Paul Mccartney Imagines

22

It was another late night at the studio that blurred into the morning without anyone noticing. The Beatles were working on a new track, but tonight felt different. Paul had been more distracted than usual, his eyes darting toward you every few minutes, his jaw clenched as he watched you talk and laugh with George.

George's chuckle filled the air, and Paul's grip tightened on the neck of his bass. He knew he shouldn't care—George was his best mate. But whenever he saw George leaning in just a little too close or catching your arm to tell a joke, something twisted uncomfortably in his chest.

You felt the weight of Paul's gaze from across the room, but you brushed it off. You didn't understand what was happening with him tonight, but his mood had been off for hours now. George, as usual, was easy company, and his laughter was a nice distraction from the strange tension that seemed to be bubbling beneath the surface. But still, every time you looked in Paul's direction, you caught him watching, his expression darker than you'd ever seen before.

"Something wrong, McCartney?" George teased as he plucked at his guitar strings, shooting a glance toward Paul. "You've glared at me like I nicked your guitar all night."

Paul forced a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Nothing's wrong," he muttered, barely glancing up from the instrument in his hands. "Just getting a bit bored of hearing the same riff repeatedly, that's all."

George arched an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "Right. If you want to switch things up, maybe you should spend less time staring at us and playing more."

Paul's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. He didn't like how close George was to you, didn't like how George always seemed to make you laugh like there was some private joke between you that Paul wasn't a part of. He hated how casual it appeared—the ease with which George touched your arm or leaned in to whisper something that made you smile.

Oblivious to the tension simmering beneath the surface, you chuckled at George's teasing. But when you glanced over at Paul, his expression made your smile falter.

"What's with you tonight?" you asked, walking over to where Paul was sitting. "You've been acting strange all evening."

Paul didn't meet your eyes. "I'm fine."

You frowned, not convinced. "You're not acting fine."

Paul's fingers drummed against the bass, his frustration barely contained. "It's nothing," he said, his voice sharper than he intended. "Just... some of us have work to do."

Your eyes narrowed, surprised by the sudden edge in his tone. "Work to do? Paul, we've been here for hours. We're all tired."

"Yeah, well, some of us have been spending more time laughing with George than actually working," Paul snapped, finally looking up at you, his eyes flashing with something dark and unfamiliar.

You blinked, taken aback by the accusation. "What are you talking about?"

Paul stood up, setting his bass down with more force than necessary. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. You've been hanging on George all night like he's the funniest bloke in the world."

Your heart skipped a beat, realizing what this was really about. "You're jealous."

Paul scoffed, crossing his arms defensively. "I'm not jealous."

"Yes, you are!" you shot back, frustration bubbling. "You've been glaring at George like he's done something wrong when all we've been doing is talking!"

"Talking?" Paul muttered, his voice dropping. "It didn't look like just talking from where I'm standing."

You shook your head, disbelief coursing through you. "Paul, George, and I are friends. You know that."