Bobby liked to make things about himself, but he never meant to be cruel.

He didn’t like the way people talked whenever he sat down to play at a venue, because who in their right mind would want to see Bobby Dylan play when you were right there.

Gorgeous, a voice like a songbird, standing for all the right things in the world…

And they don’t know that he has you in his bed.

They don’t know that he lays on your chest, skin to skin, warm in the stuffy air of the apartment as you just exist together, breathing, thinking, barely speaking, only muttering the odd word every now and then.

Yeah.

Why would anyone in the world ever think that he’d deserve you?

“Y’wanna swap places?...”

It’s a quiet suggestion that leaves his throat as he realises he’s been there for too long, that he’s been buried in your skin, hands rubbing and massaging at your chest for over an hour.

He’s just been relishing in the gentle feeling of your fingers running through his curls, unpicking knots and scratching at his scalp, soothing the sore, chapped spots behind his ears.

You always know everything, you always know what’s wrong and what hurts and what needs just that extra little bit of affection, attention.

He doesn’t feel like a man right now.

“I ain’t doing my job, c’mon, swap places… Should be me coddling you, not this way ‘round…”