Chapter 12
TWELVE
LUCA
I didn’t think things could get worse. Obviously I misjudged the situation, because if I thought Kai was joyless before, he is downright miserable over the next three weeks. I don’t think I’ve seen him even have a hint of a smile outside of the fake ones on stage.
He’s a ghost in the green rooms, a shadow on the buses, a statue during interviews.
Every time we’re in the same space, he finds a reason to leave it.
Or he stays and goes so quiet it feels like the air gets thinner.
The band notices—Michael cracks fewer jokes around him, Min-ho watches him like he’s waiting for something to break—but no one says it out loud.
I don’t either.
Because saying it out loud would mean admitting that the cold shoulder I’m getting hurts more than I want it to. And admitting that would mean admitting I care. A lot.
We’re in New York now—Madison Square Garden, the kind of venue that should feel like a peak.
Instead it feels like a pressure cooker.
The show’s tonight, and Kuca has cooled off trending.
The viral clips from Vegas and L.A. are still circulating, but the newness has worn off.
Harry’s been on the phone with Tasha every hour, voice getting more demanding each time.
This morning’s emergency meeting in the arena’s conference room was brutal.
“Numbers are flattening,” Harry said, tapping his tablet like it personally offended him.
“We need to ramp it up. On-stage touches. More skin. More heat. Luca—wrap your arm around Kai’s waist during the bridge of ‘ Starlight Ruin.’ Run your hand up his side, under the shirt, over bare skin.
Up to his pec, squeeze. Hold it for the beat drop. Let the fans lose their minds.”
Kai’s jaw had locked so hard I thought I heard it crack. I felt my own stomach drop.
“That’s crossing a line,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. I don’t think I can touch Kai knowing he can’t stand me.
Harry didn’t blink. “It’s in the contract. Promotional activities. You both signed it. Do it, or we start looking at solo options.”
The threat hung there in the air.
Now we’re in the empty arena for a closed run-through. Just us, Tasha, Steven the choreographer, and a couple techs. The house lights are up, stage half-dressed, but the energy is low. Everyone knows what’s coming.
We start from the top. Opener flows fine. Bridge hits.
Steven calls it. “Luca—arm around waist, hand dragging his shirt up, a slow reveal, to his pec. Kai—arch into it, head back, sell the desire.”
I step up behind him. Kai’s in rehearsal gear—black tank cut high on the sides. His skin is warm when I slide my arm around his waist. My palm flattens against his bare side—smooth, taut, still a little damp from the last song.
I run my hand up—fingers trailing over his ribs, brushing the edge of the script tattoo, then higher. Over the hard plane of his pec. I squeeze—gentle but firm, thumb brushing his nipple.
The arena is silent except for our breathing.
Kai goes rigid. Then he bats my touch away. Sparks explode between us. Not literal ones, but there’s this sudden, violent snap of tension between us. His eyes flash—dark and furious, something else swimming just below it. Hurt? Lust? Both?
“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t fucking touch me like that.”
I step back, my heart hammering against my rib cage, hands up. This is why I didn’t want to do this. His rejection stings, and I can feel the blood leave my face. Steven freezes. While Tasha’s mouth opens and then closes.
Kai’s chest is heaving, the tendon in his neck is standing out, flexing more with each dry swallow. He looks at me as if I’m a complete stranger who crossed an invisible line.
“I was doing what Harry told us to do,” I say. “You know that.”
“Yeah,” he bites out. “I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
I hold his gaze, my own hurt and anger swirling inside of me. “Then tell him no.”
He laughs. “Like that’s an option.”
“It could be.”
“For you maybe, you have your daddy to fall back on. This is the only shot I have.”
I blink, clamping my mouth shut. We stare at each other. The space feels way too big, yet too small at the same time. Of course he thinks that. Like I even want to rely on my father’s success to find my own.
Tasha finally steps in. “Okay. Reset. We’ll…adjust the blocking. Kai, you good to run it again? We will save the bare skin touching for the show.”
Kai doesn’t answer her. He’s still looking at me. Then he turns away, walks to center stage, plants his feet, and nods once.
“Let’s go.”
The lights drop, and the arena ignites.
Twenty thousand voices fuse into one deafening wave—Eclipse!
Eclipse! Eclipse!—and it hits me like a drug straight to the vein.
This is the only place I’ve ever felt truly alive.
Not the green rooms, not the buses, not the fake dates, or the whispered fights in hallways.
Here. Under these lights, with the bass rattling my ribs and the crowd screaming our name like it’s the only word they know.
I’m grinning before the first chord lands—wide, reckless, the kind of smile I haven’t worn in weeks.
The adrenaline floods in hot and bright, washing away the cold shoulder, the silence, the ache that’s been sitting in my chest since the gym.
Tonight, I’m not thinking about contracts or Harry or what Kai said in the van.
Tonight I’m just…here. Alive. And fuck, it feels good.
Kai feels it, too—I can see it the second he steps into the spotlight.
His shoulders loosen, eyes sharpen, that iron control he’s been wearing like armor cracks just enough to let something real bleed through.
He’s still guarded, still Kai, but the stage is the one place he lets himself breathe.
Michael’s bouncing on his toes, already laughing into his mic.
Min-ho’s steady as ever, but there’s a small, rare smile tugging at his mouth when the opening beat drops.
We launch into the set. Every cue hits. Every harmony locks. The crowd is feral—phones up, signs waving, Kuca chants rolling like thunder before we’ve even touched.
Then “Starlight Ruin” starts.
The lights dim to deep violet. Slow synth pulse.
My solo line first—voice low and curling around the melody.
Kai’s standing center stage, back to me, head tilted just enough that I can see the line of his throat, his tattoo climbing toward his jaw.
He’s in the black sleeveless top tonight—sides cut almost down to his waist, exposing the Korean script along his ribs and the thorns that wrap his chest.
The pre-chorus swells.
I move exactly how we practiced. My arm snakes around his waist—scripted, yes, but the second my palm flattens against his bare skin, it stops being an act.
He’s warm and sweat-slick from the first half of the set.
My fingers splay across his stomach, thumb brushing the edge of the script tattoo.
I drag my hand up—leisurely—over the hard plane of his abs, up his side, making the fabric bunch as I do.
My palm glides over his pec, thumb grazing his nipple.
I flex my fingers into his skin. A possessive urge to tug him back into me fills me, but I resist.
Kai arches back into me.
Not the choreographed lean.
Real.
His head falls against my shoulder, throat exposed, lips parted on a silent gasp. His hips roll back—just a fraction—pressing his ass against my groin. I feel him shudder. Feel the way his breath catches.
And fuck—my cock is already hard, thick against the leather of my pants, trapped between us.
He feels it. I know he does. His hand comes up—slow, scripted at first along my thigh—then drifts higher.
His fingers brush the bulge in my pants.
Not accidental. Not part of the choreography.
Calculated and teasing. A measured drag of knuckles over the length of me.
I stumble.
The line I’m supposed to sing dies in my throat—half a word, cracked and breathless. The mic picks it up anyway—raw, ragged, and unmistakably turned on. The crowd screams louder, thinking it’s part of the performance. Phones flash like lightning.
Kai doesn’t pull away.
His fingers linger—pressing just enough to make my hips jerk forward. My arm tightens around his waist, holding him there. My mouth finds the shell of his ear.
“Kai—”
He turns his head—barely—lips brushing my jaw. Not a kiss, but enough contact to make my vision white out for a second.
The beat drops, and Min-ho finishes the song. We freeze in the pose—my hand still under his shirt, his fingers still ghosting over my cock, bodies pressed flush. Lights strobe. The crowd loses it.
I’m shaking. He’s shaking. And for the first time in weeks, the space between us isn’t cold.
It’s burning me alive.
Lights cut.
We don’t move right away. His hand finally drops as mine slides out from under his shirt. He steps forward first, and I follow him. Offstage, the roar still echoes in my ears, but I’m not thinking about the concert anymore.