Chapter 8
EIGHT
LUCA
My phone buzzes once, twice, then doesn’t stop.
I groan, roll over, and shove my face deeper into the pillow.
The sheets are twisted around my legs, hotel AC blasting cold air across my bare back.
Last night’s dinner replays in fragments: Kai’s lower back warm under my palm, the way his breath hitched when I leaned in to whisper, the flashes catching us like we were actually something.
I’d been half-hard the whole ride back, telling myself it was just adrenaline or faking it.
Not him. Or the feel of his warmth through his shirt.
The buzzing turns into a full-on vibration marathon. I crack one eye open. The screen lights up the dim room: Whitney. Texts stacking.
Saw the pics.
You and him. Your fucking hand on his back??
Luca wtf
Call me. NOW.
I drag the blanket over my head, blocking out the light and the guilt. Maybe if I stay under here long enough, the world will forget I exist for five minutes. Or at least Whitney will.
The phone starts ringing—FaceTime I’m sure. The ringtone cuts through the blanket like a knife.
I curse under my breath, throw the covers off, and snatch the phone before it wakes Michael in the next bed. Her face fills the screen before I can even sit up properly—blonde hair messy from sleep, eyes red-rimmed from her tears, and mouth already releasing angry and hurt words.
“You’re kidding me, right?” she says the second the call connects. “Those pictures are everywhere. TMZ has a whole article. ‘Luca Clark and Kai Jung: From Stage Sparks to Real Romance?’ You’ve got your hand on his fucking back like you’re guiding your boyfriend home after date night.”
I rub my face with my free hand, sitting up against the headboard. “Whit, it’s—”
“Don’t ‘Whit’ me. It looks real. Like, really real. The way you’re looking at him? The smile? You laughed at something he said through the window. I saw the video clip. You don’t laugh like that with me anymore.”
Her voice cracks on the last part. My stomach twists.
I force a breath. “It’s the job. Harry’s pushing the Kuca thing hard. We’re selling the fantasy. That’s literally the point.”
Wrong thing to say.
Her eyes narrow, hurt flashing into anger. “The point? So you’re telling me the whole entire point is to make it look like you’re in love with him? To make me look like the idiot ex who’s still hanging around while you play house with your bandmate?”
“No—that’s not—” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fuck, Whit, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?” She’s crying now, quiet tears tracking down her cheeks.
“Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re enjoying this way too much.
The touches. The whispers. The way you leaned in as if you couldn’t wait to get closer.
And I’m just…what? The side piece you call when the cameras aren’t rolling? ”
“You’re not a side piece.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “You’re…you’re you. And this is temporary. It’s PR. It’ll die down once the charts stabilize.”
“Temporary,” she repeats, like the word tastes bitter. “That’s what you said last time, too. When the fan-service started ramping up. And now you’re fake-dating him. Holding his lower back. Whispering in his ear. How long is ‘temporary’ supposed to last, Luca?”
I don’t have an answer. Because the truth—the one I’m not ready to say out loud—is that touching Kai last night didn’t feel temporary. It felt electric. Necessary. Like my hand belonged there.
I swallow. “Look…maybe we need a break. For real this time. Until this blows over. I don’t want to keep hurting you.”
She laughs—short and cold. “A break. Right. Because that’s easier than just admitting you like him. That maybe you’ve liked him for a while, and this fake-dating bullshit is just the excuse you needed to get into his pants.”
“That’s not—” I start, but the words die. Because part of me wonders if she’s right. The shower yesterday. The stage last night. The way my pulse jumped when his eyes locked on mine during the sucker pull. The way I almost didn’t want to stop touching him when we climbed into the SUV.
Whitney wipes her face with the back of her hand. “You know what? Fine. Take your break. Take your fake boyfriend. Take whatever the label’s paying you to sell. Just don’t call me when it’s over.”
“Whit—”
She ends the call. Screen goes black. I drop the phone onto the mattress as though it burned me. Stare at the ceiling. Heart hammering.
She’s wrong.
She has to be.
This is just business. Just promotion. Just selling the lust the fans want to see. I scrub a hand over my face, trying to shake off the hollow ache in my chest.
But the memory of Kai’s warmth under my palm lingers. The way I could feel his heat through his shirt. The way he looked surprised and flushed when I whispered in his ear. I’d do it again a million times for that reaction alone.
I roll over, bury my face in the pillow again.
Fuck.
Maybe she’s not wrong at all. And that will be a fucking problem, because Kai definitely still hates even the sight of me.
I stay buried under the pillow for another minute, breathing in hotel laundry detergent and my own regret, until a low, sleepy voice cuts through the fabric.
“Bro. You good?”
I freeze. Then slowly lift my head.
Michael’s propped up on one elbow in the other bed, hair sticking up in every direction, phone screen glowing on the bed next to him. He’s not even pretending he wasn’t listening. The room’s small—two queen beds, maybe three feet apart. Of course he heard every word.
I drop the pillow, sit up, and rake a hand through my hair. “How long you been awake?”
“Long enough to know Whitney’s not happy about your new boyfriend.” He smirks, but it’s softer than usual—no real tease behind it. “You okay?”
I force a laugh—short, hollow. “Yeah. Fine. Just…relationship drama. You know how it is.”
Michael studies me for a beat, the glow from his phone lighting half his face. “She sounded pretty hurt. And you sounded… I don’t know. Guilty.”
“Thanks, Dr. Phil.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the carpet. “It’s complicated. She saw the pics from dinner. Thinks it looks too real. Thinks I want it to be real.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches me, patient in that Michael way—as though he’s waiting for the real answer to fall out.
I sigh. “And maybe…maybe she’s not completely wrong.”
There. Said it. Quiet. To the one person in this band who won’t judge me for it.
Michael exhales through his nose, sets his phone down. “The Kuca thing’s getting under your skin, huh?”
“It’s not supposed to.” I rub the back of my neck, feeling the tension there. “It’s fake. Scripted. Just selling the lust the fans want. But last night…it didn’t feel like bullshit. Not all of it.”
Michael nods slowly. “I saw the pics. You looked…comfortable. Like you weren’t acting.”
“Yeah.” I laugh again, weaker this time. “And Kai? He still looks at me like I’m the reason his life is a constant headache. So whatever this is, it’s one-sided. And stupid. And temporary.”
Michael scoots to the edge of his bed, facing me fully now. “You sure about that last part? The temporary thing? Harry has some kind of hard-on for the two of you together.”
I meet his eyes. “Has to be. Whitney’s right—I can’t keep doing this to her. And I can’t keep doing this to myself. Pretending I don’t feel…whatever the fuck I’m feeling…when Kai probably still wants to strangle me half the time.”
Michael’s quiet for a second, then shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s just as freaked out as you are. Guy’s got walls higher than the Hollywood sign. Doesn’t mean there’s nothing behind them.”
I snort. “Optimist.”
“Realist,” he corrects. “I’ve watched you two on stage for months. The way you move around each other? That’s not hate. That’s something. And on stage the other night? The crowd felt it. We all felt it.”
I drop my head into my hands. “Great. So the whole world knows I’m losing my mind over the guy who can’t stand me.”
“Nah. We know you’re human.” He stands, stretches, then claps me on the shoulder as he heads toward the bathroom. “Talk to her when you’re ready. And maybe…talk to him. Even if it’s just to figure out what the hell is actually going on in your head.”
He disappears into the bathroom, door clicking shut.
I flop back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling.
Whitney’s face flashes in my mind—tears, anger, hurt. Then Kai’s—flushed cheeks when he found me naked in the shower, surprised eyes when my hand settled on his back, the way he didn’t pull away. Not that he could.
I groan, drag the blanket over my face again.
We’ll make up. Whitney and I always do. We fight, we cool off, we fall back into the same pattern. It’s easy. Safe.
But this thing with Kai? It’s not safe. It’s not easy. And the longer I pretend it’s just business, the more it feels like the opposite.
Fuck.
I need coffee. And a plan.