Page 43 of Spotlight Hearts

I laugh at something Michael yells across the room. Nod when someone congratulates me on the show. Pose for a quick photo with a label exec who wants to “capture the Kuca energy.” Brush off questions of if I’ll ever be as good as the legend Dax Clark. That last one makes me take two shots from a passing waitress as I fake a laugh. Fucker.

I play the part to perfection, the way I always have. People expect a nepo-baby, and that’s what they get. When the night is finally over, Kai and Min-ho decide to go back to Laney’s apartment for the night, and I head back to the hotel with Michael.

Michael’s arm is heavy across my shoulders, his weight sagging into me with every step. He’s trashed—three drinks past fun, two past coherent—belting out the chorus of “Midnight Nova” loud enough to wake anyone who might be sleeping. His voice cracks on the high note, turns into a laugh that ends in a hiccup. I half-carry him the last stretch to the hotel, ignoring the doorman’s raised eyebrow and the faint flash of a phone camera from across the street.

“Best… show… ever,” he slurs, poking my cheek with one finger. “You and Kai—fuckin’ fire, man. Crowd lost their shit.”

I force a grin. “Yeah. Crowd loved it.”

He doesn’t notice the way my smile doesn’t reach my eyes or see how my hands are still unsteady when I fish the key card out of my pocket. Inside the elevator, he slumps against the wall, head lolling. “You okay? You’re quiet. Like…quiet-quiet. Not fun-quiet.”

I hit the button for our floor. “Just tired. Long night.”

He squints at me like he’s trying to focus through the alcohol haze. “Bullshit. You’ve been weird since you were on the balcony with Kai. And it got worse when Kai left with Laney.”

I don’t answer. The elevator dings. Doors slide open on our floor, and I grab onto him to haul him out.

Michael stumbles with a laugh, leaning on me again. “You two need to fuck or fight or something. The tension’s killing me. And I’m drunk, so I get to say it.”

I laugh—short, hollow. “Noted.”

We make it to the room. I get him inside, half-drag him to his bed. He flops face-down with a groan, already snoring before I can pull his shoes off. I toss a blanket over him, dim the lights, and head for my side of the suite.

The room is dark except for the city glow through the curtains. I don’t turn on a lamp. Just strip down to boxers, sit on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.

The silence is loud.

I grab my phone off the nightstand. Open TikTok again—because apparently I hate myself.

The #Kuca tag is flooded with mixes of all of the times we’ve been on camera. Including one from that day in Vegas when I kissed him in front of that pap. And now they have new footage. Harry does actually know what sells, even if he’s a jackass most of the time.

And I have to admit, we look hot together. Yin and yang. Dark and light. His pale skin next to mine would…shit…yeah, I need to think of something else.

I lock the phone. Toss it onto the nightstand. Fall back onto the mattress, arms over my eyes.

The room is dark except for the blue glow of the city bleeding through the curtains. Michael’s snoring is steady now from his room—deep, even, the kind that means he’s out for the night. The AC hums low. Outside, New York keeps moving—car horns, distant sirens, the never-ending pulse of a city that doesn’t sleep.

I should be exhausted. The show was brutal—two encores, extra choreography, the crowd screaming so loud my ears are still ringing. My body feels heavy, muscles aching in that good way, but my mind won’t shut off.

I try. I really do.

I count breaths. In for four. Hold. Out for six. The technique Min-ho taught me years ago when tour anxiety used to keep me up. It works sometimes.

Not tonight.

Every time I close my eyes, I see him.

Kai on stage tonight—head thrown back, throat exposed, vines tattoo stark against pale skin as I dragged my hand up his side. The way he arched into me. The feather light brush of his fingers over my cock through the leather. The crack in my voice when I stumbled over the lyric. The way the crowd lost their minds, thinking it was all part of the show.

I can still feel the heat of his palm. The way his hips rolled back against me. The way his breath hitched when I squeezed his pec, thumb grazing his nipple just enough to make it harden under my touch.

My dick twitches again—traitorous, insistent. I shift onto my stomach, press my hips into the mattress, try to will it away. It doesn’t help.

I roll onto my back again. Arms still over my eyes. Try the breathing thing one more time.

In. Hold. Out.

In. Hold. Out.