Page 38 of Spotlight Hearts

“Yeah,” he bites out. “I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

I hold his gaze, my own hurt and anger swirling inside of me. “Then tell him no.”

He laughs. “Like that’s an option.”

“It could be.”

“For you maybe, you have your daddy to fall back on. This is the only shot I have.”

I blink, clamping my mouth shut. We stare at each other. The space feels way too big, yet too small at the same time. Of course he thinks that. Like I even want to rely on my father’s success to find my own.

Tasha finally steps in. “Okay. Reset. We’ll…adjust the blocking. Kai, you good to run it again? We will save the bare skin touching for the show.”

Kai doesn’t answer her. He’s still looking at me. Then he turns away, walks to center stage, plants his feet, and nods once.

“Let’s go.”

The lights drop, and the arena ignites.

Twenty thousand voices fuse into one deafening wave—Eclipse! Eclipse! Eclipse!—and it hits me like a drug straight to the vein. This is the only place I’ve ever felt truly alive. Not the green rooms, not the buses, not the fake dates, or the whispered fights in hallways. Here. Under these lights, with the bass rattling my ribs and the crowd screaming our name like it’s the only word they know.

I’m grinning before the first chord lands—wide, reckless, the kind of smile I haven’t worn in weeks. The adrenaline floods in hot and bright, washing away the cold shoulder, the silence, the ache that’s been sitting in my chest since the gym. Tonight, I’m not thinking about contracts or Harry or what Kai said in the van. Tonight I’m just…here. Alive. And fuck, it feels good.

Kai feels it, too—I can see it the second he steps into the spotlight. His shoulders loosen, eyes sharpen, that iron control he’s been wearing like armor cracks just enough to let something real bleed through. He’s still guarded, still Kai, but the stage is the one place he lets himself breathe. Michael’s bouncing on his toes, already laughing into his mic. Min-ho’s steady as ever, but there’s a small, rare smile tugging at his mouth when the opening beat drops.

We launch into the set. Every cue hits. Every harmony locks. The crowd is feral—phones up, signs waving, Kuca chants rolling like thunder before we’ve even touched.

Then “Starlight Ruin” starts.

The lights dim to deep violet. Slow synth pulse. My solo line first—voice low and curling around the melody. Kai’s standing center stage, back to me, head tilted just enough that I can see the line of his throat, his tattoo climbing toward his jaw. He’s in the black sleeveless top tonight—sides cut almost down to his waist, exposing the Korean script along his ribs and the thorns that wrap his chest.

The pre-chorus swells.

I move exactly how we practiced. My arm snakes around his waist—scripted, yes, but the second my palm flattens against his bare skin, it stops being an act.

He’s warm and sweat-slick from the first half of the set. My fingers splay across his stomach, thumb brushing the edge of the script tattoo. I drag my hand up—leisurely—over the hard plane of his abs, up his side, making the fabric bunch as I do. My palm glides over his pec, thumb grazing his nipple. I flex my fingers into his skin. A possessive urge to tug him back into me fills me, but I resist.

Kai arches back into me.

Not the choreographed lean.

Real.

His head falls against my shoulder, throat exposed, lips parted on a silent gasp. His hips roll back—just a fraction—pressing his ass against my groin. I feel him shudder. Feel the way his breath catches.

And fuck—my cock is already hard, thick against the leather of my pants, trapped between us. He feels it. I know he does. His hand comes up—slow, scripted at first along my thigh—then drifts higher. His fingers brush the bulge in my pants. Not accidental. Not part of the choreography. Calculated and teasing. A measured drag of knuckles over the length of me.

I stumble.

The line I’m supposed to sing dies in my throat—half a word, cracked and breathless. The mic picks it up anyway—raw, ragged, and unmistakably turned on. The crowd screams louder, thinking it’s part of the performance. Phones flash like lightning.

Kai doesn’t pull away.

His fingers linger—pressing just enough to make my hips jerk forward. My arm tightens around his waist, holding him there. My mouth finds the shell of his ear.

“Kai—”

He turns his head—barely—lips brushing my jaw. Not a kiss, but enough contact to make my vision white out for a second.