The room was quiet—too quiet. Just Llewyn, his guitar, and two suits from some record label who barely looked up from their drinks.

He sat on the stool, hunched slightly forward, fingers finding their place on the strings. He started to play—something raw and aching, the kind of song that stripped him bare. His voice was gravel and silk, just as fragile as it was forceful.

And you were there.

You’d slipped into the back with barely a glance from anyone. Sat down just near the side of the stage, close enough to watch him… or touch him.

At first, you were subtle—just resting your hand on his thigh while he played. His eyes flinched. His tempo stuttered, only slightly. He didn’t look at you, but you felt the heat rise under your fingers. He kept singing.

So you pushed it further. A slow press of lips to his hip, just out of sight under the edge of the table. His leg tensed beneath your hand. His jaw clenched as he sang through it, pretending nothing was happening.

His voice cracked. One wrong chord. Then silence.

You looked up at him, eyes wide with innocent defiance.

The label guy blinked, finally lifting his eyes from his drink. Llewyn cleared his throat, shifting on the stool.

“Sorry,” he muttered, eyes darting downward, “Think I lost the rhythm for a second.”

You just smiled—and kept your hand exactly where it was.