Page 26 of Spotlight Hearts

That has only been growing inside me since.

This isn’t hate anymore and faking to lust after him on stage might have just gotten a lot easier. I’m so completely screwed.

The bus lurches—harder than a normal bump. A low, grinding thud echoes from underneath, followed by the unmistakable hiss of air escaping. The whole thing tilts slightly to the right. Michael’s chips scatter across the table like confetti.

“What the hell?” Luca mutters, grabbing the edge of the booth to steady himself so he doesn’t crush me into the seat with his body weight.

Tasha’s voice crackles over the intercom from up front. “Flat tire. Everyone stay seated. Driver’s pulling over.”

Michael groans. “Of course. Because this day needed more drama.”

Min-ho sighs, already gathering the cards into a neat pile. “Better hope we’ve got a spare.”

The bus coasts to a stop on the shoulder. Dust kicks up outside the windows. We all file out—Michael first, stretching like it’s a rest stop; Min-ho quiet and practical; Luca right behind him, hands in his pockets, looking annoyingly unbothered. I’m last, stepping down into the dry desert heat. The right two rear tires are shredded—rubber doing a really good imitation of torn paper.

Tasha’s on her phone already, pacing. “Harry’s sending a replacement van from the venue. Should be here in twenty. We’ll transfer gear and ride the rest of the way. Might be late for load-in, but we’ll make soundcheck.”

Luca snorts, kicking a pebble across the asphalt. “Look—late and not my fault. First time in history.”

I shoot him a look. “Congratulations. Want a medal?”

He grins—slow and teasing. “Nah. Just enjoying the irony.”

Tasha hangs up, turns to us. “Harry’s orders: when the van gets here, Luca and Kai in the back together. Same side. You two exit first at the venue. Let the paps catch you stepping out side by side. Keep the Kuca momentum going.”

My stomach drops. Luca’s grin fades a fraction—he meets my eyes for half a second, something unreadable flashing there before he looks away.

Michael raises an eyebrow. “You’re serious? We’re turning a flat tire into a photo op?”

Tasha shrugs. “Label’s call. Sorry, boys.”

We wait in the shade of the bus—awkward silence broken only by the occasional truck roaring past. Luca leans against the side panel next to me, arms crossed, close enough that our shoulders almost brush. I don’t move. Neither does he.

When the black van finally pulls up—twenty-five minutes later, right on the edge of “fashionably late”—Tasha herds us in. Michael and Min-ho take the middle row. Luca slides into the very back bench first. I follow, because what choice do I have?

The seats are tight. Our thighs press together the second I sit. Luca doesn’t shift away. Neither do I. It’s becoming a thing, and I’m not sure if either of us aren’t moving away because it would give up too much power or if we want to be close to each other. The air between us feels thicker now—charged, like the inside of the bus but smaller, hotter. It is just the desert heat, that’s all.

He leans back, one arm stretched along the top of the seat behind me. His fingers dangle near my shoulder again. On purpose? Accidental? I can’t tell anymore.

“Cozy,” he murmurs, low enough that only I hear. “Harry’s gonna love the exit shot. Us tumbling out together like we can’t keep our hands off each other.”

I stare straight ahead, jaw tight. “Just don’t touch me when we get out. I’m not in the mood to sell more than I have to.”

He chuckles—soft, almost fond. “You sure about that? You didn’t exactly flinch when my knee was on yours during cards.”

Heat creeps up my neck. I turn my head just enough to glare. “That was an accident.”

“Was it?” His voice drops lower. “Because you didn’t move. And neither did I.”

I swallow. The van hits a pothole; my shoulder presses into his side. His arm stays where it is—fingers now brushing my other shoulder, light as a question.

And I let him. I barely move away, telling myself that if the cameras pick up a shot of us like this it will be more believable.

The venue looms ahead—arena lights already on, crew visible in the loading dock. We’re late. Load-in’s probably chaos. But all I can focus on is the heat of Luca’s body against mine, the faint cedar scent of him, the way his fingers haven’t moved from my shoulder.

Tasha calls back. “Keep it casual, boys. We just need them to capture a few shots.”

Luca’s thumb brushes once, along the base of my skull now.