The radiator in your apartment clanked in protest against the winter air, hissing steam like it was tired too. It wasn’t much—peeling walls, secondhand furniture, records scattered on the floor—but it was warm. And it was yours.

And lately, it was his, too.

Llewyn was there again tonight, boots kicked off by the door, guitar case leaning against the wall. He never asked, not directly. He just showed up looking tired, shoulders heavy with the weight of the city and whatever mess he’d left behind last. You never turned him away.

He sat at the edge of your couch now, strumming a quiet tune. Something mournful. Something half-finished.

You watched him from the kitchen, pretending not to.

“You always watch people like that?” he muttered, not looking up.

“Only when they keep showing up like stray cats,” you replied with a soft smile.

He finally glanced at you—just a flick of the eyes—and there was something there. Something raw. Something real.

“I’ll be outta your hair soon.”

But you both knew that wasn’t true. Not really.

Because night after night, he kept coming back. Kept borrowing your silence. Kept stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking. And lately… he’d started lingering.

He played the same song more than once.

He asked how your day was.

He made you coffee. Once.

And every time you fell asleep on the couch next to him, or handed him a blanket without a word, he fell just a little harder.

He’d never say it. Not out loud. But in the way he sang to the walls when he thought you were asleep… the truth bled through every note.