Page 2 of Spotlight Hearts

His smile drops. Something flashes in his eyes—annoyance, maybe a flicker of guilt, maybe just irritation at being called out. “You’re seriously doing this right now? After that? It was great!”

“That was a performance,” I snap. “This isn’t.”

He steps closer. Too close. The hallway lights catch the sweat still shining on his throat, the green flecks in the brown of his eyes. His darkened, sweaty blond hair curls against the nape of his neck, and he smells incredible.

What? No, he doesn’t. I’m just running hot from the concert.

“You think I don’t get the difference? I’m not clueless, Kai.”

“Then stop acting like it.”

For a beat, he just stares. Chest rising and falling. Then he shakes his head, lets out a bitter huff of laughter. “You know what your problem is?”

“I’ve got a list,” I say, voice ice.

He ignores me and continues on. “You think everyone has to bleed for their place. Like suffering’s the only thing that makes any of this real.” He leans in, voice dropping. “Not everyone had to claw their way up the way you did. Doesn’t make what I have fake or less. I’m still as worthy of this as you are.”

The words stab into me like a blade between ribs.

And just like that, the memory surfaces—the one I keep buried under layers of discipline.

Nineteen. A dive karaoke bar in Inglewood that didn’t look too closely at my fake ID. Buzzing fluorescents, sticky floors, the kind of place where dreams go to die quietly. I sang there every Friday for months because it was free and no one laughed when I cracked on the high notes. That night I did “Falling Slowly” by Glen Handsard—raw, no polish, just the hollow ache I carried everywhere. When the last note faded, the room went still for three heartbeats. Then it erupted.

I didn’t know it at the time but my now manager, Tasha, was in the back, arms crossed, watching. She walked up before the applause died. “You’re wasting that voice,” she said, pressing her card into my hand. “Audition tomorrow. Bring everything.”

And I brought everything. Every foster placement. The feeling when I aged out and was tossed out of my home with nothing but the backpack I brought with me. Every night I told myself perfect was the only way to stay wanted. I auditioned like my life was on the line—because it was.

Luca on the other hand? His dad was Dax Clark—nineties rock royalty, the voice that defined a generation, arenas sold out before Luca was born. Luca grew up with laminate passes around his neck, birthday candles blown out backstage at the Forum, first guitar signed by legends. When Blake, one of our first bandmates dropped us and Eclipse needed a replacement, he walked in with a demo and a last name that made doors swing open before he knocked.

He never had to prove he deserved the spotlight. He was handed it.

And I hate him for it.

I hate that he can stroll in late and still own the stage. I hate that he can lean into me under those lights, mic to mic, breath to breath, pretending the heat crawling up my spine is just choreography. I hate that sometimes—just sometimes—I wonder what it would feel like if I stopped pulling away.

I step back. Create distance between us and sneer. “Go shower,” I tell him. “Press in thirty.”

He holds my gaze a second longer. Then he turns and walks off without another word. I stand there until the hallway quiets, until the echo of the crowd is gone.

Control, I remind myself.

I don’t bend or break.

And I’m not letting Luca Clark take it from me.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

The green room backstage smells of stale coffee and hairspray. I’m already showered and changed—black hoodie up, sleeves tugged over my knuckles—trying to disappear into the corner couch while the rest of the band mills around. Min-ho sits beside me, scrolling quietly on his phone, he’s the only person who doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence. Michael’s cracking jokes with the sound guy. Luca’s…somewhere. Probably charming someone he shouldn’t.

Tasha appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand, expression tight. “Press room. Five minutes. Harry’s orders—full charm. Kai, Luca, you’re front and center.”

My stomach drops. I knew this was coming. Post-show media scrums are standard, but tonight’s different. The viral clips from the almost-kiss are already everywhere. Our fans sure didn’t waste any time posting that all over social media. #Kuca is trending again. Harry texted the group chat a half-hour ago: Sell it harder. No half-measures.

I nod once. Min-ho glances at me, eyes soft with that wordless understanding he’s had since we were kids. I force a small exhale. I can do this. I’ve done worse.

The press room is smaller than the arena and feels twice as suffocating—folding chairs, bright lights on tripods, reporters with phones and recorders already rolling. Flashbulbs pop the second we walk in. Michael goes first, all easy grins and stupid dad-jokes that make the room laugh. Min-ho hangs back, answering questions in short, precise, shy sentences. Then it’s us.