Page 30 of Spotlight Hearts

When the final lights drop and the screams swallow the dark, I walk offstage feeling…empty.

All of this because of his words? Words I know to be true. But I guess not even friendship is in the cards for us. All I can say is that I tried. Not my fault he has a stick up his ass. I need to shake this mood.

The ride to the hotel is dead quiet. Michael’s half-asleep against the window. Min-ho’s scrolling on his phone with earbuds in. Kai’s in the back row with me again—Harry’s orders, probably—but there’s a full seat between us this time. He stares out his window. I stare out mine. The city lights streak past like they’re running away from us.

I can’t sleep when we get back. The room's too quiet. The bed's too big. My head’s too loud.

So I throw on gym shorts and a tank, grab my water bottle, and head down to the hotel gym. It’s late—past 1 a.m.—and the place should be empty. Just fluorescent lights, mirrors, the low hum of AC. Perfect.

Except it’s not.

Kai’s already there.

He’s on one of the treadmills, running hard—dark hair plastered to his forehead, sweat glistening along his neck and arms. His legs move with that controlled power he always has—steady, relentless.

I freeze in the doorway.

My body reacts before my brain can stop it—heat pooling low, cock twitching in my shorts. I curse under my breath, force my eyes away. This is not happening. Not tonight. The universe has it out for me.

I almost turn around. Retreat. Go back upstairs and stare at the ceiling until dawn.

But I don’t.

I step inside instead. Head to the stationary bikes on the far wall—far enough to pretend I’m doing my own thing, close enough that I can still see him in the mirror if I want to.

I don’t want to, I tell myself.

But I do.

I hop on the bike, adjust the resistance, start pedaling. Slow at first. Then harder. Trying to burn off whatever this is—frustration, want, the hollow ache that’s been sitting in my chest since he threw those words at me on stage.

Yeah. I know. I wasn’t trying to act like a boyfriend, I was trying for friendship, which he obviously doesn’t want. Not with me at least.

I keep my eyes on the bike’s digital display—RPMs climbing, resistance cranked high enough to make my muscles burn. Pedal harder. Faster. Focus on the ache building in my quads, the sweat already prickling along my spine. Anything to drown out the way my body’s reacting to him.

It doesn’t work.

Every few seconds, my gaze flicks to the mirror. Kai’s still running—pace steady, relentless, as though he’s trying to outrun something, too. Sweat rolls down the side of his neck, tracing the sharp line of those thorn vines that climb toward his throat. The ink looks alive under the fluorescent lights—dark, twisting, glistening. His tank is soaked through at the chest, clinging to every ridge of muscle, outlining the lean cut of his abs when he breathes. His arms pump in rhythm, forearms corded, veins standing out against pale skin. Dark hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, and every time he exhales, his lips part just enough to show the edge of his teeth.

He’s beautiful.

Not in the polished, stage-ready way. Not like the Kai who steps under the lights, all control and precision. This is raw—sweat-slicked, breathing hard, unguarded. The kind of beauty that makes my throat go dry and my shorts feel suddenly too tight.

My cock thickens against the bike seat. I shift my hips, try to adjust without being obvious. Pedal harder. The resistance whines under my feet.

He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t acknowledge I’m here. But I swear the air in the room has changed—thicker, heavier, like the space between us is charged even from twenty feet away.

I force my eyes back to the display. 180 RPM. Heart rate 165. Good. Higher. Burn it out.

But then he slows the treadmill—gradual cooldown, hands dropping to the sides. He grabs the towel draped over the rail, wipes his face, neck, chest. The motion pulls the tank tighter across his pecs. He tips his head back to drink from his water bottle—throat working, Adam’s apple sliding under the ink—and a single drop escapes the corner of his mouth, trails down his jaw, along the line of his neck, disappearing under the collar.

I nearly groan out loud.

My dick is fully hard now—painful against the compression of my shorts. I lean forward on the bike handles, trying to hide it, trying to breathe through the sudden, sharp want that’s flooding every nerve.

This is ridiculous. He’s right there—sweaty, flushed, gorgeous—and I’m sitting here like a teenager with a crush, body betraying me while he doesn’t even know I’m watching.

Or maybe he does.