Chapter 11
ELEVEN
KAI
I wake up late.
Not by much—twenty minutes—but it’s enough. The alarm didn’t go off. Or I slept through it. Or I turned it off in my sleep because my brain decided last night’s gym moment needed to be processed in total darkness instead of getting up and facing reality.
Reality being: Luca kissed me, and I kissed him back.
Then I ran like a coward.
“Fuck,” I groan and glance over at Min-ho’s bed. It’s empty. He must have woken up earlier and left. He normally goes for early runs so it’s not surprising.
I’m hard as a rock, sheets twisted around my legs, so it’s probably best he’s not here to witness it.
Dragging myself out of bed, I grab my travel clothing and close myself into the bathroom.
I’m sure Luca will be late anyway, and I’ll still beat him down there even with a quick shower and brushing my teeth.
My boner doesn’t go away as the hot water runs down my body, so I jack off fast and furious, chasing the orgasm. I come with his name on the back of my tongue, biting it down in case Min-ho has returned to the room.
By the time I’m dressed—jeans, hoodie, ball cap, sneakers—I’m ten minutes late.
An unread text from Tasha sitting on my phone asking where I am.
I shove my stuff into my travel bag and sprint down the hall, punching the elevator button.
When it doesn’t come in the next twenty seconds, I decide to take the stairs.
A sort of panic at being late is starting to fill me with a dread that’s not unfamiliar, as though I’ll be kicked out of Eclipse for being late.
When I hit the lobby, I’m already at a jog, swerving around people, and bursting through the revolving door into the hot morning sun.
The van’s still there—engine running, back door still open. Michael’s loading the last bag. Min-ho’s already climbed into the middle row. Luca’s leaning against the side door, arms crossed, sunglasses on, ball cap pulled low, looking every bit the bored rock star made to wait.
I slow to a walk, attempting to look casual. It’s a fail.
Luca spots me first; he pushes off the van, lowers his sunglasses just enough to sweep his eyes over me.
“Wow,” he drawls. “The king of punctuality, late. We thought you died.”
I ignore him, then I toss my bag in next to the rest of them, slamming the door shut harder than necessary. Flashes of last night passing through my thoughts.
Michael glances at me, eyebrows up. “Cut it close today.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Overslept.”
Luca snorts. Loudly. “So you are human?”
“I said I overslept. Drop it.”
He doesn’t drop it. He steps closer. “You know, for someone who’s always riding my ass about being late, you sure don’t like it when I point it out when you do it. Hypocrite much?”
“Not in the mood for your shit, Luca. Back off.”
Michael clears his throat. “Guys—”
“My shit?” he scoffs, ignoring Michael.
“Guys—” Michael says again, his voice tight.
“What?” we snap at the same time.
He lifts his eyebrows and tilts his head to a single pap, standing near the flower pots, his camera trained on us. Oh. Oh, fuck. Harry is going to lose his shit when those photos get out.
While I’m spiraling, Luca is moving, flipping his hat backward, and closing the distance between us.
His mouth crashes into mine—hard, sudden, and so possessive it curls my toes.
It’s over in two heartbeats: lips firm against mine, a quick swipe of tongue that tastes like coffee and syrup.
Then he’s gone, pulling back just far enough to lean into my ear.
“Smile, you joyless fuck,” he whispers, voice low and mocking, breath hot against my skin.
The words sting worse than the kiss.
I freeze. The pap’s camera clicks—once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Michael’s eyes are wide. Min-ho’s gone completely still in the van, watching like he’s witnessing a car crash in slow motion.
Luca straightens. Gives the pap a lazy, practiced grin—rock-star charm turned on like a switch—then turns back to me. His sunglasses are back in place, hiding whatever’s in his eyes. But his mouth is curved in that familiar smirk, the one that says he’s won this round.
“Problem solved,” he says. “Now get in the van before we’re really late.”
He climbs in first—long legs folding into the back row as though nothing happened.
I stand there, lips tingling, face burning, heart slamming so hard I can feel it in my throat. The pap lowers his camera, already tapping at his phone, probably captioning the shot before we’ve even pulled away.
Michael clears his throat again. “Uh…you okay?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My brain is still stuck on the press of Luca’s mouth, the way his hand curled around the back of my neck like he owned me, the way he called me joyless.
I climb in after him and slam the door. Drop into the seat beside him—close, but not touching. The van lurches forward.
Silence stretches. Thick. Uncomfortable. Luca’s leg brushes mine when the driver takes a turn. I flinch. He doesn’t move away.
I stare straight ahead, jaw locked so tight my teeth ache.
He leans back, arms crossed, sunglasses reflecting the passing buildings. After a long minute, he speaks—quiet, so only I can hear. “You gonna pretend that didn’t happen, too?”
I swallow. “Kissing isn’t part of the contract, Luca, don’t do it again.”
He barks out a laugh. “Right. I won’t save our asses next time.”
I turn my head, glare at him. “Save our asses? If you weren’t being such an insufferable asshole, there wouldn’t have been anything for the pap to take pictures of that would require you to put your lips on mine.”
He lowers his sunglasses just enough to meet my eyes. The hazel is hard now, no trace of the softness from yesterday. “I guess it’s your joylessness that brings that side out in me.”
My stomach twists. “You don’t get to act like I’m the problem here. You’re the one who—”
“Who what?” he cuts in. “Who you kissed back in the gym? Who let you run away instead of talking about it?”
I flinch.
He sees it. His mouth twists. “Exactly. You can’t have it both ways, Kai.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Because he’s right. And I hate him for it.
The van hums along the highway. Tasha, Michael, and Min-ho are dead silent up front—probably pretending they’re not hearing every word.
Luca exhales. Leans his head back against the seat. “Forget it. You’re right. Kissing’s off-limits. Won’t happen again.”
He turns toward the window. Leg still pressed to mine, but it feels different now—as though he’s there but not really. Like he’s already halfway gone.
I stare at the back of his head—platinum hair curling slightly at the nape, neck exposed, the faint red mark from my nails where I gripped him last night still visible if you look close.
I want to reach out. Touch it. Apologize. Say something that isn’t defensive or mean. But I don’t. I turn toward my own window instead. The silence stretches the rest of the ride.
The airport private terminal is small, with direct access to the tarmac.
We file out of the van in the usual order: Michael first, already joking about snacks, sometimes I’m sure that all he thinks about is food; Min-ho is next, expression neutral; Luca last before me, sunglasses still on, jaw set, moving like he’s on autopilot.
He walks straight up the steps into the plane and heads for the far back corner seat—the one by the window, farthest from the entrance. He drops into it, legs stretched out, arms crossed, cap pulled low. Sunglasses stay on. Message received loud and clear.
The cabin is small; eight seats, leather, a private bar, our own flight attendants. The crew is already on board prepping for our flight, probably because we were late. I hesitate for half a second at the aisle, then choose the seat closest to the door. Opposite side of Luca but facing him.
Min-ho drops into the seat beside me without a word. He buckles in, pulls out his phone to put it in airplane mode, then leans in just enough that his voice stays low, barely above a whisper.
“You kissed Luca?”
The question is soft, but I still feel it all the way in my stomach as butterflies try to take flight. I inhale sharply. My eyes flick across the cabin—Luca’s profile is turned toward the window, his sunglasses and cap blocking any expression he might be wearing. I can’t read him at all.
I swallow. Keeping my voice just as quiet. “Yeah, I did.”
Min-ho doesn’t react outwardly. “Last night?”
“In the gym.” My throat feels tight. “After…everything. It’s really my fault because I went to him, and I didn’t stop him. Then I—” I stop. Shrug. “I left.”
Min-ho exhales through his nose. “That’s crazy.”
“Yeah.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “What are you going to do now?”
“Nothing. It was a mistake.”
The captain’s voice comes over the speaker, telling us to prepare for takeoff. The seatbelt sign dings on. And the conversation is over.
The Chicago hotel suite is too big, enough room for all four of us. Michael’s already crashed in his room, snoring through the wall. Luca’s vanished into his—door shut, lights off. I’m pacing the living area, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Laney’s contact. But it’s Min-ho who finds me first.
He steps out of the kitchenette with two bottles of water, tossing one my way. “Can’t sleep?”
I catch it. Twist the cap. “No.”
He drops onto the couch, legs stretched out.
Twenty-one but looks older tonight—dark circles under his eyes, black hair still damp from a shower.
He’s always been the steady one: smart, loyal, serious.
The guy who plans the set lists and remembers everyone’s birthdays without making a fuss.
But right now, he looks as if he’s carrying more than just tour fatigue.
“Luca?” he asks, straight to the point.
I sit across from him and nod. There really isn’t a need for words.
Min-ho takes a sip of water, eyes thoughtful. “You two have been circling this for months. It was bound to blow up.”
I rub my neck, remembering Luca’s hand there this morning. “I keep pushing him away. I don’t know why.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then he says, “Because you’re scared. Same reason I keep things locked down.”
The admission hangs there. Min-ho doesn’t talk about himself much—never has. But when he does, it’s like unlocking a door he’s guarded for years.
We go back to middle school in L.A.’s Korea-town—two Korean-American kids in a sea of chaos.
Min-ho’s family had immigrated from Seoul when he was nine; his dad ran a small grocery store, working 16-hour days, and his mom was a seamstress in a garment factory.
No time for extras. Min-ho was the only child, the golden hope—expected to excel, to make the sacrifices worth it.
He did: straight As, math club, no trouble.
But school was hell. Bullies targeted him for his accent, his quiet nature, the way he didn’t fight back.
He’d bury himself in books or homework, pretending it didn’t hurt.
I was the opposite—foster kid, angry, lashing out, already flunked in the sixth grade. One day in eighth grade, I saw three guys corner him in the hall, mocking his lunchbox (banchan his mom packed with love). I jumped in. Punches were thrown. Detention earned. After that, we were inseparable.
He tutored me through algebra; I taught him how to throw a punch (though he never used it).
We’d skip class to hang in abandoned lots, dreaming about music—me singing, him tapping beats on whatever was around.
He came out to me first, sophomore year—whispered it in the dark of my foster room, terrified his parents would disown him if they knew.
“They expect a wife, kids, the whole thing,” he’d said. “I can’t be… this.”
I hugged him. Told him he was family to me, no matter what. He’s stayed in the closet since—loyal to his roots, but trapped by them.
“You remember that night after my parents found out about the skipped classes?” Min-ho says now, pulling me back. “Dad yelling about how I was throwing away my future for ‘stupid dreams’? You snuck me out. We crashed at Laney’s. You said, ‘We’ll make it big. Prove them wrong.’”
I nod. “You believed me.”
He smiles faintly. “Still do. But it’s hard sometimes. Being the ‘serious one.’ Loyal to the band, to you, but hiding parts of myself. Feels as though I’m always one wrong move from losing it all.”
His voice cracks just a little. The closeted weight he carries—family expectations clashing with who he is—surfaces in moments like this. He’s never dated openly, never risked the spotlight exposing him before he’s ready.
“That’s why I get it,” he adds. “You and Luca—you’re scared of losing control. But pushing him away? That’s losing, too.”
I meet his eyes. “What if it’s not real? What if I let him in, and it all falls apart?”
Min-ho shrugs. “What if it doesn’t? You stood up for me back then. Stand up for yourself now.”
The words settle heavy. He stands, claps my shoulder. “Get some sleep. We’ve got a show tomorrow.”
He heads to his room. The door clicks shut. I sit there longer—thinking about Min-ho’s quiet battles, his loyalty that’s kept me grounded through everything.
And wondering if I can find that same courage for myself.