Page 23 of The Broken Keys

The shop is a tiny place with a bell that rings when you open the door, the kind of joint that still remembers people’s names. I order a pint because I have to keep ritual where ritual matters, and that’s what we used to do when we were dating as teenagers.

Fucking hell, that was a long time ago.

The woman behind the counter tosses in a napkin and winks like she knows this is more than dessert. People see things if they pay attention.

Container in my hand, I stroll back to the car, drive to Livianna’s neighborhood, return to her gate, and sit. I consider the sugar, butter, and all the things I’m not allowed to have yet. I play back the last few moments we shared.

“I can’t,”she whispered.

My heart flattens as if someone’s pacing on it. I rehearse every sentence I didn’t say on the balcony. I practice gentleness, patience, and not losing myself again if she tells me something that breaks me.

My phone vibrates. Her name on the screen makes the world shrink to a single, brittle moment.

I don’t answer. Instead, I thumb a text that won’t demand, won’t frighten, and says more by being small.

Me:I got the cookie dough treat you requested. Wanna bring it in like a knight with less armor. No pressure. I’ll wait in the car to hear if you want me to come inside. If not, I’ll go. Whatever you need.

I press send. Everything inside me clamps down. My vulnerability is embarrassing and true.

I’m trying to be better, but there’s a drive in me that causes me to push her boundaries every damn time.

Why the fuck did I get on her about the Malibu house?

It shouldn’t fucking matter…but it does. The minutes stretch. I grip the phone in my palm and breathe. And then finally…

Lily:You promised me ice cream, so…

The knot in my chest loosens. I wait for her to buzz me in and rush out of my car so fast my knee knocks the dashboard.

She meets me in the entryway with the door already open, hair loose, and cheeks hollowed with the leftover confrontation.

For a second, all the air between us is strained and guarded. I hand her the pint like it’s a small peace offering, but the gesture is ridiculous and honest.

She takes it from me and motions for me to enter. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Any time you need something, I’ll be here.”

We walk in silence. The kitchen island becomes our neutral ground, two spoons and a pint of cookie dough ice cream between us like a peace treaty we’re both pretending to honor.

The tension from the balcony still hums in the air, but we’re dancing around it with careful smiles and safer conversation.

“Callum, this is exactly what I need.”

“Good, because I wanna do the small things. The ones that mean nothing and everything.”

She gives me a gentle smile and pauses.

“You know what I just realized?” She licks her spoon clean, and I have to focus on her words instead of the way her tongue moves. “I never asked how you knew about my Pilates obsession.”

“You said you were meditating and doing Pilates as yourtherapy. Guns mentioned you’re addicted to it.” I dig into the carton, stealing the biggest chunk of cookie dough. “Said you’ve been going religiously since you moved back.”

“Easy now.” She laughs, reaching across to claim the spoon from my hand. “That’s for me.”

Her fingers brush against mine as she takes it.

The contact sends electricity straight through my veins. “Everything in this container belongs to me, vixen. I bought it.”

“Sharing is caring, Callum.” She takes a deliberately slow bite, eyes locked on mine. She swallows. “Besides, I thought you said I could steal the bigger slice.”