Page 71 of Spotlight Hearts

I look up. She’s leaning in the doorway, watching me in that quiet, observant way she has when she knows something’s wrong but doesn’t want to push. She definitely saw the videos. Everyone has.

“You okay?” she asks gently.

“Yeah.” I shrug, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

She doesn’t buy it. I can tell.

But she just nods.

“Your dad’s making coffee.”

Right on cue, my dad appears behind her with two mugs in his hands, completely oblivious to the internet losing its mind over his son’s love life.

“Morning, superstar,” he says cheerfully. “Your face is everywhere again.”

I groan.

“Please don’t say it like that.”

He obviously hasn’t seen my ass, also everywhere. Only the hand holding and sunset pictures. He laughs and hands me a mug.

“Hey, it’s good publicity, right? That guy from your band seems like a decent kid.”

I swallow a mouthful of coffee that suddenly tastes like dirt.

“Yeah,” I mutter.

Decent and a joyless fucking coward.

Whitney shows up that afternoon. I’ve been avoiding her, if I’m honest. She doesn’t bother knocking. She never does.

She lets herself in as though she owns the place, dropping her purse on the counter and sliding onto the stool next to me.

“You look like hell,” she says.

“Thanks.” I’m not in the mood to hear ‘I told you so’ from her right now.

She eyes the untouched sandwich in front of me, then looks back at my face. Her expression softens just a fraction—not enough to hide the calculation underneath.

“That didn’t take long,” she says, voice laced with something almost pitying. “I warned you he’d break your heart.”

I don’t answer. I just stare at the counter.

She reaches across and covers my hand with hers. Her touch is familiar. Too familiar.

“Luca… you don’t have to do this alone. We were good together once. Really good.”

Her thumb strokes the back of my hand.

“I miss you,” she continues, voice dropping softer. “I miss us. We could try again. No labels, no band drama, no fake boyfriends to be jealous of. Just you and me. The way it used to be.”

She leans in closer, her other hand coming up to brush my jaw.

“I could make you feel better,” she whispers. “Right now. Let me take care of you.”

For a split second, the offer hangs there—easy, familiar, no complications. No risk of getting my heart ripped out by someone who’s terrified of his own feelings.

But the second her lips brush my cheek, I pull back.