The studio was quieter than usual.
Not silent—music still buzzed from someone's half-finished track down the hall, and the low hum of conversation drifted from the break area—but there was a stillness Lexie wasn't used to. An unfamiliar pocket of calm that pressed lightly against her shoulders instead of weighing them down.
For once, she wasn't running behind.
No looming deadline. No unfinished file blinking at her. No pending mix session clawing for her attention.
She sat alone in her studio, legs curled on the spin chair, staring at the muted screen. The same file she'd been opening and closing for days. That stubborn sixteen-bar loop. Still raw. Still aching. Still... unfinished.
Taeyong had told her to step back.
Johnny had insisted she didn't need to force it.
Junny had come by twice already—just to sit quietly near her without offering a single word. And somehow, that had helped more than advice ever could.
Maybe this—Lexie thought—was the space she'd needed all along. Not silence. Not stillness. Just... room.
Her phone buzzed beside her.
버섯🍄 Taeyong이 🌹
Concert on Sunday. Come watch, not work. You deserve to just be.
I told Johnny. And he said if you'll say no. He said he'll drag you there himself.
Junny's already in. We got you an artist pass.
Lexie's lips twitched into a small, reluctant smile. Of course Johnny would pull strings without telling her. And of course Taeyong would deliver it with the softest possible nudge.
Another ping.
Junny Canadian brotha🍁🍂
Don't make me attend the concert alone.
I will cry.
Loudly.
Publicly.
She let her head fall back against the chair and laughed—quiet and real.
* * *
By Sunday afternoon, her bag was already packed—power bank, gum, earplugs, and a thin cardigan in case the dome turned out colder than expected.
No all-black hoodie today. No producer's armor. Instead, she reached for soft denim jeans, a cream blouse, and her favorite canvas sneakers. It wasn't much, but it felt like someone she hadn't seen in a long time. Someone she used to be—before the deadlines, before the revisions, before Korea became a place of pressure instead of possibility.
When she met Junny outside the venue, his reaction was instant.
"Whoa," he said, blinking at her. "You look like someone who doesn't eat reverb plug-ins for breakfast."
Lexie rolled her eyes. "Enjoy it while it lasts. I might combust halfway through soundcheck."
They passed through security together, badges clipped neatly to lanyards. A few staffers offered nods, some a brief smile, but no one questioned why she wasn't working.
It felt... strange.
Good, but strange.
Familiar set-up. Familiar faces. But this time, there was no weight in her step. No laptop slung across her chest. No pressure to edit, assess, or fix.
Just Lexie. Just Junny.
Just the rising hum of pre-show countdowns buzzing in the air like static anticipation.
* * *
The arena was massive—dizzying in scale, alive with the glow of synchronized lightsticks and cheers that rolled in tidal waves. Junny led her toward a side-stage viewing area. Not the center, but close enough for the bass to crawl under her skin and the heat of the lights to kiss her cheeks.
When the lights dipped, the noise surged.
And then they appeared.
NCT 127, onstage. In sync. On fire.
Mark was second to enter.
Lexie hadn't meant to look for him.
Hadn't meant for her eyes to find his in the chaos.
But something in her chest tugged—deep and automatic.
He didn't see her. Not yet.
But she saw him.
Under the lights, in motion, surrounded by thunder and adoration—he looked untouchable. Not just an idol, not just a performer, but someone carved from rhythm and reverie. A storyteller of movement and breath.
Her fingers curled around the railing.
And her heart... didn't know whether to lift or collapse.
Beside her, Junny's elbow nudged her side gently. "You okay?"
Lexie gave a small nod, barely enough. She didn't trust her voice.