9. My Person #3
The crew broke into spontaneous applause.
Jin straightened, breathing hard, and looked surprised. He bowed. Genuinely pleased, not the practiced idol bow. The other members followed suit.
“Magnifique,” the stage manager called out. “Truly. We have seen many acts in this arena, but...” She made a gesture that suggested words were insufficient.
Haneul bowed again, deeper this time, and said something in careful French that I didn’t catch. The stage manager laughed and waved them back to positions.
They began to rehearse sound and lighting cues. “This time we add the pyrotechnics cues,” the director said. “And please, remember—in this arena, we do not burn down the stage.”
A ripple of nervous laughter. Too soon, maybe, but the kind of humor that acknowledged shared trauma and moved past it.
I felt someone approach and turned to find Aidan beside me, eyes scanning the stage with that constant vigilance I was learning to recognize.
“They’re good,” he said quietly.
“They’re the best.”
“The gift situation outside is... significant.” He pulled out his phone, showed me a photo of the stage door area crowded with wrapped packages, stuffed animals, flower arrangements, poster boards covered in messages. “Is this normal?”
I glanced at the image and felt my anxiety ease slightly. “Completely normal. Paris has a huge K-pop fanbase. This is actually modest compared to Seoul or Tokyo.”
“How do you usually handle it?”
“The venue security catalogs everything, checks for anything dangerous, then delivers approved items to our logistics team. Sun-hee-noona coordinates donation of food items to local charities. Personal letters and small gifts get photographed and logged—the members see the photos but rarely the actual items. It’s too much volume. ”
Aidan studied the photo again. “And they expect this? The fans spending this kind of money?”
“It’s love,” I said simply. “Or their version of it. They can’t touch the members, can’t talk to them, can’t have any real connection. So they give gifts. It’s how they express devotion.”
“Devotion,” he repeated, and something in his tone suggested he was filing that word away for later analysis.
On stage, the group was running the end of the first set of five songs. The music was up-tempo, brighter, with more complex partner work. Jin and Tae executed a mirrored sequence that required absolute trust, their movements synchronized down to the angle of their fingers.
“He’s the center because he makes everyone else look better,” I said, not really meaning to speak out loud.
Aidan glanced at me. “Explain.”
“Watch the formations. Jin’s not always doing the flashiest moves. Tae has the tricks, Haneul has the power. But Jin’s placement, his timing, the way he draws the eye and then redirects it? He makes the whole picture work. That’s what a center does.”
“And if something happened to him?”
The question landed like ice water. “The group would survive. They’d restructure. But they’d be different. Lesser.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
“He’s carried it since he was eighteen.” I kept my voice neutral, professional. “He’s good at it.”
“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t weigh on him.”
I looked at Aidan. He saw too much, this bodyguard. Noticed the things people tried to hide.
“No,” I admitted. “It weighs. But he doesn’t complain.”
“The best ones never do.”
I made my excuses to Aidan and hurried backstage, to be there for the video break between sets. The group wouldn’t change costumes as they usually did, but it gave them a chance to drink water and prepare for the next set.
These were the delicate moments where one world ended and another began, where costume changes happened in blackouts and the crowd’s energy had to be maintained through sheer momentum.
The members scattered. Tae to check his knee, Woo to the bathroom, Min-kyu to his phone. Haneul consulted with the musical director about tempo adjustments.
Jin walked straight to me.
He was sweating, chest still heaving from exertion, hair stuck to his forehead. Beautiful and mortal and mine.
“Water,” he said, and I handed him a bottle from my bag before he finished the word.
He drank half of it in one go, then poured the rest over his head, shaking like a dog. Water droplets caught the stage lights like diamonds.
“Show-off,” I murmured, grabbing a towel to blot his face.
“You love it.”
I did. God help me, I did.
Aidan was out in the audience. I noticed him glancing at the stage entrance, then at his phone, then back at where we stood in the wings.
“What’s wrong?” Jin asked quietly. “Aidan keeps checking his phone.”
“Nothing. Aidan’s just being thorough. That’s his job.”
Jin caught my wrist where I was still holding the towel, his fingers warm and damp. “Are you worried?”
“Always,” I admitted. “But that’s my job.” He smiled—tired but genuine—and let go before anyone noticed the touch had lasted too long.
“Back to work,” he said, and jogged back to the others at center stage.
I looked toward the audience. Aidan hadn’t moved. He wasn’t watching Jin.
He was watching everyone else.