Page 4 of Spotlight Hearts

TWO

LUCA

The hallway outside the press room is quieter now, the post-show frenzy finally bleeding out. I push through the side door into the loading dock area—cool air, concrete, the faint smell of diesel and rain from earlier. My phone’s been buzzing nonstop since we walked off stage. Notifications stack like bricks: #Kuca trending worldwide again, fan edits already splicing tonight’s almost-kiss with old clips, hearts and fire emojis flooding every comment. I swipe them away without reading.

Whitney’s waiting by her car, parked next to the black SUV Tasha always parks back here for “discreet” exits. She’s leaning against the hood in that leather jacket she stole from my closet last year, arms crossed, lips pursed like she’s been practicing the look in a mirror. Her blonde hair is pulled into a messy bun, and even in the dim lights, she looks good—familiar, the kind of pretty that used to make everything feel easy.

She doesn’t smile when she sees me.

“Really, Luca?” she says before I even reach her. “Another almost kiss? You’re trending harder than your dad’s reunion tour.”

I force a grin, the one that usually gets me out of anything. “Hey. Good to see you, too.”

“Don’t.” She pushes off the car, steps closer. Her perfume hits me—vanilla and something floral, same as always. “I saw the livestream of the press after the show. The way you looked at him. The arm around his shoulders. The little ‘baby’ bullshit. People are losing their minds.”

“It’s the job,” I say, keeping my voice light. “You know that. Harry’s breathing down our necks. Sales are tanking. We need the buzz.”

She laughs, but it’s bitter, no warmth in it. “The buzz. Right. Because nothing says ‘saving the band’ like making out with your bandmate on camera while your actual girlfriend sits in the parking lot like an idiot.”

“Ex,” I correct gently. “We’ve been on-again, off-again since senior year. You said it yourself last month—you needed space.”

“Yeah, well, space feels a lot smaller when I open Tiktok and see thousands of people shipping you with Kai fucking Jung.” She pulls out her phone and shoves the screen in my face. A fan edit: slow-mo of tonight’s cheek kiss, our faces lit gold under the press lights, overlaid with pink sparkles and some sappy ballad. The caption: They’re so in love it hurts.

I look at it longer than I mean to.

There he is—Kai. Black hair slicked back perfectly, not a strand out of place even after ninety minutes of lights and sweat. He obviously got that shower he told me to get. Eyeliner smudged just enough to make his eyes look darker, sharper, looking as if they could cut glass. Those eyes were locked on mine for that split second before he turned away on stage. Something that wasn’t entirely for the show, I don’t think. Something that made my stomach flip in a way I’m not ready to examine.

I shove the phone back at her. “It’s fake, Whit. All of it. Choreography. Scripted. You’ve seen the contract and fan-service including faking a relationship is on the table. It’s literally paperwork. And there is no difference between what I do and what you do.”

She studies me, eyes narrowing. “You sure about that?”

“Positive.” I step closer, drop my voice. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Kai hates my guts. I’m just the guy who shows up late and ruins his perfect little world. He’d rather die than actually want me. And the feeling is mutual.”

She searches my face for a long beat. Then she sighs, shoulders dropping a fraction. “Fine. But if this gets any more convincing, I’m not sitting quietly while the internet plans your wedding.”

I laugh—real this time, a little relieved. “Noted. No weddings. Scout’s honor.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at her mouth now. “You were never a scout.”

“Details.”

She leans up, kisses me quick—soft, possessive, the way she always does when she’s claiming territory and saying we’re back on again. “Text me later. And maybe don’t call him ‘baby’ next time.”

“No promises,” I tease. “It’s in the stage directions.”

She flips me off as she climbs into her car. The door slams. Taillights flare red, then fade down the ramp.

I stand there in the quiet, hands in my pockets, staring at the empty spot where the car was.

My mind doesn’t stay on Whitney.

It drifts back to the press room. To the way Kai’s cheek felt under my lips—warm, smooth, the faintest hint of stubble that scratched just right. To the way his breath hitched for half a second when I said “baby,” even though he covered it with that ironclad smile. To his eyes up close—dark brown, almost black under the liner, framed by lashes that shouldn’t look that long and lush on a guy who acts like he’s made of steel.

Perfect. Always so fucking perfect. Hair styled as if he woke up that way, clothes pressed, voice never cracking, steps never missing a beat. As though he’s terrified one tiny flaw will make the whole thing collapse.

I hate that about him.

I hate how he looks at me like I’m a glitch in his system. I hate how he snaps at me for being late like it’s a personal betrayal. I hate how he makes control look effortless when I know it costs him everything.