Chapter 3
THREE
KAI
He’s late. Again.
I shouldn’t even be surprised anymore. I don’t think he knows how to be on time. We should really start telling Luca an arrival time that’s an hour before we actually need him places.
The rehearsal stage is half-lit, work lights casting long shadows across the black floor.
The rest of us have been here for forty-five minutes already—Min-ho running scales quietly in the corner, Michael stretching like he’s prepping for yoga instead of choreography, Tasha checking her tablet with that patient-but-exasperated look she gets when Luca’s involved.
The clock above the sound booth reads 10:17. Call time was 10:00 sharp.
I’m leaning against the speaker stack, arms crossed, trying to keep my breathing even. My headset mic is already clipped in place, in-ears dangling around my neck. I’ve warmed up twice. Stretched twice. Run the set list in my head until the lyrics feel like muscle memory carved into bone.
And he’s still not here.
Michael glances over, catches my expression, and winces sympathetically. “He’ll show. He always does.”
“Always late,” I mutter.
Min-ho looks up from his phone, voice quiet. “Want me to text him?”
“No.” I push off the speaker. “He’ll walk in when he walks in. Like usual.”
The side door bangs open right then, as though the universe heard me and decided to prove a point.
Luca strolls in—hair still damp from a shower he took this morning, hoodie unzipped over a white tank, his silver chains hanging from his neck, gym bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. He’s grinning as though he’s walking onto a red carpet instead of a rehearsal space seventeen minutes late.
“Morning, team!” he calls, voice bright. “Traffic was a nightmare.”
Tasha doesn’t even look up from her tablet. “It’s always traffic.”
“We are in LA,” he replies cheerfully, before dropping his bag by the wall and starts stretching his arms overhead. “What’d I miss?”
Michael snorts. “Only the part where Kai’s about to combust because you’re late.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. I just turn toward the center of the stage and call out, “Let’s run the opener. From the top.”
We get through half the set before the real interruption arrives.
Harry Vox sweeps in like he owns the building—which, technically, he does. Suit crisp, phone in hand, expression somewhere between bored and predatory. Tasha straightens immediately. The rest of us pause mid-step.
“Gentlemen,” Harry says, voice clipped. “A word.”
He doesn’t wait for agreement. He just gestures toward the wings—meaning me and Luca specifically.
We follow him offstage, Tasha trailing behind like a reluctant referee. The moment we’re out of earshot of the others, Harry stops, turns, and pins us both with that flat, calculating stare.
“Last night’s press was good. Viral. Numbers are up already. But it’s not enough.”
I feel Luca shift beside me—probably fighting the urge to roll his eyes.
Harry continues like he doesn’t notice. “The fans want more. They’re eating up Kuca. We need to give them something they can’t look away from. Ramp it up on stage. Make it hotter. Make it undeniable.”
I cross my arms. “We’re already doing the eye contact, the mic sharing, the freeze-frames—”
“Not enough,” Harry cuts in. “We’re talking throat holds.
One of you pinning the other against a speaker stack or the backdrop.
Push-pull tension. And I’ve got something special from the choreographer—Luca unwraps a sucker, holds the stem between his teeth.
Kai leans in, takes the candy into his mouth.
Slowly sucks it. Eyes locked. The crowd will lose their minds. ”
My stomach twists. Heat crawls up my neck, and not the good kind.
Luca lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly,” Harry says. “It’s suggestive. It’s erotic without crossing the line. It’s exactly what sells. We’re not asking you to fuck on stage—we’re asking you to sell the fantasy. And you’re both good at selling.”
I scoff before I can stop myself. Loud. Sharp.
Luca’s head snaps toward me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I say, but my voice is tight. “Just…fucking perfect. Another layer of performance to layer on top of the performance.”
Luca’s jaw ticks. “You think this is funny? You think I’m thrilled about you sucking on a piece of candy while you stare at me like I’m dirt?”
“I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to. That scoff said it all.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “You act like I’m the one who enjoys this shit. Like I’m the one begging for more camera time with you.”
Harry raises a hand. “Enough. You both signed the contract. It explicitly says fan service is on the table. This is fan service.”
Tasha steps between us, palms up. “Hey. Both of you. Breathe. This isn’t personal. It’s business. We all want the same thing—Eclipse back on top. The fans love the tension between you two. Let’s lean into it. Keep it controlled. Professional.”
I force a quiet exhale through my nose. She’s right. She’s always right about this stuff.
Luca’s still glaring at me, hazel eyes narrowed. “You in or not, Jung?”
I meet his stare. Hold it. “Fine. I’ll do it. For the band.”
Harry claps once, satisfied. “Good. Choreographer’s already reworked the bridge on ‘Midnight Nova’ and the closer. You two start practicing now. Tasha will run you through the beats. No half-assing it.”
He turns on his heel and walks off as though the conversation’s over.
Tasha sighs, rubs her temple. “You heard him. Let’s get back out there.”
Luca doesn’t move right away. He’s still looking at me—something stormy behind the casual mask.
I break eye contact first. Turn toward the stage.
He falls into step beside me, voice low so only I can hear. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it look good. Wouldn’t want to ruin your perfect little image.”
I don’t answer.
Because the truth—the one I’m not ready to admit even to myself—is that I already hate how much this is going to cost me.
His hand around my throat under the lights.
Our mouths inches apart around that stupid sucker.
The crowd screaming while I have to stand there and let him touch me.
Let him lean in like he owns the space between us.
I’m worried about how convincing it’ll look while I’m forcing every muscle not to shove him away. When I’m biting back the urge to snap at him mid-choreo. When the adrenaline hits and my pulse spikes—not from excitement, but from pure, seething frustration.
I shake it all off as the opening notes start to play over the stage before they come to a halt as Steven, our choreographer, steps up to us rubbing his hands together excitedly.
“Ready for this, boys?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Luca grumbles, not looking at me.
Whatever, the feeling is mutual. That’s what the fans are feeling, the pure loathing between us.
Steven claps his hands once, sharp, to get everyone’s attention.
“Alright, Eclipse! Let’s dive in. We’re reworking the bridge on ‘Midnight Nova’ for maximum impact.
Michael, Min-ho—you’re flanking on the sides, building the energy with those step sequences we locked yesterday.
Kai and Luca, you’re the focal point. Center stage.
Let’s start with the throat grab setup.”
Michael whoops from his spot, already bouncing on his toes. “Hell yeah. This is gonna be fire.”
Min-ho just nods, serious as ever, adjusting his headset mic and falling into position without a word. He catches my eye briefly—quiet support, like always—and I give him a small nod back.
Steven positions us first: me facing forward, toward the empty space where the crowd would be roaring. Luca behind me, slightly offset, his back to the “audience” so the focus pulls to my expression while he controls the move.
“Okay, Luca—start by grabbing Kai’s chain.
Not too rough, but firm. Pull him back toward you.
Tilt his chin up with your other hand, expose the neck.
Then circle your fingers around his throat—loose grip, thumb on one side, fingers on the other.
Hold for two beats. Kai, arch back into it, eyes wide like you’re caught but not fighting. Sell the tension. Got it?”
Luca snorts. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘pop concert’ like a little light choking.”
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see it. “Just don’t screw it up. I’d hate to have to explain a broken necklace to wardrobe.”
Steven ignores the snark. “Run it from the pre-bridge. Music—cue!”
The track kicks in, bass thumping through the speakers. Michael and Min-ho hit their marks seamlessly, bodies moving in sync on the edges. I start the vocal line, voice steady, stepping into the buildup.
Then Luca’s facing me, and his hand closes around the silver chain at my neck.
A small yank—controlled, but enough to jerk me forward a step.
My breath catches for real. His fingers are warm where they brush my skin, pulling me flush against his chest. His other hand comes up, cupping my chin, tilting my head back and to the side.
My throat bobs under his touch as I continue to sing.
Then his palm slides around—fingers splaying across my neck, thumb pressing lightly just under my jaw. Not tight or painful. But enough to make my pulse jump against his grip.
The music swells. I arch back as instructed, staring out at the imaginary crowd, eyes wide. But inside, I’m rigid, every nerve screaming to twist away. To stop this building of warmth that is invading my body.
“Hold…and release!” Steven calls. The track cuts.
Luca drops his hand immediately, stepping back. I straighten, rubbing my neck like it stings—even though it doesn’t.
Steven nods, pacing. “Good start. But Luca, more intensity in the pull. Make it look like you can’t resist dragging him in. Kai, loosen up—lean into him more. Again!”
We reset. Music cues. Michael and Min-ho flow through their parts, Michael adding a playful spin that makes Min-ho crack a rare smile.