The room is dim—just the soft amber glow of a lamp against cracked plaster walls. Outside, the cold rattles the windowpane, but inside, time feels slow. Suspended.

Llewyn’s sitting at the edge of the bed, guitar in his lap, the weight of the week hanging off his shoulders like soaked wool. His hair’s a little damp from the snow. His coat’s still half-draped on the chair. Everything in the room feels used—lived in—tired.

You watch him for a moment, then speak softly. “Sing something for me.”

He doesn’t even look up.

“No.”

You blink. “Please?”

That gets a reaction. His head turns, eyes narrowed. He scoffs, not cruel but weary, like he’s had this conversation before.

“No. I’m not— you know I only do this shit for money. I’m not some fucking charity.”

The words hang heavy in the room. Not sharp, just sad. Defensive. He stares at the guitar like it’s something he doesn’t want to touch but can’t let go of either.

You don’t press. Just sit there quietly, letting the silence stretch between you. It’s thick, like static before a storm. His jaw shifts. Fingers tap against the body of the guitar, restless.

“I’m not some fucking charity,” he repeats again, quieter. Like maybe he’s not so sure anymore.

You meet his eyes with nothing but softness. You’re not asking for a performance. You just want him. Want something real in a world where everything feels transactional.

He exhales hard through his nose. “Christ.”

And then—almost against his will—he lifts the guitar and settles it in his lap. No preamble. No smartass remark. His fingers move on instinct, tracing chords he’s probably played a hundred times in empty bars for half-listening crowds.

But this time, he’s not in a bar. And you’re not half-listening.

His voice is low. Raw. Not polished, not for show. It seeps into the space like smoke curling up from an old cigarette—bitter and intimate. And halfway through the verse, he tilts his head toward you.

Eyes flicking up.

Just enough to catch your gaze and hold it.

His voice falters—just slightly—but he keeps going. He leans into the next note, still watching you, like the lyrics are suddenly heavier now that you’re listening. Like they were always meant for you and he’s only just realizing it.