Paul Mccartney Imagines

42

The soft hum of the airplane's engine filled your ears as you stared out the window, watching the clouds roll by like tufts of cotton against the deep blue sky. You still couldn't quite believe it. Paris. With Paul.

It had all started a week ago when he noticed how exhausted you'd been. Life had thrown more than a few curveballs your way recently—stress, long days, too much on your plate. You had tried to hide it, but Paul had always been perceptive when it came to you.

"Love," he had murmured one night, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, "you need a break. A real one."

You had brushed it off, not wanting to trouble him. But Paul wasn't one to be ignored. And so, here you were, heart pounding with excitement and disbelief as the flight descended into the City of Love.

The moment you stepped onto the cobblestone streets, a crisp February breeze brushed against your cheeks, carrying the scent of fresh bread from a nearby bakery. Paul's hand was warm in yours, his thumb tracing soft circles against your knuckles as he led you through the city. His eyes were bright with mischief.

"First things first," he grinned, stopping in front of a little café with outdoor seating despite the chill in the air. "We need to start the day proper—coffee, pastries, and a bit of Parisian magic."

You laughed, letting him pull you inside. The café was small and warm, filled with the aroma of espresso and butter. Tucked into a cozy corner, Paul ordered in his best attempt at French, making you giggle when he nearly fumbled the pronunciation of pain au chocolat.

As you sipped your coffee, Paul reached across the table and took your hand in both hands. His eyes—soft, sincere—searched yours.

"I know things have been rough lately," he murmured, thumb stroking the back of your hand. "I hate seein' you worn down. But I want today to be just for you. No worries, no stress. Just us."

Your heart swelled. "Paul..."

"No, let me finish," he said, squeezing your hand. "I love you, and I want you to know it—every second of today, I want you to feel it."

You squeezed back, the warmth of his touch and words settling deep in your chest.

The rest of the day was a dream.

Paul took you to the Louvre, where he pretended to be an art critic, making ridiculous observations about paintings that had you doubled over in laughter. He bought you flowers from a street vendor, tucking a red rose behind your ear with a sweet smile that made your knees weak.

As evening approached, he led you to the Eiffel Tower, which. They stretched beneath you, gold, its lights twinkling in the distance. The winter air was crisp, but Paul pulled you close, wrapping his coat around your shoulders as you gazed at the breathtaking view.

"You know," he murmured against your hair, "I think this city's even more beautiful with you in it."

You turned to him, your heart swelling with love. "Paul McCartney, are you trying to make me cry?"

He chuckled, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. "Just trying to make sure you know how much you mean to me, love."

And then, under the glow of the city, he kissed you—soft and slow, as if he had all the time in the world to love you.

Dinner was at a small, candlelit restaurant tucked away from the bustling streets. A violinist played in the background as Paul ordered a bottle of wine, raising his glass to you with that cheeky glint in his eye.

"To you," he said, voice warm and full of something more profound than affection. "To us."

You clinked your glass against his, eyes locked. "To us."