Paul Mccartney Imagines

19

The Liverpool afternoon was unseasonably warm, the sun beating on the pavement outside the Adelphi Hotel. You and Paul had been holed up inside for days, enjoying a rare moment of peace amidst the whirlwind of Beatlemania. But today, you both decided it was time to face the world again.

As you approached the hotel's grand entrance, Paul's hand found yours, reassuringly squeezing it. "Ready, love?" he asked, his voice low and comforting.

You nodded, trying to quell the butterflies in your stomach. "As I'll ever be."

The moment the doors swung open, it was as if a dam had broken. The cacophony of camera shutters and shouted questions hit you like a physical force, making you stumble slightly. Paul's arm was around you instantly, steadying you and pulling you close to his side.

The flashing lights were blinding and disorienting. You blinked rapidly, trying to adjust, but it was like a lightning storm. The reporters surged forward, a sea of eager faces and outstretched microphones.

"Paul! Paul!" A voice cut through the chaos, belonging to a portly man with a notepad clutched in his meaty fist. "Is she your new girlfriend? How long has this been going on?"

Before Paul could respond, another reporter chimed in, his voice dripping with insinuation. "Does she know about all your other girls, Paul?" This was followed by cruel laughter from several others in the pack.

You felt yourself shrink under their scrutiny, their words cutting deep. Other girls? You knew about Paul's reputation, but hearing it flung in your face like this was different. Paul must have sensed your discomfort because his grip on you tightened, and when you glanced up at him, you saw a storm brewing in his usually warm brown eyes.

"Oi, leave her alone!" Paul's sharp and commanding voice rang out. The crowd fell silent for a moment, surprised by the outburst. Paul was known for his charm and his ability to deflect difficult questions with a wink and a smile. This was different.

"She's not some story for you lot to make up rubbish about," Paul continued, his voice vibrating with barely contained anger. "She's a person, alright? You don't get to treat her like this."

A few reporters shuffled awkwardly, but others pressed on, undeterred. A young woman with perfectly coiffed hair stepped forward, her red lips curled into a smirk. "Come on, Paul, it's a simple question. How does she feel about the rumors? The fans want to know!"

Paul's expression darkened further. "The fans don't want to know lies. You're stirring up trouble, and I'm sick of it."

The crowd fell silent again, but only for a moment. An older man, his suit rumpled and a cigarette dangling from his lips, piped up. "But Paul," he drawled, "doesn't she get jealous, seeing all the girls who throw themselves at you?"

That was the final straw. Paul's patience, already worn thin, snapped utterly. "Enough!" he roared, stepping forward slightly, his hand never leaving your side. The fury in his voice made even the most hardened reporters take a step back. "She doesn't have to put up with this, and neither do I. You can print whatever lies you want about me, but leave her out. She's got nothing to do with your garbage stories."

The silence that followed was deafening. The flashing cameras slowed, and the shouted questions died down. It was rare to see Paul McCartney, the charming Beatle, lose his cool like this. But this wasn't about him. This was about you.

Paul turned to you in the sudden quiet, his expression softening instantly. "You alright, love?" he asked quietly, his thumb gently brushing your arm.

You nodded, trying to steady your breathing. "I'm okay," you managed, though your voice shook slightly.