Chapter 5
FIVE
KAI
The tarmac shimmers under the L.A. heat, the private jet humming like it's as impatient as I am.
We're all strapped in already—me by the window, staring out at the runway as if glaring at it will make us move faster.
Min-ho's across from me, earbuds in, scrolling through his phone with that calm focus he always has.
Michael's fidgeting in the seat next to him, cracking his knuckles and glancing at his watch every five seconds.
Tasha's up front with the pilot, phone pressed to her ear. I can hear her muffled voice: "Where the hell are you, Luca? We're holding."
Holding. For him.
"Seriously?" I mutter, loud enough for the cabin to hear. "Just go. He can buy his own ticket to Phoenix. Daddy's money's good for something."
Michael shoots me a look—half amused, half warning. "Come on, man. He's five minutes out. Traffic's a bitch this time of day."
"Five minutes my ass, he’s over two hours late," I snap. "He's always late. Always. We shouldn't have to wait like he's the king of the fucking world."
Min-ho pulls one earbud out, voice even. "He's part of the team, Kai. We wait."
I lean back, crossing my arms, jaw tight. Team. Right. Because Luca's so committed to the "team." Showing up whenever he feels like it, looking like he just rolled out of bed half the time. Meanwhile, the rest of us grind. Plan. Prepare. Like our spots aren't guaranteed.
The thought pulls me back—way back—to the first time I ever stepped on a plane like this.
Not this exact jet, but close enough. Eclipse was brand new then, ink barely dry on the contracts.
No Luca yet—our original fourth member, Blake, had just bailed for "personal reasons" (code for cold feet), but we were pushing forward as three until the label found a replacement.
I was nineteen, fresh out of auditions, still pinching myself that this was real.
Tasha had picked me up from my crappy apartment in a black SUV—first time I'd ever ridden in one.
The airport smelled like fuel and possibility.
When we boarded the charter to New York for our debut showcase, my hands were shaking. From excitement. Pure, electric joy.
I remember pressing my face to the window as we taxied, watching the ground blur.
Min-ho—already my anchor, the one guy I knew from before the band—sat beside me, grinning like a kid on Christmas.
Michael was bouncing in his seat, cracking jokes about joining the mile-high club.
Even Tasha smiled, handing out sodas as though we were on a field trip.
Takeoff hit me like a rush—stomach dropping, world tilting.
I laughed. Actually laughed out loud. Because for the first time, I wasn't just surviving.
I was flying. Literally. No more scraping by, no more wondering if I'd eat that night.
This was it. The start. And I swore I'd never take it for granted.
Never be the guy who acted as though it was owed to him.
Now? The jet's engines whine, but we're still grounded. Waiting. For the guy who treats this like a hobby. The excitement's long gone—replaced by this constant, low-simmer irritation that Luca seems to stoke every time he strolls in late with that smirk.
Tasha pokes her head back. "He's pulling up. Two minutes."
I scoff. "Great. Another gold star for effort."
Michael chuckles. "You two need to hug it out or something. The tension's thicker than the humidity."
"Pass," I say flatly.
The door hisses open a minute later. Luca climbs the steps—hair a wild mess, like he didn't even glance in a mirror.
Ripped jeans slung low showing off the chain tattooed into his skin, black ribbed tank clinging to his chest, no jacket, no bag.
Just him, phone in hand, looking as if he stumbled out of a party and straight onto the runway.
No luggage. Completely unready.
My blood boils.
He drops into the seat across the aisle from me, buckling in without a word. Sweat beads on his forehead; his tank's already sticking in places. He smells like a night of sex and liquor—cologne left over from yesterday, no shower.
Tasha gives the pilot the go-ahead. The door seals. We start taxiing.
I stare at him. He avoids my eyes, fiddling with his seatbelt.
Michael breaks the silence. "Close one, bro. What happened? Wild night?"
Luca forces a grin. "Something like that."
Min-ho just nods hello, popping his earbud back in.
The plane accelerates, thrusting us into the air. L.A. shrinks below—smoggy sprawl giving way to blue sky. Once we're level, the seatbelt light dings off.
Luca unbuckles first, heading to the back where the small bar cart's stocked. He pours himself a drink—whiskey, neat, from the looks of it. His hand shakes a little as he lifts the glass.
I can't hold it anymore.
I unbuckle, follow him. The cabin's tight; we're out of earshot from the others if we keep it low.
"What the hell, Luca?" I hiss, stopping inches from him. "No bag? Hair like you fought a wind tunnel? You look like shit. We held the plane for you—again—and you show up like this?"
He takes a sip, eyes on the window. Doesn't turn. "I made it. That's what matters."
"No. What matters is respect. For us. For the schedule. For the fact that this isn't a game to the rest of us." I step closer, voice dropping. "You waltz in late, half-dressed, no prep. What, too busy with your girlfriend to set an alarm? Or was it Daddy's yacht party this time?"
He flinches at that—subtle, but I catch it. Still doesn't look at me. Just stares into his glass, swirling the amber liquid.
"Say something," I demand. "Defend yourself. Make another joke. That's your thing, right?"
He sets the glass down. Finally meets my eyes—hazel, the green dimmed, tired, no smirk this time. "You're right."
I blink. "What?"
"You're right," he repeats, voice flat. "I should've been on time. No excuses. It won't happen again."
No fight or sarcasm. He just accepts my words. Was it really that easy?
It throws me. I expected the pushback. Not this. Not him taking it like a punch he deserves.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The plane hums around us, clouds whipping by outside.
He lifts his drink to his lips again, draining it, before turning back to the bar. "That all?"
I stand there a second longer, irritation twisting into something else that leaves me feeling unsettled.
"Yeah," I mutter. "That's all."
I walk back to my seat, dropping into it harder than necessary. Min-ho glances over, eyebrow raised. I shake my head.
Luca stays at the bar, nursing his drink alone.
The hotel room in Phoenix is quiet for once. Michael’s out grabbing food with Min-ho, Tasha’s in a meeting with Harry, and Luca… who knows. Probably nursing his whiskey somewhere far from me after the plane ride. I don’t care. I just want five minutes without anyone breathing down my neck.
I drop onto the bed, back against the headboard, and pull out my phone. Laney’s name is already at the top of my recents—she texted earlier asking for an update. I hit FaceTime before I can overthink it.
She answers on the second ring, face filling the screen. Her curly hair is piled in a messy bun, freckles bright under whatever ring light she’s using for her latest art stream. She’s grinning before the call even connects fully.
“There he is,” she says, voice warm and teasing. “The superstar. Still alive after another day of fake-boyfriend torture?”
I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Barely. You watching the edits again?”
“Guilty.” She props her phone against something so I can see the chaos of her desk—sketchbooks, colored pencils, half-finished portraits.
“I’ve got a whole folder labeled ‘Kuca Evidence’ now.
The cheek kiss from the other night, pure perfection.
Chef’s kiss. You looked like you were about to either punch him or climb him. ”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. With Laney, the walls come down easier. She’s seen me at my lowest—foster home meltdowns, first audition nerves, the night I aged out and slept on her couch because I didn’t have anywhere else. She’s never judged.
“Shut up,” I say, but I’m smiling. “It’s choreography. Harry’s pushing for more. A lot more.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “More? Like what? Full-on lap dances? You two gonna start dry-humping during the encore?”
I snort—an actual laugh, surprising even me. “Close. Throat holds, pinning against speakers, sucker thing where one of us takes it from the other’s mouth. Slow. Seductive. All the buzzwords.”
Laney cackles, throwing her head back. “Oh my God. You’re gonna give the fans heart attacks. And you’re doing it with Mr. Cocky Pants? The one who shows up late and still looks like a magazine cover?”
“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck, feeling the tension there. “He was late again today. Missed call time. Showed up on the plane looking as though he’d been dragged through a hedge backward. No bag, hair a disaster, ripped jeans like he couldn’t be bothered.”
She tilts her head, studying me through the screen. “And you’re pissed.”
“Obviously.”
“But you’re laughing about it with me.”
I pause. She’s right. The irritation’s still there—simmering, familiar—but talking to her softens the edges. Makes it feel less like a personal attack and more like… just Luca being Luca.
“I don’t know,” I admit, quieter. “He took it when I laid into him on the plane. He had no excuses. He didn’t even smirk at me. Just…said, ‘You’re right.’ It threw me.”
Laney’s expression softens, too. “Maybe he’s not as oblivious as you think. Or maybe he’s finally feeling the pressure.”
“Maybe.” I lean my head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. “Or maybe I’m just tired of hating him every second. It’s exhausting.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then smiles—gentle, knowing. “You don’t have to hate him forever, you know. The fans might ship you guys, but you can be friends.”
I huff a small laugh. “Tell that to Harry. And the choreographer. And the twenty thousand people who scream ‘Kuca’ every night.”
“True. But you’re still allowed to be actual friends. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t.” I meet her eyes through the screen. “Thanks, Laney. For this. For not making it weird.”
“Never weird with you.” She winks. “Now I have to get some sleep before tomorrow, I’ve got a big art expo. And maybe don’t murder Luca on stage at your next show. The fans would riot.”
“No promises,” I say, but I’m smiling again—real this time. “Good luck tomorrow.”
We say goodbye, her screen going dark. I set my phone on the nightstand and exhale. For the first time in weeks, the knot in my chest loosens just a fraction.
Maybe tomorrow won’t be so bad. Or maybe Luca will be late again, and I’ll have to hate him all over. Either way, at least I’ve got Laney in my corner.
That’s enough for tonight.