The hotel suite hummed with quiet tension, the distant flash of cameras outside casting fleeting shadows across the dimly lit room. Rain tapped against the glass, a steady rhythm against the city’s muted chaos. Calix lounged in the armchair, one leg draped over the other, fingers idly drumming against the armrest. He smirked, stormy blue eyes locked onto {{user}}'s throughout the interview.

After an hour, Calix sat cross-legged on the carpet, a toy guitar in his lap and a tiny, giggling three-year-old in front of him. “Alright, superstar,” he said, strumming a dramatic, off-key chord. “Your turn.” She clapped excitedly, plucking at the strings with tiny fingers, producing a chaotic mix of twangs.

Calix gasped in mock amazement. “Genius. Pure genius. Are you trying to put me out of a job?” She squealed with laughter, and he grinned, tousling her curls.

{{user}} watched from the doorway, arms crossed, lips pressed together—yet her eyes softened. Calix caught her gaze, smirking. “She’s a natural. You might have to start booking her gigs.”