Chapter 4
Chapter four
The second San Francisco show had gone smoothly. Too smoothly, perhaps. Nine thousand people, flawless execution, and no incidents. Griffin stayed in my room again that night, same arrangement, separate beds. He lay awake longer than necessary.
The next morning, we'd packed for Vancouver.
Now I stood at SFO passport control, and my body remembered the danger before my mind could rationalize it away.
My hands didn't shake. My expression remained neutral. I'd crossed borders hundreds of times—Seoul to Tokyo, Singapore to Bangkok, every major airport in Asia and half the ones in North America. Passport control was procedural. Mechanical.
This time my pulse kicked hard enough that I felt it in my throat. The agent scanned the document. Looked at the photo. Looked at my face.
Behind me, Griffin stood three feet back—close enough to intervene if necessary, far enough not to crowd. His constant presence helped me anchor myself.
The agent handed back my passport. "Have a pleasant flight."
Every system I'd trusted, security queues and credential checks, suddenly felt porous. Breakable.
I pulled my hoodie up and kept walking.
At the gate, Taemin dropped into the seat beside me, earbuds in, scrolling through his phone. He nudged my shoulder. "You good?"
"Fine."
"You're doing the thing where you pull into yourself." He glanced at me, one earbud out. "The hoodie's up. That means either you're exhausted or you're anxious."
"Both."
"Fair." After a beat: "The new security guy's watching the room like someone's going to attack."
I didn't turn to look. "He's doing his job."
"Mm-hmm." Taemin's tone was light, but his eyes weren't. "You trust him?"
I thought about Griffin coming to my room at midnight. About how he'd stayed, not to control, but to steady me. About the way my body had trusted his redirection instantly in San Francisco, without thought or hesitation.
"Yes," I said. "I trust him."
Taemin studied me for a few seconds, nodded once, and put his earbud back in.
The plane ride was turbulent over Oregon. Rough enough to trigger the seatbelt light. The aircraft dropped and then caught itself. My stomach followed half a second later.
I looked across the aisle. Griffin sat one row back, completely still. His hands rested loosely on the armrests, posture unchanged. He didn't brace or hang on to anything. Turbulence was merely another variable, assessed and managed.
My breathing slowed to match his. I grounded myself against his calm.
This was what I was choosing. His specific version of safety.
Vancouver customs moved slowly. When I reached the booth, the officer scanned my passport and asked the usual questions. My pulse raced when she looked at her screen longer than expected.
"Who's your employer?"
Soo-jin appeared at my elbow before I could speak.
"Good afternoon," he said smoothly, placing a document folder on the counter. "I'm the tour manager for Violet Frequency. We have the work permits and venue documentation here."
The officer reviewed everything and stamped my passport. "Welcome to Canada."
Soo-jin had stepped in front of me and solved the problem by making himself the point of contact.
Griffin came through customs last. He looked across the arrivals hall and found me. Held my gaze long enough to acknowledge the connection without making it visible to anyone else.
I thought about the difference. Soo-jin manages by controlling. Griffin protected by letting me choose.
Rogers Arena was massive, with a nineteen-thousand capacity. We entered through the loading bay for the venue walkthrough.
Griffin moved through the space systematically with Kang and the venue coordinator. I followed with Soyeon, watching him work.
Soo-jin appeared at a corridor junction, tablet in hand. "How does the layout compare to previous venues?"
Griffin glanced at him. "Better infrastructure. Wider corridors reduce collision points. Camera coverage is more comprehensive."
"These temporary measures should help until things settle."
Temporary measures. Until things settle.
I knew that tone. Soo-jin was already framing Griffin's presence as reactive, short-term. Something that would eventually become unnecessary.
Griffin's expression didn't change. He nodded once and continued walking. I spotted the tension in his shoulders and the way his hand flexed once.
We reached the main stage. Griffin tested sightlines from both wings.
Then it happened. A crash from the rigging above, metal on metal, sharp and sudden.
I flinched. Couldn't help it. My whole body contracted, preparing for impact.
Griffin was beside me before the echo died. Present. He placed himself between me and the sound source.
"Equipment shift," the venue coordinator called out. "Crew working overhead. Should have warned you, sorry about that."
Griffin didn't move away immediately. He waited until my breathing steadied. Until I nodded.
Kang watched us. He tracked the interaction and unspoken communication.
Back at the hotel after soundcheck, I sat on my bed, still rattled. The crash had undone something in me. Not the sound itself, but my animal fear that something was breaking.
My first thought hadn't been to move. It was hope that Griffin was close enough to be my shield.
A knock at my door. I checked the peephole—Kang.
"We need to discuss room arrangements," he said when I let him in.
"What about them?"
"The venue incident today. Your reaction." He studied me. "You're more affected than you want to admit."
I didn't deny it.
"I'm recommending Griffin stay in your room tonight. Second bed. Enhanced proximity protocol." His tone was matter-of-fact. "You trust him specifically. When you're stressed, you look to him. In Vancouver, with resources stretched, I need you stable."
Heat crept up my neck. "It's that obvious?"
"To someone paying attention, yes." He paused. "To be clear, this is a recommendation, not an order. Your choice."
I thought about another night alone, jumping at every sound. Thought about Griffin in a room down the hall, both of us awake, pretending distance meant safety.
"I want him here," I whispered. "But he'll resist. He'll say it compromises boundaries."
"Then convince him it doesn't." Kang moved toward the door. "The choice is yours. Make it clear that it's what you need."
After he left, I pulled out my phone.
Rune: Can you come to my room? Need to discuss something.
Griffin: Absolutely.
He arrived in three minutes. I let him in and locked the door.
"What's wrong?" His eyes were wide open, alert.
"Nothing's wrong, but I need to ask you something."
He waited.
"I want you to stay tonight. In here. Second bed."
"Rune—"
"I know what you're going to say. We must maintain professional boundaries. It can compromise your protection. I'm not asking as a principal. I'm asking as someone who won't sleep otherwise."
"Kang put you up to this?"
"He offered it as an option. I'm choosing it." I moved closer. "The crash today: When I heard it, my first thought was to ask whether you were close enough. That means I'm already compromised, Griffin. We're past professional. You know it too."
He was quiet momentarily. "If I stay—"
"We draw lines. Invisible fences. I know. I'm not asking for more than proximity."
"Are you sure that's all you're asking for?"
I met his eyes directly. "I'm asking for what I need. You're the only one who's ever let me do that."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'll get my things."
Twenty minutes later, he was back with an overnight bag. He set it by the second bed and did his security check: windows, locks, and closets. It was a familiar routine now.
"The rigging crash," he said without turning around. "Why did it affect you so much?"
"Because it made everything appear breakable. And I realized, I've started trusting you to keep things solid." I sat on my bed. "That's dangerous, isn't it? That kind of trust."
He turned to face me. "Yes."
"But you feel it too?"
"Yes."
"So, what do we do?"
"We must be careful." He sat on the other bed, facing me. "We need to be honest about what's happening without rushing into it."
"What is happening?"
Griffin looked at me for a long time. "I think you know."
"I want to hear you say it."
"I care about you. More than I should. More than is safe." He clenched his hands and then released. "When that rigging crashed, getting to you was my instinct, not protocol."
"That terrifies you."
"It should terrify you too."
"It doesn't." I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them. "Everyone else in my life has decided what I need. What's safe for me. You ask. You let me choose. Do you know how rare that is?"
"Soo-jin doesn't ask?"
The question surprised me. "Soo-jin manages. It's what he's good at."
"He watches you. Closely."
"He's protective. Of the group's image. Of stability."
Griffin studied me. "It feels more personal than that."
I looked away. "It's complicated."
"Most things are."
We sat in silence for a moment. The city hummed faintly beyond the windows, traffic and light bleeding through the curtains.
“Can I tell you something about my name?” I asked.
Griffin looked up. “You can tell me anything.”
I considered where to start. “When they asked what I wanted to be called, I didn’t pick something that sounded friendly. Or warm. Or easy.”
He waited.
“A rune is a mark,” I said. “Not a picture or a story. It means something, but only if you know how to read it. And even then, it doesn’t give everything away.”
I glanced down at my hands. "I wanted something that no one could fully explain. Something that didn’t belong to anyone else’s expectations.”
“You wanted control,” Griffin said quietly.
I shook my head. “No. I wanted privacy.”
That comment landed. He nodded.
“Everyone assumes a stage name is about image,” I went on. “But for me, it's about distance. About keeping part of myself untranslated.”
“And does it work?”
I thought about the threats. The watching. How Soo-jin looked at me sometimes. Then I thought about Griffin, and how easily he seemed to read things I never said out loud.
“Most of the time,” I said.
“You named the boundary.”
“Yes,” I said.
He didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was steady. “Thank you for telling me.”
I looked up. “Why?”
“Because it tells me what matters to you.”
I nodded. That felt right. He saw me.
"I should change," I said finally. "Get ready for bed."
When I came out of the bathroom in sleep clothes, Griffin had changed too, into track pants and a t-shirt. Still sitting on his bed, phone in hand but not looking at it.
I climbed under my covers. "You don't have to stay awake all night."
"Habit."
"Try to sleep. Please."
He lay back on top of his covers.
"Griffin?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for letting me choose."
In the darkness, I heard him roll to his side. "I'm not letting you. I'm trusting you to know what you need."
"Same thing, different words."
"No, one's about control. The other's about respect."
I turned onto my side, facing his bed. I could barely make out his profile in the weak city light that seeped the curtains.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Go ahead."
"What do you actually want? Not what's safe or smart.. What do you want?"
Silence stretched between us.
"I want to stop pretending distance means anything," he said finally. "I want to stop acting like remaining three feet away changes what's already happening."
My heart hammered. "Then stop."
I heard him sit up and then stand. The mattress dipped as he sat on the edge of my bed.
"This changes things," he said.
"They've already changed."
He lay down beside me, on top of the covers. I shifted closer until my back pressed against his side.
His arm wrapped around me slowly, and his hand settled against my ribs.
"Just sleep," he said. "Nothing more tonight."
"I know."
We both knew we were crossing a line, but we were also acknowledging what had already emerged between us. We chose proximity despite the risk.
"Tell me this is okay," I whispered.
His arm tightened slightly. "It's probably not, but we're choosing it anyway."
"Why?"
"Because you're right. Everyone can already see it. We might as well be honest about it." He pressed his lips to my hair. "Pretending doesn't keep either of us safe."
I covered his hand with mine. "When did you know?"
"That first day. When you trusted my redirect without hesitation. When you turned and saw me watching." His voice was rough. "When you said my name like it mattered."
"It does matter."
We said nothing else. I fell asleep with his heartbeat steady against my spine and his breath warm against my neck.
Tomorrow, we'd have to figure out what it all meant. Tonight, I felt steady.
Not safe. Safety was an illusion.
Chosen.
Real.