Page 1 of Spotlight Hearts

ONE

KAI

The lights hit like a physical thing—hot, blinding, alive. Twenty thousand voices scream our name in perfect, terrifying unison. Eclipse. Eclipse. Eclipse.

I center myself on the stage riser, legs braced, headset mic positioned perfectly against my lips. The in-ear monitors feed me the clean mix: bass thumping in my chest, harmonies locked tight. I’ve drilled this set until my body could do it asleep. Every breath, every step, every note—controlled. Flawless.

Then Luca moves.

He’s liquid motion. Always has been. Black leather pants catching every strobe, shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, sweat already tracing lines down his throat. He cuts across the stage during the bridge of “Midnight Nova,” hips snapping to the beat, drawing screams that could shatter glass. Phones light up the arena like a reversed night sky.

I know the cue. We’ve run it a hundred times.

Min Ho steps back as Luca closes the distance. Stops just inside my space—close enough that the heat rolling off him cuts through the dry ice fog. Our headset mics are angled toward each other, the slim booms curving like question marks between our mouths. The crowd knows what’s coming. They’re already chanting.

“Kuca! Kuca! Kuca!”

Luca tilts his head, eyes locking on mine—dark, challenging, glittering under the lights. I match him: slow drag of my gaze down his body, from his platinum hair down to the tattoo peaking out of his belt line, then back up.

My voice stays steady through the lyrics, as my finger presses just under his chin to tilt his head up, but my pulse isn’t listening. He leans in. The boom of his mic brushes mine; our breaths collide in the tiny space between foam, metal, and lips. Mint and adrenaline. One shift forward and it’s a kiss.

His cologne hits me—something expensive and smoky that makes my stomach twist in a way I refuse to name.

My heart kicks hard against my ribs. I ignore it. I always ignore it.

At the last possible second, I turn my face—just enough to feel his breath ghost over my skin. A tease. A graze of cheek against cheek, my lips ghosting past the corner of his mouth. The arena detonates. Luca lets out that low, throaty laugh right into my earpiece and spins away, leaving me holding the note alone.

The rest of the set is muscle memory. I hit every mark. Every spin. Every choreographed glance. But beneath the roar, beneath the lights, I’m still simmering from earlier.

Soundcheck. 4:17 p.m. Luca’s spot is empty.

Tasha, our manager, is pacing the floor, phone pressed to her ear. Michael cracking weak jokes to keep the mood light. Min-ho watching me with that quiet, steady gaze that says he knows I’m about to crack. And me—standing under the work lights, headset on, counting seconds while the clock ticked past 4:20, 4:25, 4:30.

He finally strolled in at 4:42, hair damp, grin in place. “Traffic,” he said. Like that erased the forty-two minutes of wasted time—of our time. Michael and Min-ho let it roll off their shoulders as though it isn’t a big deal that our band mate can’t be reliable.

I didn’t speak to him for the rest of prep. Didn’t need to. The set ran anyway. It always does when I’m there to hold it together.

Final chorus now. Luca’s back at my side for the big finish—our bodies slotted together, heads angled toward each other so the mics catch both our voices in a perfect blend. My hand finds the back of his neck—scripted, possessive. His fingers curl into the front of my shirt—scripted and desperate. The lights strobe red, white, black. We freeze in the pose: faces inches apart, breaths syncing, mics crossed like swords.

The house lights crash to black.

Screams swallow everything. And we break apart with a shove to each other's chests, as though neither of us can stand touching the other for a second longer.

The backstage is humid, frantic, reeking of sweat and fog juice. I’m yanking the in-ears out, peeling the headset off as I stride toward the dressing rooms, when Luca saunters through the curtain still riding the high, still grinning.

“Solid show, Jung,” he calls, slinging his towel over one shoulder. “You almost looked like you were into it out there.”

I keep walking. Jaw locked. Teeth grinding.

“Kai.” He catches up, falling into step. “Come on. Don’t ice me out.”

I stop and turn toward him leisurely.

“You were late,” I say. The words come out low and clipped. Dangerous. “Again.”

He blinks as though he has no clue what I’m talking about. Then laughs—short, incredulous. “Dude. Twenty-five minutes. We still crushed it.”

“Twenty-five,” I repeat, trying really hard not to roll my eyes. “Try forty-two. And it’s not the minutes I’m mad about, you’re disrespectful. To Tasha. To Min-ho. To Michael. To me. To everyone who’s been here since dawn while you decide when you feel like showing up.”