Spotlight Hearts (Fame & Fire #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

KAI

The lights hit like a physical thing—hot, blinding, alive. Twenty thousand voices scream our name in perfect, terrifying unison. Eclipse. Eclipse. Eclipse.

I center myself on the stage riser, legs braced, headset mic positioned perfectly against my lips.

The in-ear monitors feed me the clean mix: bass thumping in my chest, harmonies locked tight.

I’ve drilled this set until my body could do it asleep.

Every breath, every step, every note—controlled. Flawless.

Then Luca moves.

He’s liquid motion. Always has been. Black leather pants catching every strobe, shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, sweat already tracing lines down his throat.

He cuts across the stage during the bridge of “Midnight Nova,” hips snapping to the beat, drawing screams that could shatter glass.

Phones light up the arena like a reversed night sky.

I know the cue. We’ve run it a hundred times.

Min Ho steps back as Luca closes the distance.

Stops just inside my space—close enough that the heat rolling off him cuts through the dry ice fog.

Our headset mics are angled toward each other, the slim booms curving like question marks between our mouths.

The crowd knows what’s coming. They’re already chanting.

“Kuca! Kuca! Kuca!”

Luca tilts his head, eyes locking on mine—dark, challenging, glittering under the lights. I match him: slow drag of my gaze down his body, from his platinum hair down to the tattoo peaking out of his belt line, then back up.

My voice stays steady through the lyrics, as my finger presses just under his chin to tilt his head up, but my pulse isn’t listening.

He leans in. The boom of his mic brushes mine; our breaths collide in the tiny space between foam, metal, and lips.

Mint and adrenaline. One shift forward and it’s a kiss.

His cologne hits me—something expensive and smoky that makes my stomach twist in a way I refuse to name.

My heart kicks hard against my ribs. I ignore it. I always ignore it.

At the last possible second, I turn my face—just enough to feel his breath ghost over my skin.

A tease. A graze of cheek against cheek, my lips ghosting past the corner of his mouth.

The arena detonates. Luca lets out that low, throaty laugh right into my earpiece and spins away, leaving me holding the note alone.

The rest of the set is muscle memory. I hit every mark. Every spin. Every choreographed glance. But beneath the roar, beneath the lights, I’m still simmering from earlier.

Soundcheck. 4:17 p.m. Luca’s spot is empty.

Tasha, our manager, is pacing the floor, phone pressed to her ear.

Michael cracking weak jokes to keep the mood light.

Min-ho watching me with that quiet, steady gaze that says he knows I’m about to crack.

And me—standing under the work lights, headset on, counting seconds while the clock ticked past 4:20, 4:25, 4:30.

He finally strolled in at 4:42, hair damp, grin in place. “Traffic,” he said. Like that erased the forty-two minutes of wasted time—of our time. Michael and Min-ho let it roll off their shoulders as though it isn’t a big deal that our band mate can’t be reliable.

I didn’t speak to him for the rest of prep. Didn’t need to. The set ran anyway. It always does when I’m there to hold it together.

Final chorus now. Luca’s back at my side for the big finish—our bodies slotted together, heads angled toward each other so the mics catch both our voices in a perfect blend.

My hand finds the back of his neck—scripted, possessive.

His fingers curl into the front of my shirt—scripted and desperate.

The lights strobe red, white, black. We freeze in the pose: faces inches apart, breaths syncing, mics crossed like swords.

The house lights crash to black.

Screams swallow everything. And we break apart with a shove to each other's chests, as though neither of us can stand touching the other for a second longer.

The backstage is humid, frantic, reeking of sweat and fog juice. I’m yanking the in-ears out, peeling the headset off as I stride toward the dressing rooms, when Luca saunters through the curtain still riding the high, still grinning.

“Solid show, Jung,” he calls, slinging his towel over one shoulder. “You almost looked like you were into it out there.”

I keep walking. Jaw locked. Teeth grinding.

“Kai.” He catches up, falling into step. “Come on. Don’t ice me out.”

I stop and turn toward him leisurely.

“You were late,” I say. The words come out low and clipped. Dangerous. “Again.”

He blinks as though he has no clue what I’m talking about. Then laughs—short, incredulous. “Dude. Twenty-five minutes. We still crushed it.”

“Twenty-five,” I repeat, trying really hard not to roll my eyes. “Try forty-two. And it’s not the minutes I’m mad about, you’re disrespectful. To Tasha. To Min-ho. To Michael. To me. To everyone who’s been here since dawn while you decide when you feel like showing up.”

His smile drops. Something flashes in his eyes—annoyance, maybe a flicker of guilt, maybe just irritation at being called out. “You’re seriously doing this right now? After that? It was great!”

“That was a performance,” I snap. “This isn’t.”

He steps closer. Too close. The hallway lights catch the sweat still shining on his throat, the green flecks in the brown of his eyes. His darkened, sweaty blond hair curls against the nape of his neck, and he smells incredible.

What? No, he doesn’t. I’m just running hot from the concert.

“You think I don’t get the difference? I’m not clueless, Kai.”

“Then stop acting like it.”

For a beat, he just stares. Chest rising and falling. Then he shakes his head, lets out a bitter huff of laughter. “You know what your problem is?”

“I’ve got a list,” I say, voice ice.

He ignores me and continues on. “You think everyone has to bleed for their place. Like suffering’s the only thing that makes any of this real.

” He leans in, voice dropping. “Not everyone had to claw their way up the way you did. Doesn’t make what I have fake or less.

I’m still as worthy of this as you are.”

The words stab into me like a blade between ribs.

And just like that, the memory surfaces—the one I keep buried under layers of discipline.

Nineteen. A dive karaoke bar in Inglewood that didn’t look too closely at my fake ID.

Buzzing fluorescents, sticky floors, the kind of place where dreams go to die quietly.

I sang there every Friday for months because it was free and no one laughed when I cracked on the high notes.

That night I did “Falling Slowly” by Glen Handsard—raw, no polish, just the hollow ache I carried everywhere.

When the last note faded, the room went still for three heartbeats. Then it erupted.

I didn’t know it at the time but my now manager, Tasha, was in the back, arms crossed, watching. She walked up before the applause died. “You’re wasting that voice,” she said, pressing her card into my hand. “Audition tomorrow. Bring everything.”

And I brought everything. Every foster placement. The feeling when I aged out and was tossed out of my home with nothing but the backpack I brought with me. Every night I told myself perfect was the only way to stay wanted. I auditioned like my life was on the line—because it was.

Luca on the other hand? His dad was Dax Clark—nineties rock royalty, the voice that defined a generation, arenas sold out before Luca was born.

Luca grew up with laminate passes around his neck, birthday candles blown out backstage at the Forum, first guitar signed by legends.

When Blake, one of our first bandmates dropped us and Eclipse needed a replacement, he walked in with a demo and a last name that made doors swing open before he knocked.

He never had to prove he deserved the spotlight. He was handed it.

And I hate him for it.

I hate that he can stroll in late and still own the stage.

I hate that he can lean into me under those lights, mic to mic, breath to breath, pretending the heat crawling up my spine is just choreography.

I hate that sometimes—just sometimes—I wonder what it would feel like if I stopped pulling away.

I step back. Create distance between us and sneer. “Go shower,” I tell him. “Press in thirty.”

He holds my gaze a second longer. Then he turns and walks off without another word. I stand there until the hallway quiets, until the echo of the crowd is gone.

Control, I remind myself.

I don’t bend or break.

And I’m not letting Luca Clark take it from me.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

The green room backstage smells of stale coffee and hairspray.

I’m already showered and changed—black hoodie up, sleeves tugged over my knuckles—trying to disappear into the corner couch while the rest of the band mills around.

Min-ho sits beside me, scrolling quietly on his phone, he’s the only person who doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence.

Michael’s cracking jokes with the sound guy.

Luca’s…somewhere. Probably charming someone he shouldn’t.

Tasha appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand, expression tight. “Press room. Five minutes. Harry’s orders—full charm. Kai, Luca, you’re front and center.”

My stomach drops. I knew this was coming.

Post-show media scrums are standard, but tonight’s different.

The viral clips from the almost-kiss are already everywhere.

Our fans sure didn’t waste any time posting that all over social media.

#Kuca is trending again. Harry texted the group chat a half-hour ago: Sell it harder. No half-measures.

I nod once. Min-ho glances at me, eyes soft with that wordless understanding he’s had since we were kids. I force a small exhale. I can do this. I’ve done worse.

The press room is smaller than the arena and feels twice as suffocating—folding chairs, bright lights on tripods, reporters with phones and recorders already rolling.

Flashbulbs pop the second we walk in. Michael goes first, all easy grins and stupid dad-jokes that make the room laugh.

Min-ho hangs back, answering questions in short, precise, shy sentences. Then it’s us.

“Kai! Luca! Over here!”

Cameras swing like weapons. I step up to the small platform they’ve set up, Luca right behind me.

He ignored my command to get a shower and is still in stage makeup—smoky liner, lips glossy—and he looks infuriatingly good under the lights.

As though he was born for this. Not to mention, the scent of his sweat and cologne mixing is going to my head.

Before I can brace, his arm slides around my shoulders. Casual. Possessive. The weight of it is warm, solid, and I hate how my body doesn’t flinch away. The reporters eat it up—phones tilt higher, questions fire faster.

“Kai, how do you feel about the Kuca edits blowing up tonight?”

“Luca, was that almost-kiss planned or spontaneous?”

I open my mouth to give the safe, rehearsed answer—We love giving the fans what they want—but Luca beats me to it.

He turns his face toward mine, close enough that his breath brushes my ear. “What do you think, baby?” he murmurs, loud enough for the closest mics to catch.

The room erupts in delighted chaos.

Then he does it.

He leans in and presses a quick, theatrical kiss to my cheek—lips soft, lingering just a second too long for it to be purely playful. His stubble scrapes lightly against my skin. My pulse slams into overdrive. Heat floods my face, and I know the cameras are catching every millisecond of it.

I freeze. Smile. It’s the same tight, controlled smile I’ve worn in a hundred interviews, but inside I’m screaming. Get off me. Don’t touch me. Don’t make this feel real.

The flashes are blinding. Someone yells, “Again! One more!”

Luca laughs—that low, effortless sound—and tightens his arm around me for the encore shot. I tilt my head just enough to look at him, as if I’m in on the joke. As though I’m not fighting the urge to shove him away.

“Perfect,” Tasha calls from the side, giving the thumbs-up. “That’s the money shot.”

The questions keep coming, but my ears are ringing. Luca answers most of them—playful deflections, winks, the full Luca Clark experience. I manage a few clipped responses. We’re grateful for the love. The fans make it all worth it. Safe. Neutral. Controlled.

Finally, Tasha claps her hands. “Alright, that’s time. Thank you, everyone!”

The room starts to break apart. Reporters pack up. Crews unplug lights.

Luca’s arm slips off my shoulders.

Just like that.

No lingering glance. No smirk. No nothing.

He turns and walks away—long strides, hands shoved in his pockets, not even a backward look. Pretending the kiss, the arm, the whole performance meant less than zero to him.

I stand there under the dying lights, cheek still tingling where his mouth was, chest tight with something I really am not giving a name.

Michael bumps my shoulder on his way past. “Nice work, man. You two are killing it.”

I force a nod. Swallow.

Min-ho waits until the others are gone before he steps closer. “You okay?”

I don’t answer right away. I watch Luca disappear through the side door, shoulders relaxed, like he didn’t just set my entire nervous system on fire and then walk away.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Fine.”

Min-ho doesn’t push. He just squeezes my arm once—quiet and steady—and heads out.

I stay a minute longer. Alone with the empty chairs and the ghost of flashes still popping behind my eyes.

I don’t wipe my cheek until no one can see me do it.