A guardian's name. The kind given to creatures meant to keep watch over things needing protection.
We first saw his name in an email from management. Chief Kang had said his name out loud once during introductions I’d only half-heard.
American name. American face. Something in the way he moved reminded me of the security detail my father had hired once, years ago, when threats against our family escalated. That guard had been former military. He moved through spaces as if he were always calculating distances and timing.
Griffin carried himself the same way.
Most people looked at Rune and saw what they’d decided to see before meeting me. It was a carefully constructed image with international appeal.
Griffin looked at me in the way he read rooms for exits. Assessing without assuming.
My phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Three times. I gave myself another minute before I picked it up.
Taemin:that new security guy has good reflexes
Taemin:Very hands-on security
Taemin:Also he’s handsome in that sleepy American way
I typed a response in Korean, deleted it, and then switched to English. The group chat was English by default on American tour legs, making it easier for staff who monitored international communications.
Rune:He was doing his job.
Taemin:So serious
Taemin wasn’t wrong. Griffin was handsome, though not in any way that photographed cleanly. His face had too much weather in it: lines at the corners of his eyes and tightness around his mouth. He was six-one, maybe six-two, broad-shouldered without bulk, and built for endurance rather than show.
His hands had been steady when they touched my spine. Capable with scarred knuckles. The kind that knew how to do necessary things.
I’d absorbed all of that in four seconds of contact.
The next notification caught my attention. It was an Instagram tag. From one of the venue's staff photographers.
The photo was blurry. Shot from the wings during the last run-through. I was mid-turn, and Griffin’s hand was clearly visible on my back. His face was partially obscured, but his posture was unmistakable. Protective. Precise.
The caption read:The team keeping our boys safe
Innocuous. Professional. Entirely appropriate.
I stared at it. The photo didn’t look intimate. To anyone scrolling past, it was precisely what the caption said: security doing security work. I zoomed in and studied the angle.
The photographer had stood near the equipment cases—twenty feet away, maybe twenty-five, and the framing was deliberate. They centered on Griffin’s hand on my spine. Our bodies were in profile. The shot caught the exact moment of contact.
Someone had been watching that specific interaction and thought it was worth photographing. My instincts, the same that told me when a lyric wasn’t working or a performance was off, said this mattered.
Or perhaps I was reading meaning into coincidence because I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I deleted the tag. Pressed the three dots, selected Remove Tag, and watched it disappear. I’d been disappearing evidence of wanting things since I was nineteen. I was very good at it.
What would those hands feel like without fabric between us?
Heat pooled low in my stomach. Unwanted. Inconvenient. Undeniable.
I’d spent years learning to separate my body from desire. To perform sexuality onstage without experiencing it. To inhabit the space between availability and untouchability, where fans thought they had access, while ensuring they never actually did.
This was different. This was my body responding to proper handling.
I locked my phone. Set it face down.
