Page 27 of Spotlight Hearts

“Casual,” he echoes, voice barely above a whisper. “Got it.”

The van slows. Doors slide open.

Flashes wait outside, probably sent here by Harry.

I step out first. Luca right behind—his hand settles on my lower back again, warm and sure, guiding me through the small crowd of crew and lingering paps.

And I like it.

We’re late, but not catastrophically so. Soundcheck’s pushed back fifteen minutes, and Tasha’s already on damage control with the stage manager.

Inside, the green room is a familiar chaos: wardrobe racks, mirrors, Crystal’s station already lit up with ring lights. Michael and Min-ho peel off toward the stage with Tasha to check on things. Luca lingers, dropping his bag by the couch as though he’s got nowhere else to be.

I head straight for Crystal. “Let’s get this over with.”

She spins the chair toward me with a grin. “Sit, gorgeous. Let’s make those eyes pop.”

I drop into the seat, facing the mirror. Crystal starts with the base—foundation, concealer, the usual. I close my eyes, trying to zone out.

Luca doesn’t leave; I can feel his eyes on me even with mine shut.

When I crack my eyes open in the mirror, he’s looking right at me. He leans against the wall behind me, arms crossed. Quiet.

“You’re quiet,” I say, because the silence feels heavier than usual.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Just thinking you look good under these lights. Even before the makeup.”

My stomach flips at the unexpected compliment. Is he flirting? Do I like it if he is?

Crystal pauses with the eyeliner wand, glances between us in the mirror, eyebrows raised. I ignore her.

“Flattery’s not gonna make me go easy on you during soundcheck,” I mutter.

Luca pushes off the wall and steps closer—close enough that I can smell him again, cedar and clean skin. “Wasn’t trying to. Just saying what I see.”

He holds my gaze in the reflection for a beat too long. Then he smiles and turns toward the wardrobe rack.

Crystal resumes, but my focus is splintered. Luca starts stripping down right there, casual as anything. Shirt first—black button-down peeled off his shoulders, revealing the constellation on his left pec, the script along his ribs, that chain tattoo curling low across his hips. Muscles shift under his skin as he folds the shirt, deliberate, unhurried. Then the jeans—button popped, zipper down, jeans discarded. He’s in black briefs now, nothing else, back to me but angled just enough that I catch the flex of his ass, the dip of his spine.

I shouldn’t look.

I do.

In the mirror, my eyes track the movement—shoulders rolling as he pulls on the mesh top, the way it clings to his back, turning every breath visible. He steps into the leather pants, hips rolling to tug them up, chains clinking softly. Necklace next—silver links settling against his collarbone. He runs a hand through his platinum hair, shaking it into place.

He doesn’t notice me watching. Or if he does, he doesn’t call it out.

My throat feels tight. Pulse loud in my ears. Crystal’s brushing glitter along my cheekbones, but I barely register it.

Luca turns, catches my eye in the mirror. His usual smirk is absent, and he looks almost thoughtful for a moment.

“You look tense,” he says. “You’re gonna be sore later if you go on stage with your neck all knotted up.”

I swallow. “Long day.”

He nods once. Crystal steps away, muttering something about the lip stain missing, and he steps closer. He looks sexy as hell in his mesh shirt and leather pants, and my mouth goes dry. “Want me to⁠—”

“No,” I cut him off. “I’m fine.”