Paul Mccartney Imagines

20

The studio was buzzing with activity. Everyone was focused on setting up for the next recording session. The Beatles were scattered around, casually tuning instruments or chatting with the crew. Once again, you were assigned to assist George Martin, quietly working in the background.

But your eyes kept drifting.

Paul was across the room, sitting on the edge of an amplifier, strumming his bass idly, his head tilted down in concentration. You weren't sure when it had started—the feeling of tension whenever he was near, the odd flutter in your stomach whenever your eyes met—but it had become impossible to ignore.

He glanced up suddenly, catching your gaze. Your breath hitched, and in that moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you. His dark eyes locked with yours, and a jolt of something unspoken passed between you.

You quickly looked away, your heart pounding in your chest, feeling the heat creep up your neck. Why did he always have that effect on you? It was like electricity, an invisible spark that crackled to life whenever your paths crossed. It made no sense—nothing overt or spoken between you, but it was undeniable.

Across the room, Paul blinked, a faint blush rising to his cheeks as he looked back down at his bass, fingers absentmindedly plucking at the strings. He felt that strange, dizzying sensation whenever your eyes met. It threw him off balance in a way nothing else did. He could handle all that with the music, the fans, the pressure. But you? A single glance, a brief touch, and suddenly, he wasn't so sure of anything.

You tried to focus on your work, sorting through notes for George, but you could feel Paul's presence, like a magnetic pull you couldn't escape. Every time he moved, your heart skipped a beat, wondering if he'd look your way again. Part of you hoped he wouldn't—so you could catch your breath—but another part of you was desperate.

As if sensing your thoughts, Paul stood up, stretching before walking across the studio toward where you were standing. His footsteps seemed louder in your ears, each one sending your pulse racing faster. He stopped beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, but not close enough to touch.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice a little hoarse.

You turned, meeting his eyes, and there it was again—that spark. The air around you seemed to hum, the space between you alive with an unspoken tension. "Hey," you replied, your voice barely audible.

Paul shifted awkwardly, his hand brushing against yours as he reached for a pen on the table. It was the lightest touch, just the briefest contact of skin against skin, but it sent a sharp jolt of electricity down your spine. You bit your lip, trying to ignore the heat from your hand, but your heart betrayed you, hammering in your chest.

Paul felt it, too. When his hand grazed yours, a current ran through him, leaving him momentarily breathless. His fingers tingled, and his cheeks flushed as he quickly withdrew his hand, almost as if the touch had burned him.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, catching the faint blush on his face, and your cheeks reddened in response. Neither of you said anything, the silence between you growing heavier by the second. Every nerve in your body was on high alert, your skin still buzzing from that fleeting contact.

He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the strange sensation that seemed to linger in the air between you. "I, uh... just needed to borrow this," he muttered, holding up the pen as if it were an excuse.

You nodded quickly, barely trusting yourself to speak. "Sure, no problem."

For a moment, neither of you moved, the electricity still crackling in the air, unspoken feelings dancing beneath the surface. Then, as if someone had broken the spell, Paul stepped back, giving you a small, almost shy smile before heading back to his corner of the room.