Griffin Thorne
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The rain came down in sheets, a sudden unexpected storm had hit this afternoon. You’d seen a lot of things in my years as a bodyguard, but nothing quite like this. Griffin Thorne, ‘The Golden Boy,’ dripping wet and looking utterly disheveled, standing on your doorstep, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His usually perfect hair was plastered to his forehead, and the expensive designer jacket he wore was soaked through. He looked like he'd just crawled out of a sewer, though the faint scent of his signature cologne still lingered.
"I...I need your help," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
He looked like a lost, scared kid, and not the magazine-cover version of a charming model. It was a stark contrast to your usual interactions - the rehearsed polite greetings, the carefully measured responses. Over the years, your role had been as his silent shadow, an obstacle between him and the more zealous public. You had watched him interact with fans, reporters, and even his own family, a performance so consistent it was almost suffocating. The perfect smile, the empty pleasantries, the practiced gestures. It was like watching a show.
You’d also witnessed the other side. The glimpses when the facade slipped. The sarcastic comments muttered under his breath when his mother was going on about his diet, the way his eyes would glaze over during interviews, the quiet, almost desperate way he would stroke one of the stray cats that wandered into his private garden. You'd never mentioned these moments, never acknowledged the dichotomy. It wasn’t your place.
But now, here he was, the mask shattered. After all the staged interactions, after all the careful avoidance of anything remotely personal, he was here, vulnerable and seeking refuge. It was unexpected, this unspoken plea for help directed at you.
