Page 46 of Spotlight Hearts

“Is it?” I ask, keeping my voice low, quizzical but gentle. “Because it doesn’t look fine, and that stuff is like magic.”

He exhales through his nose—a small, almost-laugh. For a long beat, he just stares at the tin. Then, slowly, he uncurls his fingers and places it in my palm.

The transfer is careful. His fingertips graze the center of my hand—barely any contact, but it’s enough. A spark races up my arm like static electricity but deeper. My breath hitches. I know he feels it, too—his shoulders tense, his gaze flicks to our hands for a split second before darting away.

I swallow. Focus on the task.

I twist the tin open. The faint herbal scent of arnica rises between us—clean, medicinal, and grounding.

He extends his left arm, wrist up. The skin there is flushed, slightly swollen along the tendon. Not bad, but definitely irritated. I can see the faint red line where he’s been rubbing it.

I scoop a small amount of salve onto my fingertips. Warm it between my hands first—habit from years of using this on my own sore muscles. Then I reach for him.

The second my fingers touch his wrist, the jolt comes again—stronger this time. His pulse jumps under my thumb, fast and unsteady. Mine matches it. I try to keep my touch clinical—gentle circles over the swollen spot, pressing just enough to work the salve in without hurting him.

But it’s impossible to ignore.

His skin is warm. Soft over the hard ridge of tendon and bone. I can feel the faint tremor in his arm, the way his breath catches when I swipe my thumb along the inside of his wrist, following the blue line of his vein. My other hand cups the back of his forearm to steady him—innocent and necessary—but the contact feels anything but.

Luca’s eyes are fixed on my hands. On the way my fingers move over his skin. His breathing is shallow, controlled, but I hear the hitch every time I press a little deeper.

Neither of us speaks.

The plane hums around us. Michael’s snoring continues. Min-ho’s tablet screen glows faintly. Tasha’s typing somewhere up front.

But right here, in this small pocket of space, it’s just us.

My thumb circles once more, then slides up the inside of his forearm, following the line of muscle. Not necessary and not part of the “help.” I just…want to touch more of him, to feel the way his skin heats under my fingers.

He doesn’t pull away.

His free hand flexes on his thigh as if he’s fighting the urge to reach for me.

I stop, pulling back just enough to cap the tin. My fingers linger on the metal for a second longer than they need to.

“There,” I say, voice rough. “It should feel better soon.”

He flexes his wrist slightly, a small smile forming on his lips. Lips I can’t look away from. “That stuff really is magic.”

The words are quiet, almost grateful, and the way he says them—soft, a little surprised—makes something warm curl low in my stomach. I should stand up. Walk away. Go back to my seat and pretend this was just a helpful gesture between bandmates.

Instead, I lean in a fraction, barely noticeable, but enough that the space between us feels charged again.

I keep my voice low, matching his. “Glad it helped.” A beat. Then I add, softer, almost without meaning to: “Next time it acts up…you can borrow it. Or I can help again. If you want.”

His eyes flick up to mine, steady, searching through his sunglasses. The small smile on his lips falters—just for a second—then deepens, the corners crinkling in a way that makes my pulse kick.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “You offering full-service wrist care now, Jung? Maybe you want to be friends after all?”

It’s light and teasing. But there’s a roughness in his voice that wasn’t there before, and the way he holds my gaze says he heard the subtext loud and clear.

I shrug one shoulder, trying to play it cool even as my heart slams against my ribs. “Only for the guy who keeps pushing through pain. Someone’s gotta look out for you, and since we will be paired for the foreseeable future, it might as well be me.”

His smile turns into something softer—almost shy. He looks down at his wrist, flexes it again as though he’s testing the relief, then back up at me.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says quietly. “Thanks, Kai.”

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