Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
LUCA
The door clicks shut behind him.
I drop back down on the bed, staring at the empty space where Kai just stood, the sheet still warm from where he was lying next to me minutes ago.
The silence is deafening.
My chest feels hollow at first—just a numb ache where something bright and hopeful had started to grow. Then the hurt rushes in, sharp and deep, like a knife twisting.
He ran.
Again.
After last night. After I let him have all of me and we fell asleep in each other's arms.
He still ran.
The pain settles heavy in my ribs, making it hard to breathe. I pull the sheet up over my lap, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being naked. If I shift just right, I can still feel the ghost of him inside of me. It hasn’t even been twelve hours.
I trusted him. Fuck, I was an idiot. Of course he couldn’t be with me, I’m a fuck up, and he can see that. He knows I’d ruin it.
Whatever, he’s obviously right, we aren’t right for each other, but it’s not my fault. Anger starts to bleed into the hurt. Not the hot, explosive kind. More of a quiet, simmering kind that burns slow and steady beneath my skin.
He’s a coward.
He’s so fucking scared of losing control that he’d rather push me away and destroy whatever this is than risk getting hurt. He’d rather protect the band and his precious walls, than us.
I stand up. The sheet falls away. I pull on a pair of shorts and walk to the glass doors, pulling the curtain aside. The same view that felt magical yesterday, now feels as though it’s mocking me.
I gave him everything last night. I let him have me in a way I’ve never let anyone have me. I was vulnerable. Open. Scared. And he took it all, then threw it back in my face the moment the sun came up.
The anger grows hotter.
He doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to crawl into my heart, make me feel things I’ve never felt for anyone, and then decide it’s too much and walk away as if it was nothing.
I’m not nothing.
And what we have—what we could have—isn’t nothing.
I drag a hand through my hair, pacing the room now, the hurt and anger twisting together until I can barely tell them apart.
Part of me wants to go after him. Drag him back here and make him look me in the eyes and say it again.
Make him admit that he’s terrified, that he’s running because he feels it too—this terrifying, overwhelming thing between us that’s bigger than the band, bigger than the label, bigger than both of us.
But I don’t.
Because if he’s going to keep choosing fear over me, I’m not going to chase him.
I stop pacing and grab my phone from the nightstand. My thumb hovers over the screen for half a second before I scroll down and hit Harry’s name.
The call rings twice before he answers.
“Luca?” Harry sounds groggy. “It’s barely—”
“I need a plane.”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“A plane,” he repeats slowly. “Right now?”
“Yes. As soon as possible.”
Another pause. I can practically hear him sitting up, his brain switching on.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” I snap. “I just need to get out of here.”
Harry sighs. “You still have three more days of promo scheduled. The villa shoot, the livestream, the fan—”
“I don’t care.”
My voice comes out colder than I mean it to, but I don’t bother softening it.
“I’m done, Harry. Get me a plane.”
“Luca,” he says carefully, “the whole point of this trip was to push the narrative. The fans are eating it up. The label—”
“The label can shove the narrative up its ass.”
Silence drops heavy over the line.
I press a hand against the back of my neck, pacing again, the anger still simmering under my skin.
“I’m not staying here for another three days pretending everything’s fine,” I continue. “So either you get me a plane, or I’ll try to swim home.”
Harry exhales. “Did you and Kai fight?”
My jaw tightens.
“Just get me the plane.”
“Luca…”
“I mean it,” I cut him off. “I’m going home. I don’t care about the label or our rankings in the charts. I don’t care if you kick me out of the band.”
The words hang in the air between us. And the terrifying part is…I mean them.
Harry goes quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. Almost placating. And it pisses me off more.
“You don’t mean that.”
“Try me.”
I stare out through the glass doors again. Kai is still out there somewhere on that beach. Probably convincing himself he did the right thing. Fucking joyless coward.
Harry sighs again. “Give me an hour. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
I hang up before he can say anything else. The room falls quiet again. I drop the phone onto the bed and run both hands through my hair, letting out a breath that feels as though it’s been trapped in my chest all morning.
Fine.
If Kai wants distance, he’s about to get a whole fucking continent of it.
And if walking away is really what he wants—I’ll make it easy for him.
A few days later
I should stop watching it.
I know that.
I know exactly how unhealthy it is to keep opening the same stupid clips over and over again, but my thumb does it anyway.
Play.
The video is grainy, clearly filmed from far away—someone on another villa across the beach, judging by the angle. It’s not even one of the paps. You can’t see everything clearly. Just silhouettes through the villa windows before Kai pulled the curtains closed.
But I know what’s happening.
I remember every second of it.
The way Kai’s hands were on me. How he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. In the video, you can see him push me gently back against the glass. My head tips back, one hand gripping the shoulder, while the other plants itself against the glass.
Someone in the background of the clip giggles.
The comments are worse.
TouchGrassTheySaid: OMG THEY’RE ACTUALLY DOING IT.
KucaOwnsMySoul: NO ONE CAN TELL ME THIS ISN’T REAL ANYMORE.
EclipseArmy12: Kai looks obsessed with him.
I slam my phone face down on the table. My chest feels tight again. I shouldn’t have opened it.
“Luca?” My mom’s voice drifts in from the kitchen.
I look up. She’s leaning in the doorway, watching me in that quiet, observant way she has when she knows something’s wrong but doesn’t want to push. She definitely saw the videos. Everyone has.
“You okay?” she asks gently.
“Yeah.” I shrug, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”
She doesn’t buy it. I can tell.
But she just nods.
“Your dad’s making coffee.”
Right on cue, my dad appears behind her with two mugs in his hands, completely oblivious to the internet losing its mind over his son’s love life.
“Morning, superstar,” he says cheerfully. “Your face is everywhere again.”
I groan.
“Please don’t say it like that.”
He obviously hasn’t seen my ass, also everywhere. Only the hand holding and sunset pictures. He laughs and hands me a mug.
“Hey, it’s good publicity, right? That guy from your band seems like a decent kid.”
I swallow a mouthful of coffee that suddenly tastes like dirt.
“Yeah,” I mutter.
Decent and a joyless fucking coward.
Whitney shows up that afternoon. I’ve been avoiding her, if I’m honest. She doesn’t bother knocking. She never does.
She lets herself in as though she owns the place, dropping her purse on the counter and sliding onto the stool next to me.
“You look like hell,” she says.
“Thanks.” I’m not in the mood to hear ‘I told you so’ from her right now.
She eyes the untouched sandwich in front of me, then looks back at my face. Her expression softens just a fraction—not enough to hide the calculation underneath.
“That didn’t take long,” she says, voice laced with something almost pitying. “I warned you he’d break your heart.”
I don’t answer. I just stare at the counter.
She reaches across and covers my hand with hers. Her touch is familiar. Too familiar.
“Luca… you don’t have to do this alone. We were good together once. Really good.”
Her thumb strokes the back of my hand.
“I miss you,” she continues, voice dropping softer. “I miss us. We could try again. No labels, no band drama, no fake boyfriends to be jealous of. Just you and me. The way it used to be.”
She leans in closer, her other hand coming up to brush my jaw.
“I could make you feel better,” she whispers. “Right now. Let me take care of you.”
For a split second, the offer hangs there—easy, familiar, no complications. No risk of getting my heart ripped out by someone who’s terrified of his own feelings.
But the second her lips brush my cheek, I pull back.
“No.”
Whitney freezes. I stand up, putting the island between us.
“We’re not getting back together, Whit. Not now. Not ever. I meant what I said on the phone. It’s over. For good.”
Her eyes narrow, hurt flashing into anger.
“Because of him?”
“Because of me,” I say quietly. “Because I’m done pretending something is there when it’s not. I care about you. I always will. But I’m not in love with you. And I’m not going to use you to feel better about myself.”
She stares at me for a long moment, then laughs. “Fine. Go ahead and pine for the guy who just used you to keep his fame. See how that works out.”
She grabs her purse and storms out, slamming the door behind her. The silence that follows is heavy. I stand there for a minute, then grab my keys. I need to get out.
I need noise. Alcohol. Distraction.
The club is loud, dark, and exactly what I need.
Bass pounds through my chest. Lights flash. Bodies press together on the dance floor. I’m already two drinks in and working on a third—something strong and sweet that burns going down.
I flirt.
With everyone.
A girl with bright red hair grinds against me on the dance floor. I let her. I laugh when she whispers something filthy in my ear. I flirt back just enough to feel wanted.
A guy with dark eyes and tattoos slides up behind me at the bar. His hand brushes my lower back. I don’t move away. I turn and smile at him, letting my gaze linger. He buys me another drink. I let him.