Paul Mccartney Imagines

33

The whirlwind of 1966 was everywhere, following Paul McCartney wherever he went. He was used to the crowds, the flashing cameras, and the relentless press. But here, in the dim quiet of the hotel room, it felt like the world had finally slowed down. It was just the two of you, sitting side by side on the bed, surrounded by the soft glow of a lamp, miles away from the frenzy outside.

Paul had been uncharacteristically quiet tonight. The weight of Beatlemania always loomed over him, but tonight, there was a heaviness in the air that felt different. He sighed deeply, his fingers absentmindedly brushing against yours as he stared down at his hands.

"You ever wonder why this works? You and me?" he asked, breaking the silence.

You turned to him, puzzled by the sudden question. "What do you mean?"

Paul's lips curved into a small, almost shy smile as he met your eyes. "I mean... you. Us. In the middle of all this craziness."

You laughed softly. "Paul, of course it works. I love you. And you love me."

"Yeah," he said, his voice softening, "I do. But it's more than that. So much more."

He shifted, turning to face you more fully, his expression suddenly serious. "I've been thinking about it a lot, you know? About all the reasons why I love you."

Your heart fluttered in your chest at the sincerity in his voice. Paul had always been good with words, but this time, it felt different—like he'd been carrying these thoughts for a while, waiting for the right moment to let them out.

"I don't think I say it enough," he continued, his gaze never leaving yours. "Why I love you. How much I love you."

You felt your breath catch, a warmth spreading through your chest. Paul took a deep breath, his hand finding yours, his fingers lacing through yours as if to anchor himself.

"I love you because... you're real," he began, his voice low but steady. "You're the only thing in my life that feels real. When everything else is spinning out of control—the tours, the fans, the pressure—you're the one thing that keeps me grounded."

You opened your mouth to speak, but Paul shook his head, gently squeezing your hand. "Let me finish," he whispered, his eyes soft with emotion.

"I love how you look at me," he continued, his voice thick with sincerity. "Not like I'm Paul McCartney, one of the biggest names in the world. You look at me like I'm just... me. Just Paul. And that's everything to me, love. You don't know how much that means."

Your throat tightened as his words sank in, but he wasn't done yet.

"You've never treated me like I'm more than I am," he said softly. "You never expect me to be perfect or larger than life. And you know, sometimes, I think people forget I'm just a person. That I'm not invincible. But you—you see me, the real me, and you love me anyway. Flaws and all."

He smiled a small, wistful smile, his thumb gently stroking your knuckles. "I love how you make me feel like I can breathe. When everything's chaotic, when I'm stretched too thin or doubting myself, all it takes is one look from you, and I feel like I can handle it. Like I can just... be."

Your chest tightened at his words. He spoke so openly and vulnerably in a way he rarely allowed himself to.

"And you're strong," Paul continued, his voice quiet but filled with admiration. "Stronger than you even know. I see it in how you handle everything, and don't let all this fame stuff get to you. It would've driven anyone else mad but not you. You've stood by me through everything—the fans, the press, the traveling—and you've never once complained."