Paul Mccartney Imagines

12

The air in the crowded room was thick with cigarette smoke and the heady scent of expensive perfume. It was another post-concert party that had become all too familiar since you started dating Paul McCartney. The year was 1964, and Beatlemania was at its peak. You'd grown accustomed to the chaos, the screaming fans, and the never-ending parade of admirers. But tonight, something felt different.

You stood in the corner, nursing a drink you hadn't wanted, watching Paul from across the room. He was in his element, all charm and easy smiles, holding court in a group of admirers. But your eyes were fixed on one person – a tall, willowy blonde who seemed to hang on his every word.

She laughed at something Paul said, tossing her head back in a way that made her hair shimmer under the lights. Your stomach clenched as you watched her place a perfectly manicured hand on Paul's arm, leaning close to whisper something in his ear.

"It's nothing," you told yourself, sipping your drink and wincing at the bitter taste. "He's just being friendly. It's part of the job."

But as the minutes ticked by, the knot in your stomach grew tighter. Paul didn't seem to be making any move to extricate himself from the conversation. If anything, he looked like he was enjoying it.

You felt a tap on your shoulder and turned to see Ringo, his kind eyes creasing with concern. "Are you alright, love?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the party's din.

You forced a smile. "Fine," you lied. "Just a bit tired, I suppose."

Ringo's gaze followed yours across the room, understanding dawning on his face. "Ah," he said softly. "You know, Paul's mad about you. That bird over there? She's nothing."

You nodded, grateful for Ringo's attempt at reassurance, but the doubt had already taken root. "I know," you said, not entirely convincing even to your ears. "I think I just need some air."

You set your drink down and walked through the crowd, slipping onto a small balcony. The cool night air was a relief after the stuffy heat of the party. You leaned against the railing, closed your eyes, and deeply breathed.

"Get it together," you muttered to yourself. "This is ridiculous. You trust Paul. You love Paul."

But the image of that blonde, her hand on Paul's arm, kept flashing in your mind. You'd never considered yourself the jealous type before, but something about this felt different. Maybe it was the constant pressure of dating a Beatle and feeling like you were competing with the world for his attention. Perhaps it was the late nights, the long tours, the endless speculation in the press about your relationship.

You don't know how long you stood there, lost in thought, before you heard the balcony door open behind you.

"There you are," Paul's warm and familiar voice washed over you. "I've been looking all over for you, love."

You turned to face him, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Oh? I thought you were busy with your new friend."

Paul's brow furrowed in confusion. "New friend? What are you on about?"

"The blonde," you said, unable to keep the bitterness from your voice. "The one who couldn't keep her hands off you."

Understanding dawned on Paul's face, followed quickly by concern. "Oh, her? She's just some bird John introduced me to. A record executive's daughter or something. I was just being polite."

"Polite," you repeated, the word tasting sour. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Paul took a step closer, reaching for your hand, but you pulled away. "Love, what's this really about?" he asked softly.

The gentleness in his voice was your undoing. All the insecurities and fears you'd been holding back came rushing to the surface.

"It's about feeling like I'm constantly competing with the entire world for your attention," you blurted out. "It's about watching girls throw themselves at you every single day and wondering why you'd choose to be with me when you could have anyone you wanted."

Paul's eyes widened, a mix of surprise and hurt crossing his face. "Is that really what you think?" he asked quietly.

You shrugged, suddenly feeling very small. "I don't know what to think sometimes, Paul. I see the way they look at you, the way they touch you. And you're always so nice to them. Sometimes I wonder if..."

"If what?" Paul prompted when you trailed off.

"If one day you'll realize they're right," you whispered. "That you could do better than me."

For a moment, Paul was silent, and your heart sank. But then he stepped forward, cupping your face and forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Now you listen to me," he said, his voice low and intense. "Those girls? They don't know me. They don't know I can't sleep without a cup of tea before bed. They don't know that I still get nervous before big shows. They don't know that sometimes I worry I'm not good enough for all this."

He paused, his thumbs gently wiping away tears you hadn't realized had fallen. "But you know all of that. You've seen me at my best and worst and are still here. How could I possibly do better than that?"

You felt the knot in your chest loosen slightly. "But she was so beautiful," you murmured.

Paul chuckled softly. "She's got nothing on you, love. Besides, do you know what I thought while talking to her?"

You shook your head.

"I was thinking about how I couldn't wait to get back to you. How I wanted to tell you about this melody I've had stuck in my head all day. I hoped we could sneak away early and spend the rest of the night just us two."

A small smile tugged at your lips. "Really?"

"Really," Paul affirmed. "Y/N, I love you. Only you. All those other birds? They're just background noise."

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry if I ever made you doubt that. I'll do better, I promise."

You closed your eyes, letting his words wash over you. The jealousy and insecurity seemed to melt away in the face of Paul's sincerity.

"I'm sorry too," you whispered. "For doubting you. For letting my insecurities get the best of me."

Paul pulled back slightly, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Tell you what," he said. "Why don't we get out of here? I've had enough of this party anyway."

You couldn't help but laugh. "What about your adoring fans?"

Paul shrugged, grinning. "They'll survive without me for one night. Besides, the only fan I care about right now is you."

As you let Paul lead you back through the party and into the night, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. The world might want a piece of Paul McCartney, but his heart? That belonged to you.

And really, what more could you ask for?