The knock came just as you were rinsing dishes. You weren’t expecting anyone. When you opened the door, your breath caught.

Llewyn Davis stood there. Same guitar case slung over his shoulder, same tired coat. His curls were damp from drizzle, his eyes bloodshot but unmistakably his. It had been years—so many you’d stopped counting—and there he was on your doorstep in Detroit as if he’d only wandered from down the block.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you whispered.

“Not kidding,” he said flatly, though something flickered in his eyes. “Looking for a couch. Just a night or two.”

Your hand tightened on the doorframe. “You came all the way here—for that?”

“Among other things.” His mouth twitched, nearly a smirk. “But yeah. Mostly that.”

For a moment, you couldn’t move. The last time you’d seen him, you’d been carrying a secret. He’d been carrying nothing but that guitar. Now the years collapsed between you in one stunned heartbeat.

Before you could answer, a small voice piped up from behind.

“Who’s that?”

Your daughter padded into view. Her dark curls framed her face in a way that made your chest ache. Llewyn’s gaze fell on her instantly, and you knew he saw it too.

He blinked. “Yours?”

You swallowed, steadying your voice. “Inside, Darla. Go on.”

She didn’t move. Instead, she squinted at him, head cocked. “He looks like trouble.”

Llewyn gave a short laugh through his nose. “She’s smart.”

You inhaled slowly, then stepped back. “Fine. Come in. Wipe your shoes.”

⸻

The kitchen smelled of onions and broth. You busied yourself at the stove, back to them, while at the table Llewyn sat opposite Darla, who watched him like she was solving a puzzle.

“You always carry that thing?” she asked, nodding at his guitar case.

“Yeah,” he said, breaking off a piece of bread. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“No,” she deadpanned. “Most people don’t walk around with a box.”

His lips twitched. “Point taken.”

“Darla,” you said gently, placing bowls on the table. “Eat, please.”

She shrugged and dug in, though her eyes never left him.

Llewyn ate hungrily, but slowed whenever her gaze lingered too long. Finally, she set down her spoon.

“Why’s he here, Mommy?” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “He doesn’t look like family.”

You froze. Your fingers tightened around your spoon. His eyes flicked up, waiting, though he didn’t say a word.

You exhaled slowly. “Because… he is family.”

Darla frowned. “What do you mean?”

You met her gaze. “Sweetheart… this is your Dad.”

The words settled heavy in the room.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossing. “Oh, God.”

Llewyn arched a brow. “Well. That’s a reaction.”

“She’s nine,” you said softly, almost apologetic.

“Nine going on ninety,” he muttered.

Darla’s spoon clattered back into her bowl. “Did you lose a bet, Mommy?”

You bit back a laugh. “No, Darla.”

She huffed, then muttered, “Well… shit.”

“Darla!” you snapped.

Her eyes went wide, all innocence. “That’s what Uncle Frank says when the car won’t start!”

Llewyn barked out a laugh, nearly choking on stew. “Kid’s alright.”

“Don’t encourage her,” you warned, though you felt a smile tugging at your lips.

Darla fixed him with a squint. “So you’re my dad?”

“That’s what she says,” Llewyn replied, jerking his chin toward you.

She studied him, unblinking. “You don’t even look like one.”

He gave a dry laugh. “And what’s a dad supposed to look like?”

“Not like someone who needs a bath.”

Llewyn chuckled, shaking his head. “Fair enough.”

You sighed, pressing your fingers to your temple. The silence stretched, but when you looked up, his gaze met yours—steady, unreadable, and far too familiar.

For a moment, the years didn’t feel so far away.