on the secret. The street was empty, silent except for the thump of his heartbeat in his ears.
Without another thought, he stuffed the letter he’d originally come to deliver back into his bag and bolted down the stairs. His boots echoed on each step as he took them two at a time, skidding to a stop once he reached the bottom. He slipped out the side door of the block, ducking into the alley that ran alongside it, Lando’s note still clutched tightly in his hand.
Out of breath, and out of sight, he leaned against the brick wall and unfolded the paper again, eyes scanning the words like they might change on the second read.
‘Would you meet me at the coffee shop down the block tomorrow at 9:45?’
His thumb traced the edge of the note, soft as if it might bruise.
A sharp laugh escaped him—half nerves, half disbelief.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, cheeks flushing.
He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, muffling the absurd smile that had begun to form.
“I can’t go meet him. Is he out of his mind?” he whispered to himself, voice half-choked with emotion.
His accent thickened as he spoke again, more to the empty street than to anyone else.
“Nah, I can’t go there. What if he knows?”
He shook his head, pacing a few steps in either direction, the letter still in his grip.
“And what am I even supposed to say, huh? ‘Hey handsome, I’ve been writing you love letters for weeks. Cheers for not calling the cops’?”
Another nervous breath slipped out of him, this time softer.
The idea of seeing Lando again—not from a distance, not through the safety of a letter, but face to face—filled him with both terror and longing.
A part of him had been waiting for this, hadn’t it? And now that it was here, it felt too big, too fast, too real.
He looked down at the note once more.
“Reckon I’m screwed either way.”
And yet, he didn’t throw it away.
He just stood there, alone on the quiet street, heart pounding, debating with everything in him whether or not to show up tomorrow.
Meanwhile, the page in his hand fluttered softly in the breeze.