Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
KAI
The private jet hums steady at thirty-five thousand feet, cutting through the sky toward Miami—the last stop of the US leg.
The cabin is quiet except for the low murmur of the engines and Michael’s occasional soft snore from the seat across the aisle.
Min-ho is reading something on his tablet, earbuds in, lost in his own world.
Luca is in the front row—alone—sunglasses on, hoodie up, headphones over his ears.
He hasn’t spoken to me since the balcony last night. Hasn’t looked at me once this morning.
He’s painfully professional.
And I hate it.
I regret agreeing to it the second the word left his mouth.
Professional. Like we’re colleagues. Like the way my hand moved over his cock on stage was just choreography.
Like the way he groaned into the mic—cracked, desperate—was part of the script.
Like I didn’t feel him throb under my palm, thick and wanting, and want to drop to my knees right there in front of twenty thousand people.
I regret it so much my chest aches.
We’re heading into the final show before a short break—ten days off before the overseas leg starts.
I should be relieved. A chance to breathe, reset, get my head straight.
But the thought of being away from him for ten days makes me feel sick.
Insane. I’ve spent months telling myself I need space from him, and now the idea of actually getting it feels like losing something I never admitted I had.
I’m staring at the back of his head—platinum strands peeking from under the hoodie—when Tasha walks down the aisle from the front cabin, tablet in hand. She stops beside my seat, keeps her voice low.
“Harry wants a quick conference call. Just you, Luca, me, and him. Back here—conference table.”
Luca passes her, and she nods toward the small table at the rear of the cabin. I watch as he drops into one of the seats and takes his headphones off, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. He doesn’t look happy about it.
I unbuckle and follow, sitting across from Luca. Tasha takes the end seat and taps her tablet, pressing the volume button until it’s as loud as it gets.
Harry’s face pops up onto the screen, and he looks pleased.
“Gentlemen. That performance last night? It was fire. Absolute fire. ‘Starlight Ruin’ just jumped to number one on the streaming charts. Number one. The way you two looked at each other like you were seconds from tearing each other’s clothes off?
That’s exactly what sells. That’s what the fans are eating up. Congratulations.”
Luca doesn’t react. Just stares at the table, unblinking, jaw tight.
Harry keeps going. “After Miami, you’ve got the break.
But I want you to use it. I’m booking you both a trip to the Bahamas—private villa, beach access, the works.
Paps will be tipped off. Get photos of you walking hand-in-hand on the sand, lounging by the pool, looking cozy.
Make it look like the tour break is a romantic getaway.
The fans will go insane. The charts will stay hot.
We’ll ride this wave straight into Asia.
Of course, you can have separate rooms in the villa.
And it will only be a few days, then you’ll have the rest of the time off, as promised. ”
My heart stutters.
The Bahamas. With Luca. Alone. For a few days.
I should hate it. Should dread it. Should feel trapped.
Instead, excitement floods me—electric and terrifying.
I was already dreading the break—ten days without seeing him, without the excuse of the stage to touch him, without the constant proximity that’s become the only thing keeping me sane.
The idea of being somewhere quiet with him, no crew, no cameras forced on us, no bandmates watching…
it lights me up in ways I don’t want to examine too closely.
I glance at Luca. He still hasn’t moved. Expression unreadable.
Harry’s voice crackles again, but I keep my gaze on my bandmate. “Kai? Luca? You two in?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah. I’m in.”
A beat of silence.
Then Luca says, “Sure. Whatever sells.”
Harry laughs. “That’s the spirit. Tasha will send details. Enjoy Miami tonight. Make it count.”
The call ends. Luca retreats to his seat without another word. Hoodie pulled up again, sunglasses firmly back in place, headphones back on. He turns toward the window like the clouds are suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
I move back to my seat beside Min-ho. Buckle in. Stare at the seat back in front of me like it owes me answers.
Min-ho glances over, eyebrow raised in silent question. I shake my head—just a fraction. Not now.
The plane levels out. Seatbelt sign dings off. Michael stretches, yawns, starts scrolling on his phone again. Tasha disappears toward the front cabin to handle whatever post-call logistics Harry just dumped on her.
My gaze keeps drifting back to Luca. I really shouldn’t feel excited about this because it’s clear he isn’t comfortable with it.
He’s rubbing at his wrist, and I wonder if it’s bothering him. After the fourth time of watching him rotate it and flex his fingers, I reach into my bag and pull out the small tin of arnica salve I use for muscle pain or inflammation after a hard workout.
I stand and walk down the aisle, my heart beating a million miles a minute, and come to a stop beside his seat.
He looks up, his expression guarded.
I hold out the tin. “For your wrist. It looks like it’s been bothering you.”
He blinks. Once. Twice. Then slowly reaches out and takes it. His fingers brush mine; barely a touch, but it sends a jolt through me anyway.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
I nod once and turn back to my seat before I do something really stupid, like sit down beside him and confess that keeping things professional sounds like a terrible idea.
I drop back into my chair and buckle up. Min-ho glances at me and lifts his eyebrows while darting his gaze between Luca and me. I shrug, because he knows everything already.
Luca doesn’t open the tin, but he also doesn’t toss it across the plane, so that’s progress right?
I try to focus on anything else. The safety card in the pocket, the ugly carpet, the roar of the plane's engines right outside the window. But my eyes keep drifting back to Luca. I nibble on my lower lip for a minute before deciding to offer to apply the salve for him.
When I stand again, Min-ho shakes his head and focuses back on his phone.
Butterflies, no more like atlas moths, take flight in my stomach, their wings beating in time with my heart as I creep back toward him. He looks up at me, when I appear next to him, and I wordlessly drop into the seat beside him.
I hold out my hand. “I can help.”
Luca’s tongue swipes along his lower lip, as he glances down at the tin in his palm. His fingers tighten around it for a second, like he’s weighing whether to hand it over or close his fist and end this right here.
“It’s fine,” he says.
“Is it?” I ask, keeping my voice low, quizzical but gentle. “Because it doesn’t look fine, and that stuff is like magic.”
He exhales through his nose—a small, almost-laugh. For a long beat, he just stares at the tin. Then, slowly, he uncurls his fingers and places it in my palm.
The transfer is careful. His fingertips graze the center of my hand—barely any contact, but it’s enough. A spark races up my arm like static electricity but deeper. My breath hitches. I know he feels it, too—his shoulders tense, his gaze flicks to our hands for a split second before darting away.
I swallow. Focus on the task.
I twist the tin open. The faint herbal scent of arnica rises between us—clean, medicinal, and grounding.
He extends his left arm, wrist up. The skin there is flushed, slightly swollen along the tendon. Not bad, but definitely irritated. I can see the faint red line where he’s been rubbing it.
I scoop a small amount of salve onto my fingertips. Warm it between my hands first—habit from years of using this on my own sore muscles. Then I reach for him.
The second my fingers touch his wrist, the jolt comes again—stronger this time. His pulse jumps under my thumb, fast and unsteady. Mine matches it. I try to keep my touch clinical—gentle circles over the swollen spot, pressing just enough to work the salve in without hurting him.
But it’s impossible to ignore.
His skin is warm. Soft over the hard ridge of tendon and bone.
I can feel the faint tremor in his arm, the way his breath catches when I swipe my thumb along the inside of his wrist, following the blue line of his vein.
My other hand cups the back of his forearm to steady him—innocent and necessary—but the contact feels anything but.
Luca’s eyes are fixed on my hands. On the way my fingers move over his skin. His breathing is shallow, controlled, but I hear the hitch every time I press a little deeper.
Neither of us speaks.
The plane hums around us. Michael’s snoring continues. Min-ho’s tablet screen glows faintly. Tasha’s typing somewhere up front.
But right here, in this small pocket of space, it’s just us.
My thumb circles once more, then slides up the inside of his forearm, following the line of muscle. Not necessary and not part of the “help.” I just…want to touch more of him, to feel the way his skin heats under my fingers.
He doesn’t pull away.
His free hand flexes on his thigh as if he’s fighting the urge to reach for me.
I stop, pulling back just enough to cap the tin. My fingers linger on the metal for a second longer than they need to.
“There,” I say, voice rough. “It should feel better soon.”
He flexes his wrist slightly, a small smile forming on his lips. Lips I can’t look away from. “That stuff really is magic.”
The words are quiet, almost grateful, and the way he says them—soft, a little surprised—makes something warm curl low in my stomach. I should stand up. Walk away. Go back to my seat and pretend this was just a helpful gesture between bandmates.
Instead, I lean in a fraction, barely noticeable, but enough that the space between us feels charged again.
I keep my voice low, matching his. “Glad it helped.” A beat. Then I add, softer, almost without meaning to: “Next time it acts up…you can borrow it. Or I can help again. If you want.”
His eyes flick up to mine, steady, searching through his sunglasses. The small smile on his lips falters—just for a second—then deepens, the corners crinkling in a way that makes my pulse kick.
“Yeah?” he murmurs. “You offering full-service wrist care now, Jung? Maybe you want to be friends after all?”
It’s light and teasing. But there’s a roughness in his voice that wasn’t there before, and the way he holds my gaze says he heard the subtext loud and clear.
I shrug one shoulder, trying to play it cool even as my heart slams against my ribs. “Only for the guy who keeps pushing through pain. Someone’s gotta look out for you, and since we will be paired for the foreseeable future, it might as well be me.”
His smile turns into something softer—almost shy. He looks down at his wrist, flexes it again as though he’s testing the relief, then back up at me.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says quietly. “Thanks, Kai.”