The studio was a circus. Cameras rolled on wheels, stagehands shouted over one another, and girls in go-go boots lined up with pasted-on smiles. The smell of hot lights and too much hairspray clung to everything.

You and The Pussycats clustered by the stage entrance, dresses glittering, eyeliner sharp. Your bandmates whispered nervously about cue cards and angles, but you stood with an easy calm — the cool lead, gum popping against the tension.

That’s when you spotted him.

Llewyn Davis. Rumpled jacket, uncombed hair, guitar case scuffed within an inch of its life. He sat slouched in a folding chair, looking like he’d wandered in from the street and couldn’t wait to wander back out. His eyes tracked the sandwich table like it had personally offended him.

“Is he allergic to smiling?” one of your girls muttered.

“Guess so,” you said, peeling off. “I’ll test it.”

Your heels clicked across the floor until you stood in his shadow. “You look like you’re waiting for your parole officer,” you said smoothly.

Llewyn glanced up, unimpressed. “Just enjoying the atmosphere. Nothing like fake applause and cardboard sandwiches.”

“Careful,” you teased. “Talk like that and they’ll revoke your fan club membership.”

“Don’t worry,” he deadpanned. “My fan club meets in a phone booth once a year.”

You laughed, sharp and bright. “A regular laugh riot. What’s your act tonight — sad songs to bum out America’s youth?”

“At least mine aren’t written by men in suits who’ve never touched a guitar,” he shot back.

You leaned in, unfazed. “Men in suits pay my rent. Sequins too. What do your broody ballads buy you — coffee and a couch to crash on?”

For the first time, his mask cracked. A laugh — low, reluctant, but real.

“Touché, Pussycat.”

“Don’t forget it,” you said, chewing your gum slow. “You’re not so tough. One poke and you fold.”

He raised a brow. “Don’t get cocky. You’re still singing jingles dressed as Christmas ornaments.”

You gasped dramatically, clutching invisible pearls. “Christmas ornaments? Honey, these sequins are imported. Try and keep up.”

That got him — a crooked smile, faint but undeniable.

“Two minutes! Places!” the producer yelled. The Pussycats scrambled toward the stage. You shot Llewyn a wink as you backed away.

“Break a leg, Folkie. Try not to depress the teenagers too much.”

“Yeah? And you try not to blind them with sequins,” he called, voice dry but warmed by that smile.

Your laughter trailed into the wings.

⸻

The show spun on in a blur of lights, canned applause, and jangly pop. Then Llewyn walked out under the spotlight. No backup dancers, no sparkle — just him and the guitar. The room shifted. Even the rowdy teenagers grew quiet, leaning in as his voice rolled out: rough, honest, carrying weight that cut sharper than polish ever could.

When he came offstage, the applause still echoed faintly. He slung his guitar low, face blank, like he expected nothing.

You were waiting. Arms crossed, smile sly.

“Not bad, Davis,” you said as he passed. “Actually… better than not bad.”

He stopped, eyes narrowing. “That’s your professional opinion?”

“My honest one,” you countered. “You’ve got words that cut. Not many can do that and still make it sound pretty.”

His gaze caught yours, sharp and uncertain. “Pretty’s not what I’m aiming for.”

“Don’t trip over the word,” you teased. “I mean it lands. Even your gloom’s got… weight.”

He huffed, half a laugh. “Yeah. Just what America needs. More weight.”

But you caught the flicker — that tiny pride he couldn’t kill.

“You’re impossible,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I give you a compliment and you act like I’ve insulted you.”

“Maybe I’m not used to sequined girls handing out gold stars.”

“Not handing out stars,” you murmured, brushing past him with a grin. “Just telling you you were good. Don’t make me repeat it.”

Your perfume lingered as you rejoined your girls. Llewyn stood there, guitar in hand, expression stuck between exasperation and something softer.