Page 36 of Spotlight Hearts

Min-ho drops into the seat beside me without a word. He buckles in, pulls out his phone to put it in airplane mode, then leans in just enough that his voice stays low, barely above a whisper.

“You kissed Luca?”

The question is soft, but I still feel it all the way in my stomach as butterflies try to take flight. I inhale sharply. My eyes flick across the cabin—Luca’s profile is turned toward the window, his sunglasses and cap blocking any expression he might be wearing. I can’t read him at all.

I swallow. Keeping my voice just as quiet. “Yeah, I did.”

Min-ho doesn’t react outwardly. “Last night?”

“In the gym.” My throat feels tight. “After…everything. It’s really my fault because I went to him, and I didn’t stop him. Then I—” I stop. Shrug. “I left.”

Min-ho exhales through his nose. “That’s crazy.”

“Yeah.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “What are you going to do now?”

“Nothing. It was a mistake.”

The captain’s voice comes over the speaker, telling us to prepare for takeoff. The seatbelt sign dings on. And the conversation is over.

The Chicago hotel suite is too big, enough room for all four of us. Michael’s already crashed in his room, snoring through the wall. Luca’s vanished into his—door shut, lights off. I’m pacing the living area, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Laney’s contact. But it’s Min-ho who finds me first.

He steps out of the kitchenette with two bottles of water, tossing one my way. “Can’t sleep?”

I catch it. Twist the cap. “No.”

He drops onto the couch, legs stretched out. Twenty-one but looks older tonight—dark circles under his eyes, black hair still damp from a shower. He’s always been the steady one: smart, loyal, serious. The guy who plans the set lists and remembers everyone’s birthdays without making a fuss. But right now, he looks as if he’s carrying more than just tour fatigue.

“Luca?” he asks, straight to the point.

I sit across from him and nod. There really isn’t a need for words.

Min-ho takes a sip of water, eyes thoughtful. “You two have been circling this for months. It was bound to blow up.”

I rub my neck, remembering Luca’s hand there this morning. “I keep pushing him away. I don’t know why.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then he says, “Because you’re scared. Same reason I keep things locked down.”

The admission hangs there. Min-ho doesn’t talk about himself much—never has. But when he does, it’s like unlocking a door he’s guarded for years.

We go back to middle school in L.A.’s Korea-town—two Korean-American kids in a sea of chaos. Min-ho’s family had immigrated from Seoul when he was nine; his dad ran a small grocery store, working 16-hour days, and his mom was a seamstress in a garment factory. No time for extras. Min-ho was the only child, the golden hope—expected to excel, to make the sacrifices worth it. He did: straight As, math club, no trouble. But school was hell. Bullies targeted him for his accent, his quiet nature, the way he didn’t fight back. He’d bury himself in books or homework, pretending it didn’t hurt.

I was the opposite—foster kid, angry, lashing out, already flunked in the sixth grade. One day in eighth grade, I saw three guys corner him in the hall, mocking his lunchbox (banchan his mom packed with love). I jumped in. Punches were thrown. Detention earned. After that, we were inseparable.

He tutored me through algebra; I taught him how to throw a punch (though he never used it). We’d skip class to hang in abandoned lots, dreaming about music—me singing, him tapping beats on whatever was around. He came out to me first, sophomore year—whispered it in the dark of my foster room, terrified his parents would disown him if they knew.

“They expect a wife, kids, the whole thing,” he’d said. “I can’t be… this.”

I hugged him. Told him he was family to me, no matter what. He’s stayed in the closet since—loyal to his roots, but trapped by them.

“You remember that night after my parents found out about the skipped classes?” Min-ho says now, pulling me back. “Dad yelling about how I was throwing away my future for ‘stupid dreams’? You snuck me out. We crashed at Laney’s. You said, ‘We’ll make it big. Prove them wrong.’”

I nod. “You believed me.”

He smiles faintly. “Still do. But it’s hard sometimes. Being the ‘serious one.’ Loyal to the band, to you, but hiding parts of myself. Feels as though I’m always one wrong move from losing it all.”

His voice cracks just a little. The closeted weight he carries—family expectations clashing with who he is—surfaces in moments like this. He’s never dated openly, never risked the spotlight exposing him before he’s ready.