Chapter 9 #2
I head straight for Crystal. “Let’s get this over with.”
She spins the chair toward me with a grin. “Sit, gorgeous. Let’s make those eyes pop.”
I drop into the seat, facing the mirror. Crystal starts with the base—foundation, concealer, the usual. I close my eyes, trying to zone out.
Luca doesn’t leave; I can feel his eyes on me even with mine shut.
When I crack my eyes open in the mirror, he’s looking right at me. He leans against the wall behind me, arms crossed. Quiet.
“You’re quiet,” I say, because the silence feels heavier than usual.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Just thinking you look good under these lights. Even before the makeup.”
My stomach flips at the unexpected compliment. Is he flirting? Do I like it if he is?
Crystal pauses with the eyeliner wand, glances between us in the mirror, eyebrows raised. I ignore her.
“Flattery’s not gonna make me go easy on you during soundcheck,” I mutter.
Luca pushes off the wall and steps closer—close enough that I can smell him again, cedar and clean skin. “Wasn’t trying to. Just saying what I see.”
He holds my gaze in the reflection for a beat too long. Then he smiles and turns toward the wardrobe rack.
Crystal resumes, but my focus is splintered.
Luca starts stripping down right there, casual as anything.
Shirt first—black button-down peeled off his shoulders, revealing the constellation on his left pec, the script along his ribs, that chain tattoo curling low across his hips.
Muscles shift under his skin as he folds the shirt, deliberate, unhurried.
Then the jeans—button popped, zipper down, jeans discarded.
He’s in black briefs now, nothing else, back to me but angled just enough that I catch the flex of his ass, the dip of his spine.
I shouldn’t look.
I do.
In the mirror, my eyes track the movement—shoulders rolling as he pulls on the mesh top, the way it clings to his back, turning every breath visible.
He steps into the leather pants, hips rolling to tug them up, chains clinking softly.
Necklace next—silver links settling against his collarbone.
He runs a hand through his platinum hair, shaking it into place.
He doesn’t notice me watching. Or if he does, he doesn’t call it out.
My throat feels tight. Pulse loud in my ears. Crystal’s brushing glitter along my cheekbones, but I barely register it.
Luca turns, catches my eye in the mirror. His usual smirk is absent, and he looks almost thoughtful for a moment.
“You look tense,” he says. “You’re gonna be sore later if you go on stage with your neck all knotted up.”
I swallow. “Long day.”
He nods once. Crystal steps away, muttering something about the lip stain missing, and he steps closer. He looks sexy as hell in his mesh shirt and leather pants, and my mouth goes dry. “Want me to—”
“No,” I cut him off. “I’m fine.”
If he touches me right this second, I might combust or pop a fucking boner in my sweats. Then where would we be?
He stops. Nods again. But he doesn’t back off completely. Just lingers, close enough that I can feel the imagined heat off him.
Crystal clears her throat as she returns. “Lip stain next, Kai. Pucker up.”
Luca steps away, and I face Crystal, doing what she tells me to. She dabs the color on—deep red, same shade as he usually wears on stage. Luca watches the whole thing, eyes on my mouth now.
When she finishes, he tilts his head. “Looks good,” he says quietly. “Really good.”
The words land soft and real. His honest appreciation hits me square in the chest and makes my pulse stutter.
He’s throwing me off. Completely. I don’t know how to respond to this version of him—quiet, attentive, almost gentle—so I don’t.
I stand abruptly, chair spinning slightly, and brush past him toward the door.
My shoulder grazes his chest—warm skin through the open mesh, the faint hitch in his breath as I pass.
I feel it. I feel the way his inhale catches, like I surprised him.
I don’t look back. I keep moving out into the hallway toward the stage. Distance. Space. That’s what I need.
But Luca follows.
Of course he does.
His footsteps echo behind me—unhurried, steady, closing the gap without crowding. I can sense him there, a warm presence at my back, the same way I could sense him hovering while Crystal worked. It’s infuriating. Comforting. Dangerous.
I push through the double doors into the arena proper. The house lights are up, stage half-lit, crew swarming. Michael’s already on the riser, testing his mic pack. Min-ho’s checking in-ears with the sound guy. Tasha waves us over.
I head straight for my mark, headset in hand, pretending Luca isn’t right behind me.
He stops a few feet away—close enough to talk, far enough that it looks casual.
“Running from me now?” he asks, voice low, and teasing but soft around the edges. Still no snark. Just that same quiet warmth that’s been throwing me since the green room.
I clip my in-ear pack to my waistband, not looking at him. “Not running. Just getting to work.”
He steps onto the stage riser beside me, close enough that our arms brush when I turn to grab my mic. “You’re still tense.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” He says it gently. “You’ve been tense since last night. Talk to me.”
I finally look at him. His eyes are steady—a greenish-brown swirl searching mine, no challenge in their depths. Just concern. It makes my throat tight.
“You know,” I shoot back, sharper than I mean, “you’re not actually my boyfriend, right? Back off.”
The words hit him like a slap—defensive, reflexive, the only shield I have left. I regret them the second they’re out, but I don’t take them back.
Luca blinks once. The softness in his expression flickers, then vanishes like someone flipped a switch. He straightens—shoulders squaring, posture shifting from open to guarded in the span of a heartbeat. The concern in his eyes cools, replaced by something flatter. More distant.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know. I was trying for friendship, fucker.”
His words aren’t really biting, and the small insult comes out soft.
He holds my gaze for one more second—long enough for me to see the flicker of hurt he doesn’t bother hiding—then looks away. Toward the sound booth. Toward the empty seats. Anywhere but me.
I open my mouth—to say what, I don’t know. Sorry? I didn’t mean it? But nothing comes out. The apology sticks in my throat like glass.
Luca exhales through his nose, almost a laugh but without humor. “Right. Work.” He steps back, putting a full arm’s length between us for the first time today. “Let’s do the work.”
He turns toward his mark, clips his in-ear pack on with quick, efficient movements. And I can feel the walls coming up between us again.
I stand there a beat too long, mic still in my hand, chest tight. The regret is instant and vicious. I didn’t want to push him away. Not really. But I did it anyway—because it’s easier to keep him at arm’s length than to admit how much I don’t want him there.
I lift the mic to my lips. “Check one-two.”
The booth responds. Clear. I nod once.
Luca steps into position—center stage, right beside me. Our shoulders don’t touch this time. There’s a careful gap now. Intentional. Professional.
Soundcheck starts.
We run the opener. The bridge. The closer.
Every cue lands perfectly. Every harmony locks. Every choreographed glance is executed with textbook precision.
But the air between us feels colder.
When he does the throat hold, his fingers circle my neck—gentle, controlled, thumb pressing exactly where it’s supposed to. No extra lingering. No brush of skin that lasts a second too long. Just the move. Clean. Detached. Business.
The sucker moment is worse.
He leans in unhurried, eyes locked on mine—still intense, still focused—but the warmth is gone. He takes the prop with deliberate care, lips brushing the candy just enough to sell the tease.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t look at me the way he did before. He just straightens, resets, and waits for the next cue.
I finish the run-through with my voice steady.
But my hands are shaking when I pop the mic off.
Luca doesn’t step closer this time. He just nods once—professional, polite—and heads toward the wings without another word.
I watch him go. The space he’s giving me feels like a wall. And I hate it. Because I built it. And now I’m the one standing on the wrong side of it.
Tasha calls out, “Good run. Five minutes, then full dress. Let’s go.”
I nod. Swallow the lump in my throat.
Luca disappears through the doors. I stay on stage a second longer—alone under the half-lights—trying to convince myself the ache in my chest is just my imagination.
But I can’t fool myself. It’s real and caused by the look on his face when I reminded him he’s not my boyfriend. And from the sudden, terrifying certainty that I wish he was.
Even just a little.