Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
KAI
The encore fades. Lights crash to black.
The roar of the crowd swallows everything—twenty thousand voices screaming for more, for us, for Kuca.
I stand there in the dark, chest heaving, sweat pouring down my back, Luca’s arm still loose around my waist like he forgot to let go. Or like he doesn’t want to.
The stage high should be crashing through me right now—adrenaline spiking, endorphins flooding, the rush of nailing a sold-out show in New York. But all I feel is turmoil. A storm twisting in my gut, hot and chaotic, centered on the man at my back.
I step away from him, and we stumble offstage together—bodies brushing, breaths syncing without meaning to. The crew claps us on the back. Tasha’s grinning, phone already buzzing with notifications. Michael whoops something about “best show yet.” Min-ho shoots me a look, but I avoid his eyes.
Luca doesn't look at me as we enter the green room. Just grabs a towel, wipes his face, and heads for the water cooler as if nothing happened.
But something did.
On stage, during “Starlight Ruin,” the choreography stopped being fake the second his hand dragged up my side.
His palm on my bare skin; hot, callused, and possessive, sent fire straight through me.
I arched back into him for real, head falling against his shoulder, throat exposed to him in invitation.
And when I felt him—hard and thick against my ass—I didn’t pull away.
I pressed closer. My hand dropped, brushed over his thigh, and moved higher to the bulge in his pants, disguised as part of the move, but nothing about it was scripted. We both know it.
And God, I wanted more.
Now, in the green room, the turmoil hits full force.
My body’s still buzzing—skin too tight, cock half-hard in my leather pants, every nerve lit up like the arena lights.
I grab a water bottle, chug it, trying to cool the heat pooling low in my stomach.
But my mind won’t stop replaying it: his fingers squeezing my pec, thumb grazing my nipple just enough to make it harden; the way his breath hitched when I touched him; the electric jolt when our eyes locked mid-move, with raw want.
I’m terrified.
This isn’t supposed to be real. It’s a contract.
A performance. A way to save the band. But tonight, on that stage, it crossed every line I’ve tried to keep in place.
I wanted it. And now the crowd has footage—phones capturing every brush, every arch, every fucking move.
By morning, #Kuca will be exploding again, fans dissecting it like proof we’re together for real.
Harry will love it. The charts will spike.
But what about me? What about the part where I can’t stop picturing Luca’s hand higher, lower, everywhere?
The part where I regret running from the gym that night, where I wish I’d stayed and let him push me against the wall, let his mouth map every inch of me?
The part where the control I’ve clung to since foster care—since proving I deserved a spot in this world—is crumbling because of him?
I attempt to shove it all away and dip into the changing room to get into my normal clothes.
When I’m done and I step back out, I glance at Luca.
He’s laughing at something Michael said—forced but there.
His platinum hair is sweat-damp, mesh top clinging to his chest. He catches my eye for a split second—hazel gaze flicking away fast.
I want him. Badly. The way he felt against me—hard, wanting, real—has been playing on loop since the beat drop. My body aches for it. But letting go means risking everything: the band, my control, the walls that kept me safe when nothing else did.
My phone pings with a text message from Laney:
Shit, Kai. That’s hot. Tell me it felt as hot as it looked.
Attached is a video of Luca and me on stage, my hand on his crotch, his on my chest, and pure desire painted on my face. Oh fuck. This is worse than I thought.
I type back quickly,
Not hot. And what are you stalking the Kuca tag?
She sends back a laughy face emoji.
I was going to suggest meeting tonight, since you’re in town, but maybe you have other plans. lol
We can meet. The label rented out Zero Bond for the after party. I’ll put you on the list.
Look at you, Mr. Pop star.
I’ll tell Min-ho you’ll be there.
See you soon. Xoxo
I’m smiling when the screen goes dark.
The smile lingers longer than it should—small, private, the kind I haven’t worn in weeks.
Laney’s texts are a lifeline: teasing, no bullshit.
She’s always been able to cut through the noise in my head with a single emoji or a well-timed “lol.” Tonight, it’s enough to loosen the knot in my chest, even if just a little.
I glance up from my phone. Luca’s still across the room—laugh still on his face from whatever Michael said, but it’s fading fast now that he’s noticed me looking.
His hazel eyes flick to mine again—longer this time.
There’s something raw in them, something that mirrors the ache still throbbing low in my gut.
He holds the look for two heartbeats, three—then drops his gaze to the floor, jaw tightening.
I shove my phone in my pocket. Stand. “I’m heading to the after-party early. Laney’s coming. Min-ho, are you good to meet her there?”
Min-ho nods from the couch, already pulling on a fresh hoodie. “I’ll walk over with Michael. Save me a seat.”
Michael grins. “Tell her to bring her famous side-eye. I need someone to roast Luca properly tonight.”
Luca snorts—half-hearted. “Good luck. She’ll probably roast you first.”
I don’t respond. Just grab my jacket and head for the door.
The hallway is quiet. Cooler. I lean against the wall for a second, eyes closed, trying to steady my breathing.
The memory of the stage is still too fresh: his hardness against my palm, the way his hips jerked when I touched him, the broken sound he made into the mic.
It wasn’t acting. It wasn’t for the fans.
It was us.
The elevator dings. I step in, and I’m still thinking about it as the doors close.
Down in the lobby, the label’s black SUV is waiting—Zero Bond is only a ten-minute walk, which is what the guys will probably do. I slide into the back seat alone. The driver nods in the rearview. “Ready, Mr. Jung?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Let’s go.”
The city blurs past—neon signs, traffic, the endless pulse of New York at night. My phone stays silent.
When we pull up to Zero Bond, the bouncer waves me through the private entrance.
Inside, it’s already alive—low lights, deep bass, bottles clinking, laughter rolling over the music.
The label rented the whole upstairs lounge; Eclipse banners hang discreetly, a DJ spinning remixes of our tracks.
Crew members, a few industry people, some influencers.
No paps inside, but I know they’re outside waiting for exits.
I spot Laney already near the bar—curly hair up in a high ponytail, leather jacket, signature smile already in place. She sees me, raises her glass, and weaves through the crowd.
She throws her arms around me the second she reaches me. “There’s my pop star. You look like you just survived a war zone.”
“Feels like it,” I mutter into her shoulder.
She pulls back, studies my face. “That video… Kai. You two looked like you were about to fuck right there on stage.”
I wince. “It was new choreography.”
“Bullshit.” She sips her drink, eyes narrowing. “You were touching him like you wanted to unzip his pants and blow him right there. And he was looking at you like he wanted to eat you alive.”
I drag a hand over my face. “I know.”
She softens. “So what’s the problem? You want him. He clearly wants you. The fans are losing their minds. What’s stopping you?”
I glance toward the entrance. The rest of the band hasn’t arrived yet. “Everything. The contract. The band. The fact that I’ve spent years building walls so high no one could get through. And now, he’s… inside them. And I don’t know how to let him stay without everything falling apart.”
Laney sets her drink down and takes my hand. “You’re not in foster care anymore, Kai. You’re not fighting to prove you deserve a spot. You’ve earned it. A million times over. If he makes you feel something real—something good—then maybe it’s time to stop running from it.”
I swallow. “What if I fuck it up?”
“Then you fuck it up. And you fix it. That’s how people who aren’t control freaks live.”
The words sting, but I let out a shaky laugh. “You sound like Min-ho.”
She grins. “Smart guy. You should listen to him more.”
The door opens behind us. The rest of the band spills in—Michael first, already loud; Min-ho quiet behind him; Luca last, already scanning the room.
They find us almost immediately. Luca’s gaze lands on me and holds. Butterflies explode to life, like a volcano erupting and my heart kicks hard against my ribs.
Laney squeezes my hand one last time. “Go talk to him.”
She lets go. Walks toward Min-ho and pulls him into a tight hug, kissing each cheek.
I stand there—alone in the crowd, lights pulsing, music thumping—watching Luca cross the room toward me.
“We should talk,” he says as he comes to a stop in front of me.