Chapter 2 #2
He smiled briefly. “Because I’m paid to be worried.”
“You’re paid to be vigilant. Worried is different.”
He didn’t deny it.
I was acutely aware of the space between us. Less than six feet. Close enough to see his chest rise and fall with each breath.
“That photo makes me feel exposed,” I said quietly. “Not because it’s intimate. Because I know someone was watching.”
Griffin’s hands flexed at his sides. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For touching you where someone could see.”
“You were doing your job.”
“I held on too long.”
It was an open admission.
“I know,” I said. “For two seconds after the redirect was complete.” I paused. “I didn’t mind.”
Something changed in Griffin’s expression. He didn’t shut down. He stared back at me, holding my gaze.
My pulse quickened.
Griffin’s hands flexed once at his sides. He didn’t step back and stopped pretending we were still talking about professional boundaries. “You should mind.”
“Why?” I kept my voice steady even as my heart hammered. “Because you’re supposed to be professional? Because I’m your responsibility?”
"Yes.”
“Those things don’t make me untouchable.”
“They should.”
“But they don’t. Do they?”
Griffin took a deep breath, as if he were fighting for control. His gaze dropped to my mouth for half a second before looking up again.
That was enough of an answer. He stepped back, creating distance and reestablishing boundaries.
“Stay aware,” he said. “Notice who’s watching. If something feels off, trust that instinct.”
“And trust you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you moved fast enough to keep me from getting hurt. I know you noticed something in that photo that I didn’t, and you’re telling me to stay aware instead of dismissing my concerns. That sounds like competence to me.”
His expression softened slightly. “Thank you.”
“Griffin.”
“Yes.”
“If you need to redirect me again, don’t ask permission. Just do it.”
“I should ask.”
“Asking takes time. And if there’s danger, time matters.”
“Even if it means touching you?”
“Especially then.”
Griffin’s hands flexed. His jaw worked. I watched him fight himself, desire and discipline colliding. “Understood,” he said finally.
I left before either of us could make our interaction mean more than it already did.
***
The show happened the way shows always happened. I stood in the wings while the opening act finished, listening to nearly ten thousand people holding their breath in anticipation.
Taemin stretched beside me. It was his pre-show ritual. “That security guy is watching you.”
I didn’t turn. “He’s doing his job.”
“He’s watching you specifically.” I heard the amusement in Taemin’s voice. “He’s repositioned three times. He is always maintaining sight lines to you.”
I scanned the wing without making it obvious.
Found Griffin near the equipment cases. A different position than earlier. He wasn’t watching the opening act or the crowd. He was watching the negative space. The gaps where problems could emerge.
Taemin was right. His position gave him clear sightlines to me.
“See?” Taemin said quietly in Korean. “Watching.”
“Stop,” I said.
Warmth spread through my chest.
Minjae appeared, bouncing on his toes. Nervous energy. “My in-ear feels weird. Can you check?”
I turned him by the shoulder and adjusted his in-ear monitor. “Better?”
“Yeah.”
Jinwoo joined us silently. He breathed. Steady. Centered. Already in performance mode. He caught my eye and nodded once.
I nodded back.
I loved the moments before a performance began. It was only the four of us about to walk into a sea of screaming people. In those few minutes, we were still ourselves, not Violet Frequency, the product. Four men who’d chosen this and each other.
The opening act finished, and the crowd roared. The lights went down. We strode forward.
The first thirty seconds were always the hardest. Massive stage. The vast crowd raised their phones, thousands of spots of light.
We hit our opening positions in the dark. The music started, the bass line first, building. The lights came up, and the crowd screamed.
The sound was a physical wave, hitting us like pressure. Like being underwater and feeling the weight of depth.
Our choreography was second nature. It was eight-count sequences drilled so thoroughly that my body executed them while my mind floated somewhere above, monitoring breath, pitch, and spacing.
Minjae was slightly ahead on the first transition. I caught his eye and eased back. He corrected.
Taemin took the first verse. His voice was bright and clear, hitting every note with effortless precision. He executed the choreography as casually as if he were having a conversation.
The crowd sang back. They knew every word. Thousands of voices in unison.
Jinwoo took the second verse. Lower register, grounding the melody. His presence anchored everything. He was steady and reliable, our foundation.
Next was my part. I took center stage for the bridge. The production stripped down the music, leaving only my vocals and a bass line. Raw. Exposed.
I sang about cages and the need for air. The lyrics were mine. The truth beneath the metaphor was mine.
The crowd was silent. Listening. They leaned in and thought they knew what I meant.
They didn’t, but the song mattered anyway.
The bridge built towards the final chorus. The production came back, with synthesizers and drums in a full arrangement. Firepots went off. The fans in the crowd lost their minds.
We continued through the set list. Nine songs. Ninety minutes of continuous performance. Costume changes happened in the wings. We had thirty seconds to strip and redress while handlers wiped sweat and adjusted microphones.
I scanned the wings during the fourth song. Griffin had moved. Stage right now instead of stage left. Further back.
He wasn’t watching me perform. He was watching the crowd. Scanning the front rows systematically. Looking for problems.
During the sixth song, a ballad that let us catch our breath, I noticed something. A photographer. Stage left. Not one of ours.
The credential around his neck looked right from a distance, but stood too far back. He stood beyond the designated press area, near the equipment corridor where staff moved lighting cases and monitor gear.
I watched him between verses. He didn’t shoot the stage. He shot the wings. He pointed his lens toward where we’d enter and exit.
Griffin noticed him at the same moment I did.
I saw Griffin approach the photographer, speak briefly, and check the credentials. The photographer nodded and moved forward into the proper area.
Nothing happened. Griffin returned to his post. The photographer stayed where he belonged.
Our encore was three songs. The closer was our biggest hit.
I joined Taemin during the bridge. We had a partnered sequence, eight counts of coordinated movement. He looked into my eyes and grinned.
I smiled back.
Minjae took the final high note. His voice soared, clear and powerful.
We hit the last formation, and the lights went down. The crowd screamed for thirty seconds straight.
We walked off the stage together. Jinwoo rested his hand on my shoulder. Taemin laughed. Minjae practically vibrated with leftover adrenaline.
Handlers immediately surrounded us with towels and water, directing us toward the waiting vehicles. I wiped sweat from my face and neck, breathing hard. Sweat had soaked through my shirt, and my legs burned.
Griffin appeared at the edge of my peripheral vision. He’d been watching the corridor and exit routes. When I looked at him, his attention shifted.
He didn’t look at me like the fans always looked at me, hungry and possessive. The management gaze, calculating financial value, was missing, too. He watched me as if I were something he’d been hired to protect.
Soyeon guided me toward the vehicles, and within minutes, we were gone.
***
In my hotel room’s bathroom, I stood under the shower and let water as hot as I could stand beat against my shoulders and spine. It washed away sweat and stage makeup. My muscles ached. Good aches. Earned aches.
I pressed my palms against the tile and let my head drop forward. Steam filled the enclosure.
I thought about Griffin watching the wings. How he’d repositioned during the show and how he’d handled the photographer with calm and efficiency.
He was good at his job.
I turned off the water. Grabbed a towel. Dried off and pulled on joggers and an oversized t-shirt.
My phone sat on the nightstand where I’d left it. I picked it up. Checked notifications.
The group chat had the usual post-show messages. Taemin made jokes. Minjae complained about sweat. Jinwoo reminded everyone about tomorrow’s early call.
Nothing else.
I scrolled through my messages. Instagram. Email. The private account I used for industry contacts. Nothing there either.
The mysterious messages aimed at me had been constant for weeks. Daily. Now they were gone.
I told myself that was good. Griffin had changed the access protocols and repositioned security coverage. He increased monitoring at load-in. Chief Kang had mentioned something about tightened credential verification.
Maybe it was already working.
Maybe whoever had been sending messages understood that they couldn’t get as close anymore. The vulnerabilities were closed.
Griffin made us less visible. Harder to reach.
That’s what security was supposed to do: create distance between threats and their targets. Make the cost of access too high to justify the effort.
I wanted to believe that. I checked my phone one more time.
Relief settled into my chest. Cautious. Fragile.
I walked to the window. San Francisco’s financial district spread out below, glass towers reflecting city lights. Too bright to see stars.
Somewhere in the city, Griffin was in another hotel room. Maybe showering, as I’d just done. Maybe sitting awake like I was now. He would review tomorrow’s security plan with the same systematic attention he’d given tonight’s crowd.
He was competent. More than competent. And nothing bad had happened.
I sat on the bed. The quiet was strange. I’d gotten used to low-level anxiety, understanding that somewhere out there, someone was watching too closely and wanting too much.
Now there was only… space.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Griffin’s hands.
I closed my eyes and let myself imagine more.
His fingers on my bare skin. Touching me because he wanted to, instead of because protocol demanded it.
I wanted to know what it would feel like to be wanted by someone who made me feel this steady. This grounded.
I wanted him to say my name—not Rune. Yoon-jae.
Opening my eyes, I stared at the ceiling. Getting up, I walked to the bathroom. Splashed cold water on my face and stared at myself in the mirror. My reflection looked tired. Weariness was a permanent condition, but maybe tonight it was less tense than usual.
Maybe this was what protection felt like. Space between me and whatever wanted too much.
And maybe that space had Griffin’s name on it.