Rune stepped forward into a single spotlight. The other members receded.
I'd seen this moment before. But as I watched, professional assessment dissolved into something else entirely.
Rune navigated the vulnerable moment with full control, while something in his expression stayed distant and unreachable. He was performing intimacy while maintaining the distance required to survive it.
The song built toward its bridge. His voice dropped lower. He closed his eyes.
I forgot to track the crew. Forgot to scan the perimeter. Everything fell away except the curve of Rune's throat when he tilted his head back. The way his hip cocked slightly when he shifted weight, and how his fingers curled around the microphone like he was holding something precious.
A realization landed like a punch.
I was falling hard.
The song ended, and the lights changed. The other band members returned to their spotlights, and the show continued.
I stood in the wings with my hands steady and something load-bearing breaking in my chest.
Do the job.
I tried not to think about how his voice cracked slightly on the bridge. Tried not to think about how badly I wanted to say his real name aloud in a room where no one else was listening.
Do. The. Job.
The last song hit its crescendo. The crowd roared. Violet Frequency exited stage right.
I turned my attention back to the crew. Still nothing. Clean run. No incidents.
My phone buzzed. Kang confirmed the same. Recommended we maintain current protocols through Portland.
I conducted a final perimeter scan of the loading corridor. Footsteps came up behind me.
"Griffin."
I turned. Rune stood ten feet away. Soyeon hovered at his shoulder. He word his black hoodie and jeans.
"I need a minute," he said to Soyeon in Korean.
She glanced at me, then back at Rune. Nodded once.
Rune stepped close but left enough space to avoid crossing into obvious intimacy.
"You looked different during the show tonight," he breathed. "Something changed."
I didn't deflect. "You were perfect up there."
"That's not what I meant."
We stood in the diesel-scented quiet of the loading bay. I didn't want to have the conversation. Not here. Not now.
"Everything's good?" he asked.
"Yes." The answer was simultaneously true and false.
"You're lying."
"We need to go." I gestured toward the vehicles. "The convoy's waiting."
As the convoy pulled away from Rogers Arena, I watched Vancouver's lights blur past and thought about all the ways I'd let myself become compromised.
