“I’m beginning to see where all the hospitality went, and it wasn’t the press area,” I whistled, taking it all in.
Tae laughed and moved over to one of the little fridges.
“Drink?” He offered.
“Is it cold?”
He chucked me a can, and I barely caught it, the cold metal sliding across my fingers.
“Cold enough?” He grinned at me, and I rolled my eyes.
I popped the tab, looking around at the fancy, but empty space that was easily big enough to accommodate all eight members of Sol8.
“Are we allowed to be in here?”
He scoffed. “Yes, Ky. Sit.”
He indicated to one of the over-stuffed couches, and I dutifully complied. Grateful to get off my feet for the first time in hours.
He looked at me as he drank from his own can, cocking his head like he was trying to figure something out.
“You’re making me nervous,” I said honestly, sipping the cold beer.
“Sorry,” he shrugged, “it’s just weird seeing you again. I pretty much thought I never would.”
It wasn’t an unrealistic expectation, but the words sent an unexpected shot through me. It wasn’t a direct association with Taeyang, necessarily, but the life he represented to me. That period of time. It made my heart sink to admit that the idea of that time of my life being over still upset me.
“Where’s the rest of the group?” I asked quickly.
“Back at the hotel.” He folded his legs underneath him as he sat on the floor.
“You’re here alone?” I didn’t bother to hide my surprise.
He snorted. “Not quite. I have a manager and a bodyguard sat outside. You didn’t see them?”
I thought back to when we’d approached the yurt.
“Honestly, I was distracted by this outrageous display of opulence,” I waved my beer around to indicate said opulence.
“Eunsong!” He called, and a moment later, a well-groomed man appeared in the doorway, looking at Taeyang.
“Say hi to Kaiya,” he said in Korean.
The older man looked over to me, smiled politely and said “Annyeonghaseyo.”
I nodded my head. “Annyeonghaseyo.”
Tae looked back at me as the older man – Eunsong, presumably – backed out of the yurt and returned to wherever he had been.
“Your accent doesn’t suck.”
“Thank you. Yours does.” I replied. In Korean.
He blinked at me for a few seconds before bursting into uproarious laughter.
“Hell, Pom, were you always that good?”
“No,” I admitted, smiling. “Anyway, why are we here alone? When you green-lit me for an interview, I sort of expected all of you.”
