Page 28 of K-Pop Double Life

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.

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