Hanniesworld

‘The only thing predictable about life is it's unpredictability’

‘Anyone can be anything’

‘You can be everything’

Minsung fluff:

Han sat perched at the studio desk—another long night of recording sessions having dwindled into endless lyric writing. He was hunched over, pencil tapping against his lip as another wave of writer’s block swarmed his mind. It had been hours since he had any company—Chan having dipped out a few hours prior, and Changbin currently away on an overseas schedule—so without anyone to fill the silence, he was stuck there with his thoughts. That never mixed well with the young producer. Silence meant thinking. Silence meant doubt. Han was someone who fed off of the energy of others, so quiet moments like this often invited the insecurities he tried so hard to ignore.

With an annoyed huff, he leaned back in his chair, fingers sliding beneath the rough knit of his black beanie. He needed a distraction quick—something, or someone, to take his mind off of writing for a bit. As if the world heard his silent plea, the studio door clicked open. Lazy footsteps padded against the floor, pulling his attention toward the doorway. A smile creased his face immediately, shooting the figure his signature toothy grin, eyes puffy with exhaustion as he quietly spoke.

“Dorm too boring without me?”

His voice was soft, teasing, yet held a hoarseness that showed his true exhaustion. The figure, dressed in black slippers and socks, grey sweats, and an oversized dark shirt, was none other than his dorm mate Minho.

Minho paused at the doorway, taking in the messy desk, empty coffee cups, crumpled lyric sheets scattered throughout the studio, and especially the dark circles under Han’s eyes. His voice was soft when he spoke, but it was laced with an unmistakable concern, that Minho was never the best at voicing.

“…You’ve been here all night again, haven’t you?”

Han snorted, as if he wasn’t just battling with his own thoughts moments prior. He brushed off Minho’s concerns with a teasing retort.

“Relax…I’m just working on some lines.”

Minho didn’t budge. His gaze flickers over the scene again—scribbled lyrics, the lingering, bitter scent of coffee, the way Han’s fingers kept tapping against the pencil like he couldn’t stop.

“You’re a mess.”

It wasn’t a tease. It was an observation. One that only earned a hollow laugh from Han, who was too tired to argue.

“Just writer’s block.”

He hummed sweetly as Minho stepped into the studio properly, shutting the door behind him.

“How long?”

Han shrugged, eyes still fixed stubbornly on the notebook.

“Couple hours.”

Minho was unconvinced, simply raising a brow.

“Han.”

Han dragged out a sigh in defeat.

“…okay, maybe most of the night.”

Minho returned the sigh, dragging a nearby chair over to the desk and sitting down next to him.

For a moment he didn’t say anything. The silence stretched. Han hated that kind of silence. His pencil started tapping again. Tap. Tap. Tap. Until finally he cracked.

“I don’t know why it’s not working.” He muttered silently, staring down at the page. “It should be easy.”

Minho leaned forward, glancing at the lyrics.

“It’s not bad.”

“That’s the problem.” Han retorted quietly. “It’s not good either.”

His voice had lost its teasing edge now. All that was left was exhaustion.

Minho watched him for a moment. Then he reached out and gently pulled the pencil from Han’s fingers.

“Your brain is fried,” he said simply.

Han blinked as Minho nudged the notebook closed.

“Take a break.”

Han frowned faintly at the notebook as Minho nudged it closed, his fingers twitching slightly where the pencil had been pulled away.

“…I can’t,” he muttered after a moment.

Minho leaned back in the chair beside him, arms folding loosely over his chest as he watched him. The studio lights were dim, most of the room lit only by the soft glow of the computer monitors and the blinking LEDs on the equipment racks.

“You can.”

Han shook his head immediately, shoulders slumping.

“I’m already behind on this track.”

“You’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

Minho tilted his head slightly, studying him in that quiet, unreadable way of his.

“You’ve rewritten the same line six times.”

Han froze.

Minho nodded toward the notebook.

“You keep scratching out the third word.”

Han glanced down.

The page was a mess of eraser smudges and pencil marks, the same line repeated over and over like a stubborn echo.

“…you were reading that?”

Minho shrugged lazily.

“It was upside down.”

Han groaned softly and dragged a hand down his face, fingers catching in the edge of his beanie.

“I hate this.”

The words slipped out quieter than he meant them to.

For a moment, Minho didn’t respond.

The low hum of the equipment filled the silence instead, steady and warm, like the room itself was breathing.

Han’s foot started bouncing under the desk.

“I used to write so easily,” he said after a while, voice dull with frustration. “Now everything I put down just feels…” he gestured vaguely toward the notebook “…bad.”

Minho watched him quietly for a moment.

Then he reached out again, gently tugging the sleeve of Han’s hoodie.

“Hey.”

Han looked up.

“You’re tired,” Minho said simply.

“That’s not an excuse.”

“It is when you haven’t slept.”

Han scoffed weakly.

“I slept.”

Minho raised an eyebrow.

“…on the couch yesterday afternoon.”

“That counts.”

“No it doesn’t.”

Han slumped deeper into the chair, arms folding across his chest.

The tension in the room stretched thin again, but Minho didn’t let it linger this time.

“You’re not writing anything good tonight.”

Han squinted at him.

“Wow. Supportive.”

“I’m serious.”

Minho stood, before reaching forward and tugging Han’s beanie down over his eyes.

“Hey—!”

Han grabbed the edge of it, pushing it back up.

Minho was already walking toward the door.

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Food.”

Han stared at him.

“It’s three in the morning.”

Minho shrugged.

“Exactly.”

He stepped back toward the desk, nudging Han’s shoulder.

“You can hate your lyrics again after you eat.”

Han hesitated.

His eyes flicked toward the notebook, like he was debating reaching for it again.

Minho noticed immediately.

Before Han could move, Minho picked it up and placed it back on the desk behind him.

“No.”

“But what if I—”

“You won’t.”

Han frowned.

Minho softened slightly then, reaching out and lightly squeezing the back of Han’s shoulder.

“You’ll write it tomorrow,” he said quietly.

Han didn’t answer right away.

But he didn’t argue either.

After a moment, he pushed himself up from the chair.

“…fine.”

Minho smirked faintly.

“See? That wasn’t hard.”

Han grabbed his hoodie sleeve, tugging it down over his hands as he shuffled toward the door.

“You’re really bossy for someone who just walked in.”

Minho opened the door.

“And you’re really dramatic for someone who just needed a distraction.”

Han muttered something under his breath but followed him out anyway, the quiet studio door clicking shut behind them.

For the first time all night, the notebook stayed closed.