The post-concert buzz hadn't completely faded.
It lingered like phantom applause in the SM building, caught between studio walls and hallway tiles. The posters had already come down, the confetti swept, but Lexie still carried the echo of that Seoul stage in her bones. It pulsed not just in her memory, but in subtler ways—how her footsteps moved more evenly now, how her heart no longer stuttered every time she sensed Mark nearby.
Because he didn't avoid her anymore.
And she didn't either.
It wasn't much. But it was a shift.
And that was something.
She sat tucked into one of the smaller A&R studios that late afternoon, the glow of her monitor reflecting off the surface of her tablet. On screen, unmixed stems from a track slotted for a possible unit release played back through the monitors. Her role today wasn't technical. She was here for feel—for instinct, for tone, for the things she heard in rehearsals that didn't show up on spreadsheets. Emotion. Color. The intangibles.
The engineer beside her squinted at the waveforms. "You hear how that bridge sort of dips in energy?"
Lexie leaned closer, stylus tapping against her notes in rhythm with her thoughts. "Yeah. It drops too soon. Can we start building the harmonies two bars earlier?" She tapped a few adjustments onto her screen. "And push back the high-pass cut on the second pre-chorus. Mark's voice thins out too fast."
The name slipped out before she could stop it.
Mark's voice.
The engineer didn't blink, just nodded and typed. Lexie didn't correct herself.
* * *
Later that evening, Lexie stepped out into the hallway, stretching her arms when—
"Ah—Leeeexie!"
Haechan landed right in her path, arm still extended mid-shot as a crumpled receipt bounced off the trash bin rim and landed with a pathetic flutter on the floor.
"I almost nailed that," he said, dramatically mournful.
Lexie arched a brow, trying not to laugh. "By almost, you mean two feet to the left?"
"Two feet is just confidence in disguise," he replied brightly, scooping up the paper. "You staying late again?"
"One more mix to finish," she said.
"Mark's still downstairs," he added, a little too casually.
Lexie's eyebrows lifted slightly, her heart betraying her with a too-loud beat that didn't match her pace.
* * *
The B-studio was dim, comfortably cold, and familiar in a way that settled her nerves. Lexie liked this one best. It wasn't the sleekest setup, but the acoustics had texture. The synths here hummed in a tone she trusted.
She sank into her chair and cued up the session file again. As she isolated the lead lines, she heard it.
Mark's voice.
She hadn't even noticed he was on the track—his verse buried in the bridge, smooth and soft in that careful way that always sounded like he was holding something back, even when he wasn't. It landed in her chest before she could prepare for it.
She didn't linger on the feeling. Just made a note on her tablet and sank deeper into the edit, redirecting her focus.
Ten minutes passed. Maybe less.
She heard the studio door shift behind her.
She didn't turn.
"You left this in Studio C."
His voice. Not in the headphones this time.
Real. Present.
Lexie slowly looked over her shoulder.
Mark stood just inside the doorway, holding out her favorite mechanical pencil—light blue casing, rubber grip—the one Matthew had given her in Vancouver She must've left it behind while reviewing Omega Camp vocals.
"Thanks," she said, voice neutral.
He stepped closer and set it gently on the table without touching her hand. But he didn't leave.
Instead, he hovered near the wall, gaze drifting over the session window. "Is that the unit track with Jaehyun-hyung and Doyoung-hyung?"
Lexie nodded. "And Jungwoo. You're in the bridge."
"Oh." A pause. "Didn't realize it got picked."
"It did." She hesitated, eyes flicking to the waveform. "You sound good on it."
That made him glance over.
Not startled. Just... softer.
"Thanks," he said. "I tried not to overdo it."
"You didn't." Her voice stayed even. But she meant it. Every word.
A stretch of quiet settled between them. The silence wasn't heavy like it used to be. It just... was.
Mark gave a small smile, not forced. "I'll let you get back to it."
Lexie nodded. "See you around, Mark."
He paused at the door. "You too, Lex."
* * *
Around 10:30pm, Lexie finally packed up.
Most of the building had gone still—vocal studios darkened, the A&R wing quiet save for the glow of a few practice rooms where trainees still danced in front of mirrored walls. She tugged her scarf tighter and headed toward the back lot.
She didn't expect anyone to be there. Most rides had already left.
But just as she stepped past the curb, she spotted it—a black van parked near the staff exit, hazard lights blinking gently.
The back window rolled down.
Mark sat in the passenger seat, hoodie up, mask pulled off. His eyes met hers in the dim light. The driver said nothing.
Lexie stopped, a few steps from the door.
"You're still here?" she asked, voice low.
Mark leaned against the open window. "Yeah. Finished some rehearsals... then saw your lights still on when I passed by."
Her breath caught for a second. "So you waited?"
He nodded. "Just to say... get home safe."
No teasing. No tension.
Just the calm tone she remembered—quiet, sincere, like the way he used to hold open her coat on cold days without saying why.
Lexie gripped the strap of her tote a little tighter.
"Thanks," she said after a pause. "You too, Mark. Good night."
Mark gave a small nod, didn't press further. No smile, no follow-up.
Then the window rolled back up, and the van eased away from the curb.
Lexie watched until the lights disappeared into the stretch of city night.
Still in the same orbit, she thought.
And maybe, just maybe—beginning to rotate closer again.