Chapter 9
NINE
KAI
The tour bus rumbles down the highway somewhere between Phoenix and Vegas—close enough that flying felt pointless, far enough that the road trip stretches into a long, confined afternoon.
Harry’s “efficiency” call: save the jet fuel, keep the band together, let the fake-dating rumors simmer while we’re all trapped in this rolling tin can. Great plan. Truly.
I’m wedged into the u-shaped corner booth at the back lounge, legs stretched across one bench, back against the window.
The vibration of the tires hums through my spine.
Michael’s dealing cards across the small table—Texas Hold’em, low stakes, just for something to do.
Min-ho’s opposite me, calm as always, stacking chips with quiet precision.
Luca’s sprawled between Michael and me, one arm slung along the back of the seat, fingers drumming idly near my shoulder. Too close. Always too close.
The bus hits a bump. Luca’s knee knocks mine under the table. Neither of us moves away.
“Call,” Luca says, tossing a chip into the pot without looking at his cards. His voice is lazy, but there’s an edge to it—the same edge from the alley last night, from the way he paused halfway out of the SUV like he wanted to say more but didn’t.
I glance at my hand: pocket aces. Solid. I match the bet, then raise. “Raise. Twenty.”
Michael whistles. “Bold, Jung. You feeling lucky today?”
“Feeling like I’m tired of losing to idiots,” I mutter.
Luca snorts, eyes flicking to mine over the cards. “Careful. That almost sounded like flirting.”
I meet his gaze—steady, challenging. “If it did, you’d know. You’re the expert on selling it.”
His lips twitch. Not quite a smile. “Yeah? And you’re getting better at faking it. That little shiver last night when I put my hand on your back? Oscar-worthy.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I force it down, lean forward to study my cards as though they’re the most interesting thing in the world. “Keep dreaming, Clark. It was cold outside. That’s all.”
“Cold in Phoenix," he echoes, voice dropping low enough that only I can hear it. “Right. Must’ve been why you leaned into my palm like you were starving for it.”
Michael clears his throat—loud, theatrical—and deals the flop: queen, ten, three. Min-ho’s eyes flick between us, then to Michael. A quick, knowing look passes. Michael’s mouth quirks. Min-ho raises one eyebrow, barely perceptible.
I pretend not to notice. Because if I acknowledge it—if I call out the silent we see you two circling each other like idiots conversation they’re having—I’d have to admit there’s something to see.
And there isn’t.
There can’t be.
Luca bets big on the flop. I call. Min-ho folds with a quiet sigh. Michael stays in, grinning like he’s enjoying the show more than the game.
The turn: king.
Luca’s eyes lift to mine again. Unhurried. Intentional. “All in.”
My pulse kicks. Not from the cards. From the way he’s looking at me—as though he’s daring me to fold, or call, or do anything that proves I’m not as unaffected as I pretend.
I push my chips in. “Call.”
River: ace.
I’ve got a set. Luca flips his cards—straight. He wins.
He leans back, smirking. “Told you. Lucky day.”
I stare at the table, cards blurring. The bus hits another bump. His knee presses against mine again—firmer this time, lingering. I don’t pull away.
Michael collects the chips, chuckling. “You two are something else. Every hand feels like foreplay.”
Min-ho shoots him a look—warning, amused—then glances at me. Silent question in his eyes: You good?
I nod once. Tight. I don’t trust my voice right now.
Luca stretches, arms overhead, shirt riding up just enough to show off the dips in his hips. My eyes flick there before I can stop them. He catches it. Of course he does.
“See something you like, Jung?” he murmurs, leaning close enough to whisper the words almost directly into my ear.
I force my gaze back to his face. “Just wondering how you manage to look like a walking cliché even when you’re losing at cards.”
He laughs—low, genuine—and the sound hits me square in the chest. “Takes one to know one. And I’m winning, or don’t you remember the last hand?”
Luca pushes some of his winnings toward me, and Michael deals the next hand. Min-ho’s watching us again, that same knowing look. Michael mirrors it. Neither says a word.
I swallow. Focus on my cards. On the road ahead. On anything but the way Luca’s knee is still pressed to mine, warm and unyielding.
Because if I let myself think about it—if I let myself wonder why I don’t move, why his presence feels less like an annoyance and more like gravity—I’ll have to face the truth I’ve been dodging since the shower.
That has only been growing inside me since.
This isn’t hate anymore and faking to lust after him on stage might have just gotten a lot easier. I’m so completely screwed.
The bus lurches—harder than a normal bump. A low, grinding thud echoes from underneath, followed by the unmistakable hiss of air escaping. The whole thing tilts slightly to the right. Michael’s chips scatter across the table like confetti.
“What the hell?” Luca mutters, grabbing the edge of the booth to steady himself so he doesn’t crush me into the seat with his body weight.
Tasha’s voice crackles over the intercom from up front. “Flat tire. Everyone stay seated. Driver’s pulling over.”
Michael groans. “Of course. Because this day needed more drama.”
Min-ho sighs, already gathering the cards into a neat pile. “Better hope we’ve got a spare.”
The bus coasts to a stop on the shoulder.
Dust kicks up outside the windows. We all file out—Michael first, stretching like it’s a rest stop; Min-ho quiet and practical; Luca right behind him, hands in his pockets, looking annoyingly unbothered.
I’m last, stepping down into the dry desert heat.
The right two rear tires are shredded—rubber doing a really good imitation of torn paper.
Tasha’s on her phone already, pacing. “Harry’s sending a replacement van from the venue. Should be here in twenty. We’ll transfer gear and ride the rest of the way. Might be late for load-in, but we’ll make soundcheck.”
Luca snorts, kicking a pebble across the asphalt. “Look—late and not my fault. First time in history.”
I shoot him a look. “Congratulations. Want a medal?”
He grins—slow and teasing. “Nah. Just enjoying the irony.”
Tasha hangs up, turns to us. “Harry’s orders: when the van gets here, Luca and Kai in the back together. Same side. You two exit first at the venue. Let the paps catch you stepping out side by side. Keep the Kuca momentum going.”
My stomach drops. Luca’s grin fades a fraction—he meets my eyes for half a second, something unreadable flashing there before he looks away.
Michael raises an eyebrow. “You’re serious? We’re turning a flat tire into a photo op?”
Tasha shrugs. “Label’s call. Sorry, boys.”
We wait in the shade of the bus—awkward silence broken only by the occasional truck roaring past. Luca leans against the side panel next to me, arms crossed, close enough that our shoulders almost brush. I don’t move. Neither does he.
When the black van finally pulls up—twenty-five minutes later, right on the edge of “fashionably late”—Tasha herds us in. Michael and Min-ho take the middle row. Luca slides into the very back bench first. I follow, because what choice do I have?
The seats are tight. Our thighs press together the second I sit.
Luca doesn’t shift away. Neither do I. It’s becoming a thing, and I’m not sure if either of us aren’t moving away because it would give up too much power or if we want to be close to each other.
The air between us feels thicker now—charged, like the inside of the bus but smaller, hotter. It is just the desert heat, that’s all.
He leans back, one arm stretched along the top of the seat behind me. His fingers dangle near my shoulder again. On purpose? Accidental? I can’t tell anymore.
“Cozy,” he murmurs, low enough that only I hear. “Harry’s gonna love the exit shot. Us tumbling out together like we can’t keep our hands off each other.”
I stare straight ahead, jaw tight. “Just don’t touch me when we get out. I’m not in the mood to sell more than I have to.”
He chuckles—soft, almost fond. “You sure about that? You didn’t exactly flinch when my knee was on yours during cards.”
Heat creeps up my neck. I turn my head just enough to glare. “That was an accident.”
“Was it?” His voice drops lower. “Because you didn’t move. And neither did I.”
I swallow. The van hits a pothole; my shoulder presses into his side. His arm stays where it is—fingers now brushing my other shoulder, light as a question.
And I let him. I barely move away, telling myself that if the cameras pick up a shot of us like this it will be more believable.
The venue looms ahead—arena lights already on, crew visible in the loading dock. We’re late. Load-in’s probably chaos. But all I can focus on is the heat of Luca’s body against mine, the faint cedar scent of him, the way his fingers haven’t moved from my shoulder.
Tasha calls back. “Keep it casual, boys. We just need them to capture a few shots.”
Luca’s thumb brushes once, along the base of my skull now.
“Casual,” he echoes, voice barely above a whisper. “Got it.”
The van slows. Doors slide open.
Flashes wait outside, probably sent here by Harry.
I step out first. Luca right behind—his hand settles on my lower back again, warm and sure, guiding me through the small crowd of crew and lingering paps.
And I like it.
We’re late, but not catastrophically so. Soundcheck’s pushed back fifteen minutes, and Tasha’s already on damage control with the stage manager.
Inside, the green room is a familiar chaos: wardrobe racks, mirrors, Crystal’s station already lit up with ring lights. Michael and Min-ho peel off toward the stage with Tasha to check on things. Luca lingers, dropping his bag by the couch as though he’s got nowhere else to be.