You knew Llewyn from the way he never put the pillows back on your couch, from the way that he always made himself breakfast in the morning with your eggs. From the way that he always remembered to lock your door when he left.

You didn’t mind the visits, nor did you mind the way that you always seemed to be his last resort when he needed a couch to crash on. You like to tell yourself that you’re doing him a favor, helping him out after Mike’s death.

You know that it’s not the entire truth.

The Gorfeins were nice, and welcomed him into their home probably more often than they should, but sometimes he was too much for even them. When they send him away, you’re usually up next on the roster.

Which is exactly why now—at such an ungodly hour—he’s standing in your doorway, guitar case and bag in hand, looking at you with those big, tired eyes; he’s desperate.

There’s a Llewyn-shaped dent in the couch, carved into the material from how often he sleeps there.

You have the space, and he needs the sleep.