Page 39 of Spotlight Hearts

The beat drops, and Min-ho finishes the song. We freeze in the pose—my hand still under his shirt, his fingers still ghosting over my cock, bodies pressed flush. Lights strobe. The crowd loses it.

I’m shaking. He’s shaking. And for the first time in weeks, the space between us isn’t cold.

It’s burning me alive.

Lights cut.

We don’t move right away. His hand finally drops as mine slides out from under his shirt. He steps forward first, and I follow him. Offstage, the roar still echoes in my ears, but I’m not thinking about the concert anymore.

THIRTEEN

KAI

The encore fades. Lights crash to black. The roar of the crowd swallows everything—twenty thousand voices screaming for more, for us, for Kuca. I stand there in the dark, chest heaving, sweat pouring down my back, Luca’s arm still loose around my waist like he forgot to let go. Or like he doesn’t want to.

The stage high should be crashing through me right now—adrenaline spiking, endorphins flooding, the rush of nailing a sold-out show in New York. But all I feel is turmoil. A storm twisting in my gut, hot and chaotic, centered on the man at my back.

I step away from him, and we stumble offstage together—bodies brushing, breaths syncing without meaning to. The crew claps us on the back. Tasha’s grinning, phone already buzzing with notifications. Michael whoops something about “best show yet.” Min-ho shoots me a look, but I avoid his eyes.

Luca doesn't look at me as we enter the green room. Just grabs a towel, wipes his face, and heads for the water cooler as if nothing happened.

But something did.

On stage, during “Starlight Ruin,” the choreography stopped being fake the second his hand dragged up my side. His palm on my bare skin; hot, callused, and possessive, sent fire straight through me. I arched back into him for real, head falling against his shoulder, throat exposed to him in invitation. And when I felt him—hard and thick against my ass—I didn’t pull away. I pressed closer. My hand dropped, brushed over his thigh, and moved higher to the bulge in his pants, disguised as part of the move, but nothing about it was scripted. We both know it.

And God, I wanted more.

Now, in the green room, the turmoil hits full force. My body’s still buzzing—skin too tight, cock half-hard in my leather pants, every nerve lit up like the arena lights. I grab a water bottle, chug it, trying to cool the heat pooling low in my stomach. But my mind won’t stop replaying it: his fingers squeezing my pec, thumb grazing my nipple just enough to make it harden; the way his breath hitched when I touched him; the electric jolt when our eyes locked mid-move, with raw want.

I’m terrified.

This isn’t supposed to be real. It’s a contract. A performance. A way to save the band. But tonight, on that stage, it crossed every line I’ve tried to keep in place. I wanted it. And now the crowd has footage—phones capturing every brush, every arch, every fucking move. By morning, #Kuca will be exploding again, fans dissecting it like proof we’re together for real. Harry will love it. The charts will spike.

But what about me? What about the part where I can’t stop picturing Luca’s hand higher, lower, everywhere? The part where I regret running from the gym that night, where I wish I’d stayed and let him push me against the wall, let his mouth map every inch of me? The part where the control I’ve clung to since foster care—since proving I deserved a spot in this world—is crumbling because of him?

I attempt to shove it all away and dip into the changing room to get into my normal clothes. When I’m done and I step back out, I glance at Luca. He’s laughing at something Michael said—forced but there. His platinum hair is sweat-damp, mesh top clinging to his chest. He catches my eye for a split second—hazel gaze flicking away fast.

I want him. Badly. The way he felt against me—hard, wanting, real—has been playing on loop since the beat drop. My body aches for it. But letting go means risking everything: the band, my control, the walls that kept me safe when nothing else did.

My phone pings with a text message from Laney:

Shit, Kai. That’s hot. Tell me it felt as hot as it looked.

Attached is a video of Luca and me on stage, my hand on his crotch, his on my chest, and pure desire painted on my face. Oh fuck. This is worse than I thought.

I type back quickly,

Not hot. And what are you stalking the Kuca tag?

She sends back a laughy face emoji.

I was going to suggest meeting tonight, since you’re in town, but maybe you have other plans. lol

We can meet. The label rented out Zero Bond for the after party. I’ll put you on the list.

Look at you, Mr. Pop star.

I’ll tell Min-ho you’ll be there.