Page 24 of Spotlight Hearts

“Thanks, Dr. Phil.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the carpet. “It’s complicated. She saw the pics from dinner. Thinks it looks too real. Thinks I want it to be real.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches me, patient in that Michael way—as though he’s waiting for the real answer to fall out.

I sigh. “And maybe…maybe she’s not completely wrong.”

There. Said it. Quiet. To the one person in this band who won’t judge me for it.

Michael exhales through his nose, sets his phone down. “The Kuca thing’s getting under your skin, huh?”

“It’s not supposed to.” I rub the back of my neck, feeling the tension there. “It’s fake. Scripted. Just selling the lust the fans want. But last night…it didn’t feel like bullshit. Not all of it.”

Michael nods slowly. “I saw the pics. You looked…comfortable. Like you weren’t acting.”

“Yeah.” I laugh again, weaker this time. “And Kai? He still looks at me like I’m the reason his life is a constant headache. So whatever this is, it’s one-sided. And stupid. And temporary.”

Michael scoots to the edge of his bed, facing me fully now. “You sure about that last part? The temporary thing? Harry has some kind of hard-on for the two of you together.”

I meet his eyes. “Has to be. Whitney’s right—I can’t keep doing this to her. And I can’t keep doing this to myself. Pretending I don’t feel…whatever the fuck I’m feeling…when Kai probably still wants to strangle me half the time.”

Michael’s quiet for a second, then shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s just as freaked out as you are. Guy’s got walls higher than the Hollywood sign. Doesn’t mean there’s nothing behind them.”

I snort. “Optimist.”

“Realist,” he corrects. “I’ve watched you two on stage for months. The way you move around each other? That’s not hate. That’s something. And on stage the other night? The crowd felt it. We all felt it.”

I drop my head into my hands. “Great. So the whole world knows I’m losing my mind over the guy who can’t stand me.”

“Nah. We know you’re human.” He stands, stretches, then claps me on the shoulder as he heads toward the bathroom. “Talk to her when you’re ready. And maybe…talk to him. Even if it’s just to figure out what the hell is actually going on in your head.”

He disappears into the bathroom, door clicking shut.

I flop back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

Whitney’s face flashes in my mind—tears, anger, hurt. Then Kai’s—flushed cheeks when he found me naked in the shower, surprised eyes when my hand settled on his back, the way he didn’t pull away. Not that he could.

I groan, drag the blanket over my face again.

We’ll make up. Whitney and I always do. We fight, we cool off, we fall back into the same pattern. It’s easy. Safe.

But this thing with Kai? It’s not safe. It’s not easy. And the longer I pretend it’s just business, the more it feels like the opposite.

Fuck.

I need coffee. And a plan.

NINE

KAI

The tour bus rumbles down the highway somewhere between Phoenix and Vegas—close enough that flying felt pointless, far enough that the road trip stretches into a long, confined afternoon. Harry’s “efficiency” call: save the jet fuel, keep the band together, let the fake-dating rumors simmer while we’re all trapped in this rolling tin can. Great plan. Truly.

I’m wedged into the u-shaped corner booth at the back lounge, legs stretched across one bench, back against the window. The vibration of the tires hums through my spine. Michael’s dealing cards across the small table—Texas Hold’em, low stakes, just for something to do. Min-ho’s opposite me, calm as always, stacking chips with quiet precision. Luca’s sprawled between Michael and me, one arm slung along the back of the seat, fingers drumming idly near my shoulder. Too close. Always too close.

The bus hits a bump. Luca’s knee knocks mine under the table. Neither of us moves away.

“Call,” Luca says, tossing a chip into the pot without looking at his cards. His voice is lazy, but there’s an edge to it—the same edge from the alley last night, from the way he paused halfway out of the SUV like he wanted to say more but didn’t.

I glance at my hand: pocket aces. Solid. I match the bet, then raise. “Raise. Twenty.”