Page 82 of Spotlight Hearts

Man, I'm easy. I was so determined to keep him at arm’s length, and it all shattered the second he was within arm’s reach. But I don’t regret it.

We pile into the van. Michael and Min-ho take the middle seat, leaving Kai and me in the back seat, while Tasha takes the front seat. She takes another call, from Harry by the sound of it, but I tune it out. My full focus is on Kai, honestly.

His hand rests on the seat between us. I let my pinky brush his. He shifts his fingers slightly, hooking his finger over mine. We stay like that for the remainder of the ride. It’s small, but real. No cameras are catching the moment, and I like the secret it creates between us.

When we reach the hotel, the front desk staff is overly polite, clearly briefed on who we are. We get our room keys, and Tasha hands out the cards. It’s the penthouse suite with a master bedroom that has the largest king bed I’ve ever seen, and three other rooms—one with a single queen and the other two with two doubles. The living space has a wrap-around couch with a view of the city, located in a step-down space. There’s even a full-size kitchen. Not that we will cook.

I point toward the master suite before any of the others can.

“Master’s mine,” I say.

Michael groans dramatically as he picks up his bag and heads to one of the rooms with the double. “Good. Your snoring is like a goddamn freight train. I’ve been stuck listening to it for months. At least now I might actually sleep.”

I flip him off with a grin, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re just jealous my room has the big bed.”

Min-ho shakes his head with a small smile, already heading toward the other double room. Tasha mutters something about “boys” under her breath and disappears into the queen room, already typing on her phone.

Kai lingers near the entrance to the living area, watching me with that same expression from the plane. His fingers twitch at his side like he wants to reach for me but isn’t sure if he should.

I meet his eyes for a moment, letting the corner of my mouth lift, so my words don’t feel like a rejection.

“See you at soundcheck,” I say quietly. I definitely need time to myself to process everything.

He nods, cheeks flushing just a little. “Yeah. Soundcheck.”

I shut the door between us and drop my bag next to the foot of the bed. Then I sit on the edge. I want Kai. That isn’t even the question. But I’m not sure I can go along with the fan service anymore. Natural stuff—the glances, the little brushes of hands, the way we naturally fall into each other when the music hits—sure. That feels real now. But the shit Harry keeps pushing…the choreographed throat grabs, the sucker bit, the forced “Kuca” moments that get edited into thirst traps…it feels exploitative. Like we’re selling pieces of something that finally started to mean something to me.

I drag both hands down my face.

Ten days ago, I was ready to burn the whole thing down just to get away from him. Now, I’m sitting here wondering how much of our relationship the label is still planning to package and sell.

I pull out my phone and stare at it for a long moment before hitting Harry’s contact.

It rings twice.

“Luca,” Harry answers, already sounding impatient. “You made the flight. Good. Soundcheck is at four. We’ve got new choreography for the opener—more physical stuff between you and Kai. The fans are eating up the tension. We need to lean into it harder now that you’re in Europe.”

I cut him off before he can keep going.

“I’m done with the fake shit.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end.

“What?”

“The staged stuff,” I say, voice flat. “All the choreographed ‘Kuca’ moments you keep adding. I’m not doing it anymore. Whatever happens on stage happens. But I’m not performing your scripted porn for the cameras.”

Harry lets out a sharp laugh, like he thinks I’m joking.

“Luca, come on. This is what revived the band. The numbers are up, the streams are up, the merch is flying. You can’t just decide⁠—”

“I just did,” I say. “If you want me on that stage, you stop directing every touch. Stop turning us into a product. Or find someone else to play the part.”

The line goes quiet again. I can practically hear him calculating.

“You’re serious,” he says finally.

“Dead serious.”