He’s on the floor of the apartment, back against the coffee table, guitar resting loosely in his lap. Legs stretched out, one socked foot tapping a slow rhythm against the hardwood. The window’s open — a soft breeze drifting in, carrying the smell of warm asphalt and distant rain.

You’re curled up on the couch behind him, pretending to read. The book’s open, sure, but your eyes keep drifting down to him — the way his brow furrows when he misses a chord, how his thumb traces the edge of the pick even when he’s not playing. His sweatshirt’s two sizes too big, sleeves pushed to his elbows, collar tugged sideways like he got distracted halfway through putting it on.

Timothée clears his throat once. Strums again — slower this time. You hear him breathe in, like he’s about to say something, but it comes out in melody instead.

“It ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe…”

His voice is thin at first. Hesitant. There’s a rasp in it he hasn’t learned to lean into yet, not like Dylan did — but the shape is there. The phrasing. The drawl. That tugged-through-gravel kind of poetry that sounds like it was never meant to be pretty.

He tries again.

”…if you don’t know by now.”

This time, it’s better.

You glance up, careful not to move too loudly, like sound might spook the moment. His back is hunched slightly, curls falling into his eyes.

“Is that—?” you murmur.

“‘Don’t Think Twice,’” he says without looking up. “Trying to make it sound like I know what I’m doing.”

You smile into your sleeve. “You kind of do.”

“I kind of don’t,” he mutters, adjusting the strap and starting over. His voice comes in — low, unsure. He doesn’t do the Dylan snarl, not yet. Just sings the words as they are, soft and stripped down.

“It ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe…”

The last word catches a little in his throat. He laughs, short and quiet. “God, he makes it sound easy.”

You rest your chin on your hand, watching the curve of his back, the movement in his hands — knuckles shifting, rings glinting faintly in the light. A half-full mug of tea sits forgotten on the table beside him, long since cooled.

“Have you ever actually played this for anyone?” you ask after a moment.

“Only you,” he says. Then adds, more quietly: “Not sure I will for anyone else.”

Your heart pulls at that — a quiet, taut string. You set the book aside. Slide your legs over his shoulder until he leans into them, his head tilted back against your knee.

“You’re getting better,” you say, brushing his curls back.

“You getting tired of it yet?”

“Not yet,” you murmur.

He hums something like relief, then strums again — smoother this time. Still not perfect, but close. His voice finds the next verse. You sing one line with him, just to tease.

He laughs. Quietly. Doesn’t stop playing.

The afternoon stretches on — chords trailing out through the open window, light shifting across the walls, your fingers idly carding through his hair while he chases the right note.

Neither of you says anything for a long while.

You don't need to.