Page 25 of Spotlight Hearts

Michael whistles. “Bold, Jung. You feeling lucky today?”

“Feeling like I’m tired of losing to idiots,” I mutter.

Luca snorts, eyes flicking to mine over the cards. “Careful. That almost sounded like flirting.”

I meet his gaze—steady, challenging. “If it did, you’d know. You’re the expert on selling it.”

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile. “Yeah? And you’re getting better at faking it. That little shiver last night when I put my hand on your back? Oscar-worthy.”

Heat crawls up my neck. I force it down, lean forward to study my cards as though they’re the most interesting thing in the world. “Keep dreaming, Clark. It was cold outside. That’s all.”

“Cold in Phoenix," he echoes, voice dropping low enough that only I can hear it. “Right. Must’ve been why you leaned into my palm like you were starving for it.”

Michael clears his throat—loud, theatrical—and deals the flop: queen, ten, three. Min-ho’s eyes flick between us, then to Michael. A quick, knowing look passes. Michael’s mouth quirks. Min-ho raises one eyebrow, barely perceptible.

I pretend not to notice. Because if I acknowledge it—if I call out the silent we see you two circling each other like idiots conversation they’re having—I’d have to admit there’s something to see.

And there isn’t.

There can’t be.

Luca bets big on the flop. I call. Min-ho folds with a quiet sigh. Michael stays in, grinning like he’s enjoying the show more than the game.

The turn: king.

Luca’s eyes lift to mine again. Unhurried. Intentional. “All in.”

My pulse kicks. Not from the cards. From the way he’s looking at me—as though he’s daring me to fold, or call, or do anything that proves I’m not as unaffected as I pretend.

I push my chips in. “Call.”

River: ace.

I’ve got a set. Luca flips his cards—straight. He wins.

He leans back, smirking. “Told you. Lucky day.”

I stare at the table, cards blurring. The bus hits another bump. His knee presses against mine again—firmer this time, lingering. I don’t pull away.

Michael collects the chips, chuckling. “You two are something else. Every hand feels like foreplay.”

Min-ho shoots him a look—warning, amused—then glances at me. Silent question in his eyes: You good?

I nod once. Tight. I don’t trust my voice right now.

Luca stretches, arms overhead, shirt riding up just enough to show off the dips in his hips. My eyes flick there before I can stop them. He catches it. Of course he does.

“See something you like, Jung?” he murmurs, leaning close enough to whisper the words almost directly into my ear.

I force my gaze back to his face. “Just wondering how you manage to look like a walking cliché even when you’re losing at cards.”

He laughs—low, genuine—and the sound hits me square in the chest. “Takes one to know one. And I’m winning, or don’t you remember the last hand?”

Luca pushes some of his winnings toward me, and Michael deals the next hand. Min-ho’s watching us again, that same knowing look. Michael mirrors it. Neither says a word.

I swallow. Focus on my cards. On the road ahead. On anything but the way Luca’s knee is still pressed to mine, warm and unyielding.

Because if I let myself think about it—if I let myself wonder why I don’t move, why his presence feels less like an annoyance and more like gravity—I’ll have to face the truth I’ve been dodging since the shower.