Chapter 10
TEN
LUCA
The green room mirror is too bright. Crystal’s ring lights make everything look sharper, harsher—like every pore and every line on my face is screaming you’re not okay.
I sit in the chair anyway, let her tilt my head back, let her work the foundation over my skin, the eyeliner that sharpens my eyes, the glitter that catches the stage lights just right.
I go through the motions. Smile when she tells me to.
Hold still when she dabs the lip stain—deep red again, the same shade that looked so good on Kai earlier.
I don’t comment on it. She doesn’t either.
The room’s quiet except for the soft brush strokes and the low hum of the blow dryer when she styles my hair into that effortless platinum wave.
I feel off. Not sick-sick. No fever or nausea. Just… muted. The adrenaline that usually hits me like a shot of espresso before a show is missing. My blood’s moving slower. The buzz I live for—the one that makes every nerve sing when the house lights drop—is dialed down to a dull hum.
Maybe I’m coming down with something. Flu season’s early this year. Or maybe it’s just exhaustion. Or maybe it’s the memory of Kai’s voice—you know you’re not actually my boyfriend, right?—still echoing in my skull like a bad loop.
I push it down. Finish with Crystal. Thank her. I look in the mirror one last time. I look dangerous, ready, and perfect.
But inside, I’m running on fumes.
The show goes off without a hitch. Crowd’s loud. Lights are hot. I hit every mark, every harmony, every choreographed tease. The throat hold. The sucker pull. I lean in, take it languidly, let my lips brush Kai’s just enough. The fans scream. Phones flash. #Kuca trends harder than ever.
But the rush doesn’t land the way it usually does. It’s there—high energy, bodies moving, sweat dripping—but it’s muted. Like I’m watching myself perform from a few rows back instead of living it. I smile for the cameras. I wink. I play the part.
When the final lights drop and the screams swallow the dark, I walk offstage feeling…empty.
All of this because of his words? Words I know to be true. But I guess not even friendship is in the cards for us. All I can say is that I tried. Not my fault he has a stick up his ass. I need to shake this mood.
The ride to the hotel is dead quiet. Michael’s half-asleep against the window.
Min-ho’s scrolling on his phone with earbuds in.
Kai’s in the back row with me again—Harry’s orders, probably—but there’s a full seat between us this time.
He stares out his window. I stare out mine.
The city lights streak past like they’re running away from us.
I can’t sleep when we get back. The room's too quiet. The bed's too big. My head’s too loud.
So I throw on gym shorts and a tank, grab my water bottle, and head down to the hotel gym. It’s late—past 1 a.m.—and the place should be empty. Just fluorescent lights, mirrors, the low hum of AC. Perfect.
Except it’s not.
Kai’s already there.
He’s on one of the treadmills, running hard—dark hair plastered to his forehead, sweat glistening along his neck and arms. His legs move with that controlled power he always has—steady, relentless.
I freeze in the doorway.
My body reacts before my brain can stop it—heat pooling low, cock twitching in my shorts. I curse under my breath, force my eyes away. This is not happening. Not tonight. The universe has it out for me.
I almost turn around. Retreat. Go back upstairs and stare at the ceiling until dawn.
But I don’t.
I step inside instead. Head to the stationary bikes on the far wall—far enough to pretend I’m doing my own thing, close enough that I can still see him in the mirror if I want to.
I don’t want to, I tell myself.
But I do.
I hop on the bike, adjust the resistance, start pedaling. Slow at first. Then harder. Trying to burn off whatever this is—frustration, want, the hollow ache that’s been sitting in my chest since he threw those words at me on stage.
Yeah. I know. I wasn’t trying to act like a boyfriend, I was trying for friendship, which he obviously doesn’t want. Not with me at least.
I keep my eyes on the bike’s digital display—RPMs climbing, resistance cranked high enough to make my muscles burn. Pedal harder. Faster. Focus on the ache building in my quads, the sweat already prickling along my spine. Anything to drown out the way my body’s reacting to him.
It doesn’t work.
Every few seconds, my gaze flicks to the mirror.
Kai’s still running—pace steady, relentless, as though he’s trying to outrun something, too.
Sweat rolls down the side of his neck, tracing the sharp line of those thorn vines that climb toward his throat.
The ink looks alive under the fluorescent lights—dark, twisting, glistening.
His tank is soaked through at the chest, clinging to every ridge of muscle, outlining the lean cut of his abs when he breathes.
His arms pump in rhythm, forearms corded, veins standing out against pale skin.
Dark hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, and every time he exhales, his lips part just enough to show the edge of his teeth.
He’s beautiful.
Not in the polished, stage-ready way. Not like the Kai who steps under the lights, all control and precision. This is raw—sweat-slicked, breathing hard, unguarded. The kind of beauty that makes my throat go dry and my shorts feel suddenly too tight.
My cock thickens against the bike seat. I shift my hips, try to adjust without being obvious. Pedal harder. The resistance whines under my feet.
He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t acknowledge I’m here. But I swear the air in the room has changed—thicker, heavier, like the space between us is charged even from twenty feet away.
I force my eyes back to the display. 180 RPM. Heart rate 165. Good. Higher. Burn it out.
But then he slows the treadmill—gradual cooldown, hands dropping to the sides.
He grabs the towel draped over the rail, wipes his face, neck, chest. The motion pulls the tank tighter across his pecs.
He tips his head back to drink from his water bottle—throat working, Adam’s apple sliding under the ink—and a single drop escapes the corner of his mouth, trails down his jaw, along the line of his neck, disappearing under the collar.
I nearly groan out loud.
My dick is fully hard now—painful against the compression of my shorts. I lean forward on the bike handles, trying to hide it, trying to breathe through the sudden, sharp want that’s flooding every nerve.
This is ridiculous. He’s right there—sweaty, flushed, gorgeous—and I’m sitting here like a teenager with a crush, body betraying me while he doesn’t even know I’m watching.
Or maybe he does.
He lowers the bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes flick toward the mirror—toward me.
Our gazes lock.
For one endless second, neither of us moves.
His chest is still rising and falling fast from the run. Sweat beads on his upper lip. Those dark eyes—rimmed with faint liner from earlier that he never fully washed off—hold mine without flinching. No surprise.
Then he breaks it—looks away first, drapes the towel over his shoulders, and starts walking toward the weight rack on the far side of the room.
I let out a shaky breath.
Pedal slower now. Heart rate dropping, but the heat in my blood isn’t going anywhere.
I could leave. Should leave. Go back upstairs, jerk off in the shower, pretend this never happened.
But I don’t.
I stay on the bike. Keep pedaling. Keep watching him in the mirror as he loads plates onto the barbell—controlled, methodical, every movement precise even when he’s exhausted.
And I wonder—quietly, dangerously—if he’s staying because he wants me to watch.
Because I’m not sure I can stop. Even after ten more minutes.
He’s moved to the free weights—flat bench, dumbbells in each hand.
He lies back, plants his feet, and starts pressing—slow, controlled reps.
Every push makes his chest flex under the soaked tank.
Sweat trails down his temples, along his jaw, dripping onto the mat below.
His breathing is audible now—sharp inhales, steady exhales that match the rhythm of the presses.
I can’t stop watching. I’m transfixed by every move.
In the mirror, our reflections are angled just right: him on the bench, me on the bike. He doesn’t look over, but I know he knows I’m here. The tension in the room is thick enough to taste—electric, heavy, like the air before a storm.
My cock is throbbing now, trapped against the bike seat. Every downstroke of the pedals grinds it harder, sends a jolt of unwanted pleasure up my spine. I grit my teeth, force my hips to stay still. This is torture. Self-inflicted. And I’m not stopping.
He finishes his set. Sits up slowly. Sets the dumbbells down with a soft clank.
Wipes his face with the towel again—neck, chest, arms—then stands.
Stretches. Arms overhead, back arching just enough to pull the tank tight across his abs, outlining every cut line.
The sweat makes the fabric almost transparent in places.
I can see the faint shadow of his nipples, the way his stomach contracts when he breathes.
Fuck.
I miss a pedal stroke. The bike wobbles. I catch myself, grip the handles tighter.
He turns.
Our eyes meet in the mirror again—this time he doesn’t look away.
He walks toward the water fountain passing within five feet of me. Close enough that I catch the scent of him: clean sweat, salt, the faint musk of whatever body wash he uses. My mouth goes dry.
He bends to drink. Throat working. Water spills over his chin, runs down his neck again. Fuck me. Why is he drinking from the fountain if he has his water bottle? It’s to torture me, I know it.
I’m breathing too hard now. Not from the bike. From him.
He straightens. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Turns fully toward me.
“You’re up late,” he says finally.