Page 3 of The Broken Keys

“Is it working?”

“Better than I expected. Turns out punching things in a controlled environment is way more satisfying than hitting walls when I’m drunk.” I catch her wince at the mention of my old habits. “I haven’t touched alcohol in eight months, Lily.”

Her eyes widen. “Eight months?”

“Yeah, right now I need clean living, disciplined workouts, and an actual sleep schedule. Guns calls it my ‘boring era.’” I gesture to her. “What about you? You look like you’ve been living on coffee and air.”

“Thanks,” she says dryly.

“You’re still gorgeous. You just seem tired.”

“Honestly, I am.” She pulls my hoodie over her bent knees. “Paris was…intense. The fashion world doesn’t really encourage healthy habits.”

“Tell me about it. What was a typical day like for you there?”

“Early mornings and late nights. Lots of meetings with manufacturers and designers. Photo shoots, fashion weeks, and networking events where everyone smiles while they try to destroy each other.”

“Sounds familiar.”

She considers something for a few beats. “Now that I think about it, it’s a lot like Hollywood. It’s kind of lonely, actually. Even when you’re surrounded by people.”

“You miss being there?”

“I miss…” She glances around my living room, taking in the guitars, the photos, the comfortable chaos that somehow feels more like home than any mansion should. “I miss feeling like I belong somewhere with someone who wants to build something lasting with me.”

The weight of those words settles between us. Was the man she was seeing in Paris more than a casual fling?

“What about the new music?” She changes the subjectbefore I can respond to the vulnerability she just showed me. “Is it different from the ‘Forget Paris’ album?”

I can’t help but beam at that. “You listened to it?”

“Yes, I listened to it.” Her cheeks flush pink. “Every song. Multiple times.”

“Which one is your favorite?”

“You know which one.” She glares at me, but there’s no real heat in it. “‘My Untouchable Son’ made me cry for two days straight.”

“Good. It was supposed to.”

“You’re awful.” She throws a pillow at me.

I catch it.

“You love it when I’m awful.” The words come out too much like the way we used to flirt when everything between us was simple.

We stare at each other, and for a moment, all the years fall away. We’re just Callum and Lily again, seventeen and fifteen, discovering that love could feel scary and safe at the same time.

“The new stuff is different.” I give us both an escape from the tension. “More hopeful, maybe. Less angry and less…groveling. Guns says it’s because I’m finally processing my trauma instead of drowning in it.”

“That’s good,” she whispers. “You deserve to be hopeful.”

“So do you.” I lean forward slightly, studying the exhaustion in her face, the careful way she holds herself as if she’s afraid of taking up too much space. “Lily, what happened tonight? What made you come here?”

She takes a few beats. Then she gazes up at me, and the agony she’s been hiding behind her gentle presence is undeniable.

“I... I wanted to remember what it feels like to have someone want to spend time with me just because.” Her voice breaks slightly. “And you’ve always been one of the few people who’s made me feel like I’m enough, exactly as I am.”

Yet the obvious questions hang between us. Why did she come here tonight, specifically? What happened today to put that broken look in her eyes? Who hurt her, and how badly do I need to destroy them?