Chapter 2
TWO
LUCA
The hallway outside the press room is quieter now, the post-show frenzy finally bleeding out.
I push through the side door into the loading dock area—cool air, concrete, the faint smell of diesel and rain from earlier.
My phone’s been buzzing nonstop since we walked off stage.
Notifications stack like bricks: #Kuca trending worldwide again, fan edits already splicing tonight’s almost-kiss with old clips, hearts and fire emojis flooding every comment. I swipe them away without reading.
Whitney’s waiting by her car, parked next to the black SUV Tasha always parks back here for “discreet” exits.
She’s leaning against the hood in that leather jacket she stole from my closet last year, arms crossed, lips pursed like she’s been practicing the look in a mirror.
Her blonde hair is pulled into a messy bun, and even in the dim lights, she looks good—familiar, the kind of pretty that used to make everything feel easy.
She doesn’t smile when she sees me.
“Really, Luca?” she says before I even reach her. “Another almost kiss? You’re trending harder than your dad’s reunion tour.”
I force a grin, the one that usually gets me out of anything. “Hey. Good to see you, too.”
“Don’t.” She pushes off the car, steps closer. Her perfume hits me—vanilla and something floral, same as always. “I saw the livestream of the press after the show. The way you looked at him. The arm around his shoulders. The little ‘baby’ bullshit. People are losing their minds.”
“It’s the job,” I say, keeping my voice light. “You know that. Harry’s breathing down our necks. Sales are tanking. We need the buzz.”
She laughs, but it’s bitter, no warmth in it. “The buzz. Right. Because nothing says ‘saving the band’ like making out with your bandmate on camera while your actual girlfriend sits in the parking lot like an idiot.”
“Ex,” I correct gently. “We’ve been on-again, off-again since senior year. You said it yourself last month—you needed space.”
“Yeah, well, space feels a lot smaller when I open Tiktok and see thousands of people shipping you with Kai fucking Jung.” She pulls out her phone and shoves the screen in my face.
A fan edit: slow-mo of tonight’s cheek kiss, our faces lit gold under the press lights, overlaid with pink sparkles and some sappy ballad.
The caption: They’re so in love it hurts.
I look at it longer than I mean to.
There he is—Kai. Black hair slicked back perfectly, not a strand out of place even after ninety minutes of lights and sweat.
He obviously got that shower he told me to get.
Eyeliner smudged just enough to make his eyes look darker, sharper, looking as if they could cut glass.
Those eyes were locked on mine for that split second before he turned away on stage.
Something that wasn’t entirely for the show, I don’t think.
Something that made my stomach flip in a way I’m not ready to examine.
I shove the phone back at her. “It’s fake, Whit. All of it. Choreography. Scripted. You’ve seen the contract and fan-service including faking a relationship is on the table. It’s literally paperwork. And there is no difference between what I do and what you do.”
She studies me, eyes narrowing. “You sure about that?”
“Positive.” I step closer, drop my voice. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Kai hates my guts. I’m just the guy who shows up late and ruins his perfect little world. He’d rather die than actually want me. And the feeling is mutual.”
She searches my face for a long beat. Then she sighs, shoulders dropping a fraction. “Fine. But if this gets any more convincing, I’m not sitting quietly while the internet plans your wedding.”
I laugh—real this time, a little relieved. “Noted. No weddings. Scout’s honor.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at her mouth now. “You were never a scout.”
“Details.”
She leans up, kisses me quick—soft, possessive, the way she always does when she’s claiming territory and saying we’re back on again. “Text me later. And maybe don’t call him ‘baby’ next time.”
“No promises,” I tease. “It’s in the stage directions.”
She flips me off as she climbs into her car. The door slams. Taillights flare red, then fade down the ramp.
I stand there in the quiet, hands in my pockets, staring at the empty spot where the car was.
My mind doesn’t stay on Whitney.
It drifts back to the press room. To the way Kai’s cheek felt under my lips—warm, smooth, the faintest hint of stubble that scratched just right.
To the way his breath hitched for half a second when I said “baby,” even though he covered it with that ironclad smile.
To his eyes up close—dark brown, almost black under the liner, framed by lashes that shouldn’t look that long and lush on a guy who acts like he’s made of steel.
Perfect. Always so fucking perfect. Hair styled as if he woke up that way, clothes pressed, voice never cracking, steps never missing a beat. As though he’s terrified one tiny flaw will make the whole thing collapse.
I hate that about him.
I hate how he looks at me like I’m a glitch in his system. I hate how he snaps at me for being late like it’s a personal betrayal. I hate how he makes control look effortless when I know it costs him everything.
And I hate—really hate—the way my pulse kicked when our mics crossed on stage tonight.
The way my skin still remembers where his hand gripped the back of my neck for the freeze-frame.
The way part of me wanted to close that last inch and see what happened if we stopped pretending it was all for show.
I rake a hand through my hair, still damp from the show. Shake it off.
It’s nothing. It’s the adrenaline. The lights. The script. The job.
I hate him.
He’s uptight, judgmental, impossible. He thinks I’m shallow because my dad’s name opened doors. He thinks I don’t work for this.
He’s wrong.
But he’s also…fuck. Absolutely, fucking not, he’s nothing.
It’s all show.
Every touch. Every look. Every viral moment. I’m good at selling it. That’s my thing.
And Kai? He’s just another prop in the performance.
Nothing more.
I head back to the building to wait for the others when the loading dock door bangs open, spilling yellow light and the muffled thump of someone’s playlist still going inside.
Michael steps out, duffel slung over one shoulder, hoodie zipped to his chin.
He’s got that easy, lopsided grin already in place, as if he’s been saving it just for this moment.
Kai and Min-ho follow after him, but he pauses as they both pass me by.
“Yo, lover boy!” he calls, voice echoing off the concrete. “You gonna stand out here brooding like a rejected rom-com lead all night, or are we rolling?”
I snort, turning toward him. “I’m not brooding. I’m…decompressing.”
“Decompressing.” He draws the word out, mock-serious, then drops his bag and leans against the wall, pulling out a cigarette. “That what we’re calling it now? Because from where I was standing, you looked like you were about two seconds from climbing Kai like a stage prop during that press scrum.”
“Shut up.” I shove his shoulder lightly. He shoves back harder, laughing.
“Come on, man. The cheek kiss? The arm drape? The way you said ‘baby’ as though you’ve been practicing it in the mirror?
” Michael fans himself dramatically. “I felt things. The entire internet felt things. My phone’s blowing up with edits of you two eye-fucking each other in there. Sexual chemistry level: nuclear.”
I roll my eyes, but I can feel the heat creeping up my neck anyway. “It’s called acting, Sawyer. You should try it sometime instead of just standing in the back row making jazz hands.”
“Hey, my jazz hands are iconic. And don’t deflect.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Admit it. There’s a spark. Tiny. Flickery. But there.”
“There’s nothing. You know how Kai feels about me” I say, too fast. Too defensive. Michael’s grin widens as if he’s caught me red-handed.
“Uh-huh. Sure. That’s why you stared at him for a solid three seconds after you kissed his cheek. Because you feel nothing.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. Because yeah. I did stare. Just for a beat. Long enough to notice the way his jaw tightened, the faint flush under his makeup, the way his eyes flicked to mine as though he was daring me to push it further.
I shove the thought down hard.
“It’s the job,” I repeat, quieter this time. “Harry wants viral. We give viral.”
Michael studies me for a second, grin softening into something more real. “I know. And you’re good at it. Too good, maybe.” He bumps my shoulder again, gentler. “But if it starts feeling less like a job and more like… I don’t know, something else? You can talk to me. No jokes. Promise.”
I glance at him. Michael’s the only one in the band who can say shit like that without it sounding like a Hallmark card.
He’s been the glue since day one—cracking jokes when rehearsals get tense, pulling all-nighters with Min-ho to fix choreo, checking in on Kai when he thinks no one’s watching.
He’s never once made me feel like the rich kid tagalong.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
He nods once, satisfied. Then the grin’s back. “Cool. Now get your ass in gear. Tasha’s got the SUV waiting, and I’m not riding back to the hotel without my wingman. You staying at your folks’ place tonight?”
“Yeah. Dad’s got some barbecue thing tomorrow. Mom’s already texting me pics of the grill and pool like I might forget where the house is.”
“Fancy. Tell Dax I said hi. And ask him if he still has that signed Les Paul he owes me.”
I laugh. “Dream on.”
Michael grabs his bag, slings it higher. “Come on. Walk with me. I need to hear all about how Kai’s eyeliner game tonight almost made you forget your own name.”
“Fuck off,” I say, but I’m already falling into step beside him, shoulder to shoulder, the way we’ve done after a hundred shows.
He keeps teasing the whole way to the SUV—Kuca edits, fan theories, how Kai’s “brooding stare” is apparently “foreplay in slow motion.” I fire back with my own shit: his terrible post-show dance moves, the way he once tripped over his own mic cable mid-joke when it fell out of his holder.
We’re both laughing by the time we reach the others, the knot in my chest loosening just enough to breathe.
Michael’s good like that. He doesn’t let me stay in my head too long.
And tonight, I need that more than I want to admit.
Because even as I climb into the SUV, even as I text my mom On my way home, my mind keeps drifting back to one thing.
Kai’s eyes under those lights.
Dark. Sharp. Perfect. And the way, for one stupid second, I didn’t want to walk away. I shove it down again.
It’s nothing. Just the job. Just the show.