The streets outside were cold, slushed with snow and dimmed by gray skies. Inside, your apartment felt quieter than usual. The record player was off. The kettle had gone cold.

And Llewyn was sitting on the couch like he always did—jacket still on, guitar balanced on his knee, tuning a string that probably didn’t need tuning.

You stood by the table, hands trembling just slightly as you looked at him.

“I need to tell you something.”

He looked up—half distracted, half already preparing for the worst.

“That usually means I’m in trouble.”

You didn’t laugh.

He set the guitar down, his brow furrowing as he sat up straighter.

“What is it?”

Your mouth was dry. Your heart pounded.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words landed like a dropped brick. Heavy. Irrevocable.

Llewyn didn’t say anything at first. His expression didn’t crack, didn’t change. He just stared at you like the air had left the room.

“Are you… sure?” he finally said, voice low. Careful.

You nodded.

And that was when he breathed in. Sat back. Ran a hand through his hair like it might somehow rewind time.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

But he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t cold.

He was scared.

“I—I don’t know how to be that,” he whispered. “A father.”

He looked up at you then, really looked.

“But I don’t want you to do this alone.”

There was silence again. Just the two of you. A new weight in the room. A new life.

“Tell me what you need,” he said, voice soft. “I’ll try… I’ll really try.”