It was five minutes to midnight.
Lexie stood by the window, arms crossed loosely over the soft knit of her sweater, her mug of chocolate already forgotten on the sill. Outside, the street glistened beneath a soft dusting of snow—enough to coat the hedges and the front walk, not enough to quiet the noise in her mind.
She glanced at her phone again. No new messages. Only the last one, hours ago:
"I'll be there before midnight. Promise."
She knew that tone.
Earnest. Hopeful.
Just enough to stir something warm in her chest.
Just enough to sting when it didn't happen.
Behind her, the house pulsed with life—noisy, mismatched, and comfortably chaotic in the way only her family could be. Xander and Lexter were arguing over who overcooked the lumpia, Alexis was loudly losing to Matthew at a round of uno cards, and her mom had just announced that anyone who touched the empanadas before the noche buena would be banned from karaoke for the rest of the break.
"Three minutes!" someone shouted from the kitchen.
Lexie turned her eyes back to the snow. Still no headlights. Still no sound of tires turning onto their street. Still no Mark.
She didn't know what she was expecting, really.
A last-minute knock? A breathless apology and a grin?
Her phone screen dimmed. No new message.
She sighed, then reached for the light switch near the stairs—pausing just long enough to keep the porch light on.
Inside, the dining table stretched long and welcoming beneath soft, golden candlelight. A linen runner draped down the middle, flanked by matched dinnerware, neatly folded napkins, and place cards—each one written earlier that day with Ethan's proud, messy help. The dishes filled the room with familiar scents: holiday staples from both the Philippines and Korea, prepared earlier with love by her mom and eomoni.
Lexie stepped into the dining room and gently straightened the silverware at the head of the table. Every seat had already been claimed in the hours leading up to midnight. Ethan had insisted on sitting between her and his Tito Lexter, with her mom and dad beside them. Across the table sat Seungmin abeoji, Woori eomoni, Matthew, and her brothers Xander and Alexis, already chatting in their usual chaotic rhythm.
There was just one seat left—at the very end of the table. With the same arrangement. Plate. Cutlery. Napkin. Glass. And a small name card Lexie had written by hand: Mark.
Her gaze lingered on it longer than she meant to.
"Still nothing?" Xander asked quietly as he passed behind her, a bowl of hot gravy in his hands.
She shook her head.
Lexter peeked in from the hallway, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. "Ate (noona), should I light the last candles now?"
"Go ahead," she said, her voice soft but steady.
Alexis was already by the stereo, scrolling through the playlist she and Ethan had compiled earlier that week. A mix of traditional Korean and Filipino Christmas songs queued up, scratchy in parts but nostalgic.
Then—the stereo clicked, and the first notes of a familiar instrumental melody floated through the room, soft and mournful.
And in the stillness that followed, the clock in the living room chimed.
Twelve.
Midnight.
12:00 a.m.
"Merry Christmas, Mama!" Ethan squealed, barreling into her waist and hugging tight.
A chorus followed: kisses, laughter, glass clinks, back pats, whispered "I love you's." Xander raised his glass to Alexis, singing the opening line of a carol completely off-key. Their mom laughed through tears as she tried to swat them away from sneaking bites.
Lexie didn't move at first. She stood there quietly, letting the warmth of the moment wrap around her like a thick blanket. Watching it all. Memorizing every second.
Then Matthew came up beside her, holding a steaming mug of coffee. He bumped her gently with his shoulder.
"He might still come," he murmured. "Maybe he's just waiting for the roads to clear."
Lexie nodded, a faint smile, eyes still on the name card.
Matthew's quiet reassurance in his eyes said what words couldn't: I believe he will.
Lexie slowly took her seat. The one beside her son. The one beside her seat was still left empty.
Around her, her family began to eat.
The clatter of spoons against plates. The rustle of napkins. The warmth of bread passed from hand to hand. Ethan bouncing in his chair, mid-story. Someone hummed along to the music.
And beside her, the empty chair sat quietly.
Waiting.
By around 1:00am, the gifts were opened, desserts eaten, and Ethan was fast asleep on the couch, hugging his new plush fox. Everyone else gathered for board games, refills of hot chocolate, and that familiar family noise that Lexie had missed more than she realized.
But her eyes wandered.
The seat was still empty.
No new messages.
She stood from the table, her heart slightly heavier than she wanted to admit. As everyone remained distracted with a heated game of charades—Lexter dramatically flailing around while Matthew snorted in laughter—Lexie stepped into the hallway and opened her phone.
Mark Michael Lee🌙🌙
House code is 1127.
Guest room's to the left of mine upstairs, in case you still want to drop by.
I left the porch light on.
Merry Christmas, Mark.
She stared at it for a moment. Then hit send.
✦ ✦ ✦
Mark's POV
4:38 am
The cold bit at his fingers as he unlocked the back of the van, reaching in for the gift bag he had stubbornly kept—despite everything. Despite the earlier call. Despite his manager's weary sigh and the heavy suggestion to just let it go and sleep.
But Mark couldn't.
Midnight had come and gone. The schedule had run late, as expected. Every exit was flooded with fans. Security was tight. Traffic, worse. The Christmas Eve broadcast had ended long past the time he said he'd try. Still, something in him couldn't stand the thought of not showing up.
Even when the snow began falling after 1:00am, dusting the city in white silence... even as his bones ached from rehearsals and red carpets, he asked—no, begged—his manager to drive him to Gapyeong. The roads were slick and winding, curling like the ache he hadn't quite been able to shake from his chest all week.
He had seen her Instagram story hours earlier: Ethan beside the tree, her dad slicing ham, the long table dressed for Christmas Eve—with one seat left open
His.
The headlights finally swept across the familiar white fence as they pulled up behind his brother's SUV. The porch light was still on. That alone sent something fluttering in his chest—fragile, but hopeful.
Mark climbed the steps slowly, phone in hand, re-reading the message she sent earlier.
House code is 1127. Guest room's to the left of mine upstairs...
He keyed in the code.
Click.
Warmth met him immediately. The soft glow of the Christmas tree spilled into the living room, casting golden shadows across the floor. The fire had mostly burned out, but traces of heat still lingered in the air. On the coffee table: a plate of untouched dessert, Ethan's gift pile, and a card.
"Mark," it read.
His throat tightened.
He walked carefully, quietly, not wanting to wake anyone. But as he turned toward the stairs, he paused. A folded blanket lay on the couch. Lexie's phone beside it, face down.
And next to it—a second cup of cocoa. Now cold.
She had waited.
Mark took a breath and climbed the stairs, the wooden steps creaking beneath him. The hallway was lined with framed photos and soft decorations. From beneath one slightly ajar door, light peeked through.
He paused there.
Inside, Lexie was curled up beneath a thick blanket, back turned, arm draped over the space beside her. She had fallen asleep in her Christmas sweater, sleeves still rolled from the cooking marathon she probably insisted on leading earlier. Her hair was a little messy. Her breathing, soft and even.
The room smelled like cinnamon and fabric softener and something else—something tender and lived-in. Something that felt like her.
He didn't move. Just stood there, taking her in, letting something unnamed swell quietly inside him.
Then—
"...Mark?"
Her voice, small and sleepy.
"Yeah," he whispered.
She sat up slightly, blinking groggily. "You made it..."
"Just now."
"I thought you wouldn't."
"I almost didn't."
A pause. Then, without a word, Lexie slid over and lifted the blanket.
An unspoken welcome.
He didn't hesitate.
Mark stepped inside like the moment might vanish if he moved too fast. He set the gift bag gently on the floor—it could wait—and slipped under the covers beside her.
She leaned against his shoulder, already drifting again.
"You're cold," she murmured.
"I'll warm up."
"Your seat was waiting."
"I saw."
"...You hungry?"
"Not for food."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was warm, full—filled with the soft hum of something real. No grand gestures. No perfect timing. Just this: the wind outside, the still-lit hallway, and the quiet knowing that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
~~ 끝 ~~