Lexie arrived late.
Lexie's heels clicked too sharply against the floor of SM's main building as she rushed toward the conference room, her breaths shallow from the sprint.
The meeting had started twenty minutes ago.
Inside, the table was full — producers, choreographers, visual directors, and artists. Taeyong glanced up briefly when she slipped through the door, followed by Johnny, who subtly pulled the door closed behind her. She murmured a quiet "Sorry" as she took the remaining seat beside him.
Her hair was neatly tied back, blazer crisp, but her eyes gave her away — swollen under soft makeup, like she'd barely slept.
"Thanks for joining us, Lexie," said the lead coordinator, barely masking the disapproval.
She nodded, trying to keep her face neutral, even as she fumbled to pull out her tablet. It powered on sluggishly. A spinning icon. Then her stomach dropped — the visuals she'd prepped for the trainee vocal highlights weren't there.
She'd left them on her home drive.
Junny had texted her at 8:15 — "Don't forget the comp reels for today." She hadn't even opened the message until now. Her fingers hovered above the screen, helpless.
Beside her, Johnny leaned slightly closer. "You okay?"
Lexie didn't answer. Just straightened her spine and said, "I'll follow up with updated files this evening."
Taeyong glanced her way, but said nothing. Johnny watched her for the rest of the meeting — quiet, attentive, not missing the way her fingers trembled slightly when she took a sip of coffee.
The meeting wrapped in the usual polite exchanges and quiet goodbyes. Lexie barely made it out of the room before her phone buzzed again—this time from Junny. She made her way back to her studio, half-expecting to lock herself in for the rest of the day, but there he was waiting near the door, holding two cups of coffee and a brown bag.
"You're running on fumes again," he said gently, offering the coffee like a peace offering and a lifeline rolled into one.
Lexie gave him a tired smile. "What's new?" she quipped, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
He followed her inside, placing the pastries on the corner desk while she set down her tablet and began opening up her session files.
"I've got two weeks left to wrap the trainee evaluation reels," she said, already slipping on her headphones. "And the concert documentary is due next Thursday. I just need to push through."
Junny lingered for a second, leaning against the doorframe. "When was the last time you called home?"
The words hit harder than he intended. Lexie didn't look up. She adjusted a knob on the console instead. "I'll call soon," she muttered, eyes fixed on the screen. "I'm just… really close to the finish line."
He didn't press. He never did. After a few minutes, he left her to her silence.
The studio dimmed slowly as the hours passed. By now, the building was nearly empty—just a few backup vocalists rehearsing on another floor. Lexie's screen glowed with the multicolored waveforms of the concert's vocal tracks. Mark's voice filtered through the monitors—steady, breathless, intimately close. The song had always been one of her favorites, but now it felt too raw, too loaded. She paused the track, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes. The weight pressed down.
A soft knock came from the doorway. She peeled one earcup off and looked up.
Johnny.
He gestured to the studio beside hers. "Forgot my flash drive," he said with a small tilt of his head.
Through the glass window, he noticed her—sitting alone, bathed in the glow of a monitor, headphones crooked on her neck, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. He didn't step inside, just lingered for a beat, gaze filled with something wordless. Concern. Recognition. Maybe both.
Lexie forced a wave of her hand and a nod—go on, I'm fine. He gave her a look that said he didn't quite believe her, but he left without pressing further.
Alone again, the quiet returned. She reached toward the console, but instead of resuming, her hand dropped to her lap.
The silence drew her backward.
Back to a memory—two months ago in Vancouver.
It was Ethan's fourth birthday. She'd just finished reading his favorite bedtime story, the room softly lit by a night lamp shaped like a blue rocket ship. Ethan curled beneath his sheets, clutching a stuffed dog.
"Mama," he whispered, voice thick with sleep, "can I stay with you in Seoul forever?"
Lexie's heart ached. She brushed his dark hair from his forehead and smiled, a little too tightly.
"Yes," she said, voice low. "We can make Seoul our new home now, okay?"
She didn't tell him that earlier that day, she'd tucked a letter from immigration beneath her pillow—her application for permanent residency. She didn't mention the legal hurdles or the silent weight of her decision to raise him in a country that didn't fully feel like home yet.
Instead, she kissed his forehead and promised, "I'll make it work. No matter what it takes."
Now, back in the dim studio under the halogen lights, she exhaled through her nose, blinking hard. The flickering bulbs above buzzed faintly as she stared into the black screen of her tablet. Her own reflection looked back—older, sharper, softer in some places, harder in others.
"Almost done," she whispered. But she wasn't just talking about work.
Outside the studio glass, movement.
Mark.
He was passing by—perhaps from a session nearby—and their eyes met through the pane.
He paused. So did she.
It was brief. Silent. He didn't smile, didn't wave. Just nodded once, a steady, understated gesture.
She returned it—guarded, neutral, but present.
He walked on.
Time slipped by unnoticed after that. By around 11:00pm, the building had mostly gone dark. Only a few scattered lights lit the hallway. Lexie was about to shut down her system, screen fading to sleep, when her iPad lit up.
Ethan.
His little face filled the screen, dimly lit by his nightlight back in Canada.
"Hey, baby," she answered, instantly softening, her entire body language changing as she angled the camera. "Mama's still working, but I'll call again before bed, okay?"
He nodded sleepily, murmuring something about his day and showing her the drawing he made.
"I love it," she whispered. "I'll see you really soon."
They said their goodnights. She lingered for a second longer, then ended the call.
What she didn't know was that the studio door had been slightly ajar — just cracked open.
And Mark had been walking past again.
He heard the tail end of her voice — that warmth, that tenderness, that soft cooing reserved for someone loved deeply.
He froze, just outside.
A child.
She had a child.
Mark stood there, heart sinking, staring at the sliver of light through the doorway. The voice in his head louder than the silence in the corridor.
She moved on. She has a family now. That's what she was protecting.
He backed away slowly.
He didn't knock. Didn't enter. Didn't ask.
Just walked off into the hallway, the fluorescent lights overhead doing nothing to soften the cold twist in his chest.
He didn't blame her. He never could.
But something in him shifted — like he'd come too late for something he couldn't even name.
So he respected it.
Even if it broke something quietly inside.