Page 44 of Spotlight Hearts

All I see is him—dark eyes locked on mine mid-choreo, pupils blown, lips parted. The memory of his mouth on mine in the gym weeks ago. The way he looked at me on the balcony tonight when he admitted he does want me, but…we are going to keep it professional.

The word still tastes like ash.

I drag my hands down my face. Stare at the ceiling. The city lights flicker across it in slow patterns.

I should sleep. Tomorrow’s another city, another show, another round of selling the same heat we’re both drowning in.

But my body won’t settle, and my mind won’t stop.

I keep seeing his hand on me. Keep feeling the way he pressed back. Keep hearing the crack in my voice when I moaned into the mic.

And the worst part is that I know he felt it, too. I know he wanted it, too. So why the fuck are we still pretending?

I roll onto my side again. Curl in. Try to force my eyes closed. They won’t stay shut. The clock on the nightstand glows at 3:47 a.m.

Tomorrow, everything will be back to normal, I tell myself. He’ll hate me. I’ll hate him. It will be perfect. But the lie tastes worse every time I repeat it. Because normal doesn’t feel like this.

Normal doesn’t leave me hard and aching and staring at the ceiling at 3:47 a.m., replaying the way Kai’s fingers felt on me, wondering if he’s lying awake at Laney’s doing the same thing.

Wondering if he’s thinking about me right now.

Wondering if he’s regretting walking away tonight as much as I’m regretting letting him.

I close my eyes again. Force them shut. But sleep doesn’t come. And the night stretches on.

The clock ticks to 3:48.

At least I won’t be coherent enough to have thoughts on the plane tomorrow.

FIFTEEN

KAI

The private jet hums steady at thirty-five thousand feet, cutting through the sky toward Miami—the last stop of the US leg. The cabin is quiet except for the low murmur of the engines and Michael’s occasional soft snore from the seat across the aisle. Min-ho is reading something on his tablet, earbuds in, lost in his own world. Luca is in the front row—alone—sunglasses on, hoodie up, headphones over his ears. He hasn’t spoken to me since the balcony last night. Hasn’t looked at me once this morning.

He’s painfully professional.

And I hate it.

I regret agreeing to it the second the word left his mouth. Professional. Like we’re colleagues. Like the way my hand moved over his cock on stage was just choreography. Like the way he groaned into the mic—cracked, desperate—was part of the script. Like I didn’t feel him throb under my palm, thick and wanting, and want to drop to my knees right there in front of twenty thousand people.

I regret it so much my chest aches.

We’re heading into the final show before a short break—ten days off before the overseas leg starts. I should be relieved. A chance to breathe, reset, get my head straight. But the thought of being away from him for ten days makes me feel sick. Insane. I’ve spent months telling myself I need space from him, and now the idea of actually getting it feels like losing something I never admitted I had.

I’m staring at the back of his head—platinum strands peeking from under the hoodie—when Tasha walks down the aisle from the front cabin, tablet in hand. She stops beside my seat, keeps her voice low.

“Harry wants a quick conference call. Just you, Luca, me, and him. Back here—conference table.”

Luca passes her, and she nods toward the small table at the rear of the cabin. I watch as he drops into one of the seats and takes his headphones off, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. He doesn’t look happy about it.

I unbuckle and follow, sitting across from Luca. Tasha takes the end seat and taps her tablet, pressing the volume button until it’s as loud as it gets.

Harry’s face pops up onto the screen, and he looks pleased. “Gentlemen. That performance last night? It was fire. Absolute fire. ‘Starlight Ruin’ just jumped to number one on the streaming charts. Number one. The way you two looked at each other like you were seconds from tearing each other’s clothes off? That’s exactly what sells. That’s what the fans are eating up. Congratulations.”

Luca doesn’t react. Just stares at the table, unblinking, jaw tight.

Harry keeps going. “After Miami, you’ve got the break. But I want you to use it. I’m booking you both a trip to the Bahamas—private villa, beach access, the works. Paps will be tipped off. Get photos of you walking hand-in-hand on the sand, lounging by the pool, looking cozy. Make it look like the tour break is a romantic getaway. The fans will go insane. The charts will stay hot. We’ll ride this wave straight into Asia. Of course, you can have separate rooms in the villa. And it will only be a few days, then you’ll have the rest of the time off, as promised.”