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Summary
Haechan went tense, muscles flexing under Mark’s hand. It was so fucked up. In the middle of the night, under the harsh, sterile practice room lights, surrounded by the members and doing nothing but hoping that their voices weren’t carrying.
“Okay, hyung,” Haechan said, obedient, pressing send. No one but Mark privy to his red ears, or the fixing-to-bruise hot spot under Mark’s palm.