TWENTY-NINE
I’m taken back to a green room of sorts, the name Trickshot on the door, and while we’re in the back rooms behind where all the magic happens on stage, it’s still loud as the whole post-production thing happens (I guess).
I halt when Jaeyong turns and places his back against the wall, just outside the green room where the rest of Trickshot is eating with their staff, talking with management, going over upcoming schedules.
Jaeyong’s got his arms crossed over his chest, head leaned back against the wall so he’s looking at me through the slits of his eyes and it shouldn’t so intimidating—I’ve seen him in all kinds of embarrassing situations—but it is. It doesn’t help that he looks like every brooding hero in every single K-drama I’ve ever seen, pretending to be disinterested in
