Page 6 of Spotlight Hearts

“Fancy. Tell Dax I said hi. And ask him if he still has that signed Les Paul he owes me.”

I laugh. “Dream on.”

Michael grabs his bag, slings it higher. “Come on. Walk with me. I need to hear all about how Kai’s eyeliner game tonight almost made you forget your own name.”

“Fuck off,” I say, but I’m already falling into step beside him, shoulder to shoulder, the way we’ve done after a hundred shows.

He keeps teasing the whole way to the SUV—Kuca edits, fan theories, how Kai’s “brooding stare” is apparently “foreplay in slow motion.” I fire back with my own shit: his terrible post-show dance moves, the way he once tripped over his own mic cable mid-joke when it fell out of his holder. We’re both laughing by the time we reach the others, the knot in my chest loosening just enough to breathe.

Michael’s good like that. He doesn’t let me stay in my head too long.

And tonight, I need that more than I want to admit.

Because even as I climb into the SUV, even as I text my mom On my way home, my mind keeps drifting back to one thing.

Kai’s eyes under those lights.

Dark. Sharp. Perfect. And the way, for one stupid second, I didn’t want to walk away. I shove it down again.

It’s nothing. Just the job. Just the show.

THREE

KAI

He’s late. Again.

I shouldn’t even be surprised anymore. I don’t think he knows how to be on time. We should really start telling Luca an arrival time that’s an hour before we actually need him places.

The rehearsal stage is half-lit, work lights casting long shadows across the black floor. The rest of us have been here for forty-five minutes already—Min-ho running scales quietly in the corner, Michael stretching like he’s prepping for yoga instead of choreography, Tasha checking her tablet with that patient-but-exasperated look she gets when Luca’s involved. The clock above the sound booth reads 10:17. Call time was 10:00 sharp.

I’m leaning against the speaker stack, arms crossed, trying to keep my breathing even. My headset mic is already clipped in place, in-ears dangling around my neck. I’ve warmed up twice. Stretched twice. Run the set list in my head until the lyrics feel like muscle memory carved into bone.

And he’s still not here.

Michael glances over, catches my expression, and winces sympathetically. “He’ll show. He always does.”

“Always late,” I mutter.

Min-ho looks up from his phone, voice quiet. “Want me to text him?”

“No.” I push off the speaker. “He’ll walk in when he walks in. Like usual.”

The side door bangs open right then, as though the universe heard me and decided to prove a point.

Luca strolls in—hair still damp from a shower he took this morning, hoodie unzipped over a white tank, his silver chains hanging from his neck, gym bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. He’s grinning as though he’s walking onto a red carpet instead of a rehearsal space seventeen minutes late.

“Morning, team!” he calls, voice bright. “Traffic was a nightmare.”

Tasha doesn’t even look up from her tablet. “It’s always traffic.”

“We are in LA,” he replies cheerfully, before dropping his bag by the wall and starts stretching his arms overhead. “What’d I miss?”

Michael snorts. “Only the part where Kai’s about to combust because you’re late.”

I don’t dignify that with a response. I just turn toward the center of the stage and call out, “Let’s run the opener. From the top.”

We get through half the set before the real interruption arrives.