You tug lightly at the scratchy sleeve of his coat, your little fingers curling around the fabric. The hospital room is dim, lit only by the pale gold light from the hallway spilling in through the cracked door.

“Llewyn…” your voice is small, shaky. “Can you sing for me?”

He looks up from the chair by your bed, startled a little—not because you asked, but because of how you asked. Quiet. Almost pleading. And your eyes—too tired, too sad for someone so small—are watching him like he’s the only safe thing left.

“I dunno if I’ve got anything cheery in me tonight, kid,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face.

You shake your head, “Doesn’t have to be cheery. Just… you.”

He lets out a breath, long and slow, and you think he might say no.

But then, wordlessly, he reaches for his worn guitar case at his feet, pulling it up onto his lap. The way his fingers move, gentle and practiced, makes you feel better already—like maybe the song is a spell he knows by heart.

He glances at you, eyes softer now, and gives a faint smirk. “Alright, alright. But you better not fall asleep halfway through.”

You smile a little.

And then he begins.

His voice is low, warm, and a little sad—like the lullaby of someone who’s seen too much but still remembers how to be kind. You don’t recognize the song, but that doesn’t matter. It’s the way he sings it. Like he’s tucking you in with every note. Like the world outside the room doesn’t exist for the next few minutes.

You blink slowly, sleep trying to steal you away, but you fight to stay awake—just to hear him finish.

And when he does, you whisper, “Thank you.”

Llewyn gives you the smallest, realest smile you’ve ever seen on him.

“Anytime, kid.”

And you believe him.