Page 14 of Spotlight Hearts

Michael chuckles. "You two need to hug it out or something. The tension's thicker than the humidity."

"Pass," I say flatly.

The door hisses open a minute later. Luca climbs the steps—hair a wild mess, like he didn't even glance in a mirror. Ripped jeans slung low showing off the chain tattooed into his skin, black ribbed tank clinging to his chest, no jacket, no bag. Just him, phone in hand, looking as if he stumbled out of a party and straight onto the runway.

No luggage. Completely unready.

My blood boils.

He drops into the seat across the aisle from me, buckling in without a word. Sweat beads on his forehead; his tank's already sticking in places. He smells like a night of sex and liquor—cologne left over from yesterday, no shower.

Tasha gives the pilot the go-ahead. The door seals. We start taxiing.

I stare at him. He avoids my eyes, fiddling with his seatbelt.

Michael breaks the silence. "Close one, bro. What happened? Wild night?"

Luca forces a grin. "Something like that."

Min-ho just nods hello, popping his earbud back in.

The plane accelerates, thrusting us into the air. L.A. shrinks below—smoggy sprawl giving way to blue sky. Once we're level, the seatbelt light dings off.

Luca unbuckles first, heading to the back where the small bar cart's stocked. He pours himself a drink—whiskey, neat, from the looks of it. His hand shakes a little as he lifts the glass.

I can't hold it anymore.

I unbuckle, follow him. The cabin's tight; we're out of earshot from the others if we keep it low.

"What the hell, Luca?" I hiss, stopping inches from him. "No bag? Hair like you fought a wind tunnel? You look like shit. We held the plane for you—again—and you show up like this?"

He takes a sip, eyes on the window. Doesn't turn. "I made it. That's what matters."

"No. What matters is respect. For us. For the schedule. For the fact that this isn't a game to the rest of us." I step closer, voice dropping. "You waltz in late, half-dressed, no prep. What, too busy with your girlfriend to set an alarm? Or was it Daddy's yacht party this time?"

He flinches at that—subtle, but I catch it. Still doesn't look at me. Just stares into his glass, swirling the amber liquid.

"Say something," I demand. "Defend yourself. Make another joke. That's your thing, right?"

He sets the glass down. Finally meets my eyes—hazel, the green dimmed, tired, no smirk this time. "You're right."

I blink. "What?"

"You're right," he repeats, voice flat. "I should've been on time. No excuses. It won't happen again."

No fight or sarcasm. He just accepts my words. Was it really that easy?

It throws me. I expected the pushback. Not this. Not him taking it like a punch he deserves.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The plane hums around us, clouds whipping by outside.

He lifts his drink to his lips again, draining it, before turning back to the bar. "That all?"

I stand there a second longer, irritation twisting into something else that leaves me feeling unsettled.

"Yeah," I mutter. "That's all."

I walk back to my seat, dropping into it harder than necessary. Min-ho glances over, eyebrow raised. I shake my head.