The faint glow of dawn peeked through the curtains, painting soft patterns on the walls. Jet lag had Lexie wide awake before 5 a.m., her mind still stubbornly caught between Vancouver's late afternoon and Seoul's early morning.
She padded quietly into the kitchen, clutching her iPad and phone like small shields against the newness of it all. The clock blinked at 4:39 a.m. — her body still convinced it was afternoon.
Lexie poured herself a glass of milk, the familiar chill grounding her. Perching on a stool by the kitchen counter, she opened emails, replied to construction consultants, and tweaked a few design drafts. Between messages to colleagues, she sent a quiet "Good morning" to her mom, and a few lines of small talk with her brothers, who teased her about finally landing in Seoul.
Her fingers slowed after a while, her gaze drifting around the kitchen — new but familiar in its warmth, filled with the quiet history of the Lee family.
A sudden noise startled her: a soft snore, low and unmistakable, drifting in from the living room. Lexie peeked around the corner and saw someone sprawled on the couch, hair messy, glasses slightly askew.
"Mattie...?" she whispered, blinking at the sight of him asleep, half-covered by a jacket.
Rolling her eyes with a fond sigh, she tiptoed back to her room, fetched a folded blanket, and draped it carefully over his shoulders. The old routine felt strangely comforting, like slipping back into childhood roles.
"Silly," she muttered under her breath, reaching out to gently slide his glasses off. The figure stirred a little, and Lexie froze, breath caught, but he settled again.
She placed the glasses on the coffee table, ready to tiptoe away — until her foot bumped into a black Jansport bag lying by the couch. Lexie frowned, annoyance mixing with amusement.
"What on earth..." she mumbled, shaking her head. With a sigh, she tugged the curtains partly closed to block the creeping morning light and padded back to the kitchen.
After fetching herself a glass of milk, Lexie glanced back at the quiet kitchen — the bright overhead light suddenly feeling too harsh, too awake for the hour. On impulse, she gathered her iPad and phone and padded softly into the living room.
There, she sank onto the carpet in front of the coffee table, knees tucked under her and back half-turned toward the couch where Mattie lay asleep, faint snores rising and falling.
It's quieter here, she thought, resting her gadgets on the table. Feels a little closer to home...
She began reviewing design notes and sketches, fingers sliding over the screen. Every so often, she paused to look back at the sleeping figure, a small, fond smile tugging at her lips. Same old Mattie, she mused silently. Crashing anywhere, anytime.
Settled on the carpet, Lexie felt the weight of the day finally catching up to her — the flight, the late dinner, the swirl of thoughts about Seoul, Ethan, and the project waiting to begin.
Her head dipped lower, the soft hum of the heater and the quiet of dawn wrapping around her like a blanket. The light of her screen blurred, and before she could stop it, her eyelids fluttered shut, cheek brushing the edge of her folded arms atop the coffee table.
Unintentionally, Lexie drifted off.
* * *
A small clatter jolted her awake. Blinking away sleep, she realized she wasn't at the kitchen counter anymore, but curled on the living room couch — where she must have shifted half-asleep.
Across the room, Matthew was already in the kitchen, spatula in hand, cooking something that smelled warm and comforting.
"Mattie?" she called out, voice still raspy with sleep.
He turned, brows raised. "Yeah?"
"Where'd you go last night?" she asked, confused. "I woke up early and saw you crashed on the couch."
Matthew blinked, puzzled. "Me? I never slept there. I was in my room."
Lexie frowned. "Then... who did I put a blanket over? And took glasses off...?"
Matthew's grin slowly spread. "Oh. That must've been Mark."
Lexie's jaw dropped slightly, heat creeping up her neck. "Seriously? I thought it was you."
Inside, her thoughts tangled before she could stop them: Mark. After all these years, after all the unresolved pieces between us... and I end up half-asleep, draping a blanket over him like nothing happened?
A part of her bristled, embarrassed by her own softness — by the way her hands had moved instinctively, by how familiar the gesture had felt despite everything. You've grown, Lexie, she told herself quietly. But some reflexes... some memories don't just fade.
She wondered what he'd thought if he'd woken — if he'd recognized her, if it would have reopened old wounds or sparked something unnamed. And yet, under the flicker of shame, there was a softer spark too: Maybe this is how it starts again — not with big words, but with small, half-asleep kindnesses.
She swallowed, her voice catching slightly as she added, "I really thought it was you."
Matthew chuckled, the sound grounding her. "Guess the rumors about us looking alike aren't totally wrong."
Lexie managed a small laugh, but inwardly her heart felt heavier and lighter all at once. Mark... so close, and yet just out of reach. Maybe it's better this way for now. Maybe time really does need to do its work.
✦ ✦ ✦
Mark stumbled into the living room way past midnight, shoulders heavy from practice. His hoodie smelled faintly of sweat and fabric softener, and the ache in his muscles felt almost comforting — a sign he'd pushed hard.
The lights were low except for the small lamp by the corner. He'd meant to drag himself upstairs, maybe shower, but the couch was right there. Five minutes, he promised himself, dropping his backpack by the coffee table.
The world blurred the second his head hit the cushion.
He was half-awake when it happened: the soft rustle of a blanket, the lightest tug at his glasses. For a second, Mark's breath caught. Someone was close — so close he could feel their warmth in the air between them.
His lashes fluttered, but he kept them mostly shut, half-worried he'd ruin it by moving. There was something careful, almost gentle in the way the glasses were lifted, the blanket tucked around his shoulders.
It tugged at memories Mark had learned to keep quiet: playlists shared in cramped practice rooms, looks that said too much, late-night conversations that stopped right before almost.
Lexie...? The thought slipped out before he could stop it.
He stayed still, his chest tightening. After all this time, just the thought of her — the idea that it could be her — made his heart stumble over itself.
Get a grip, Mark, he scolded himself silently. But then he caught a hint of her perfume, something soft and familiar, and the years between then and now shrank to nothing.
His mind scattered with half-formed questions: Does she know it's me? Did she mean to? But before he could figure anything out, exhaustion dragged him under again.
By the time morning came, the schedule was already calling. Mark slipped out quietly, hoodie hood pulled low, sneakers barely scuffing the floor. He didn't dare look back, afraid the softness of the moment would pull him in too deep.
In the car, his thoughts kept looping anyway: her hand brushing his shoulder, the familiar care in her touch, the fact that — even after all this time — it still felt like her.
Lex, he thought, pressing his thumb to the side of his phone where her old contact still sat, untouched. Didn't think I'd see you again like this.
His heart beat faster, and for the first time in a while, the day ahead felt heavier and lighter at once.
Maybe some things don't really go away, he admitted to himself, gaze turning out the car window as the city blurred past.