Paul Mccartney Imagines

43

The first time it happened, you swore it wouldn't happen again.

It was late; you were drunk off whiskey and the high of a good night out. London felt alive that evening—sweaty jazz clubs, the dim haze of cigarette smoke, and laughter that clung to your skin like perfume. Paul had looked at you, eyes heavy, lips parted just slightly, and you knew.

You had kissed him first. Or maybe he had kissed you. It didn't matter.

What mattered was that it kept happening. Again and again. Nights spent tangled in hotel sheets, his whispered voice against your ear, the feeling of his fingers tracing lazy patterns against your skin. Neither of you spoke about it, not really. It was just a thing you did, something secret, something simple.

But, of course, it wasn't simple. Not at all.

June 1965, London

"Paul, I swear to God, if you wake me up one more time—"

You groaned as the mattress dipped beside you, the warmth of his body pressing against yours as he nudged you. His damp hair and peppermint toothpaste and soap scent filled the air.

"Come on, love, don't be like that." His voice was teasing, but there was a hint of vulnerability beneath it. "I just got back."

"And?" You mumbled, rolling onto my stomach, trying to ignore how his breath caressed my shoulder.

"And I missed you," he said.

My heart twisted, but I pushed it aside. I always did.

Instead, I smirked, finally turning to face him. "Is that so?"

Paul hummed, tracing his fingers along my bare arm. "Have you been good while I was away?"

I rolled my eyes. "I wasn't exactly waiting by the phone, McCartney."

He grinned, but there was something else in his eyes—something you couldn't quite name.

It had been months—this... thing between us. It wasn't love; it wasn't a relationship. We didn't ask each other where we went or who we saw. It was an unspoken agreement, something easy. Lately, however, it has become increasingly difficult.

Lately, I had started to wonder what it would be like if he stayed. Instead of slipping out of bed before dawn, he remained beneath the covers and let the morning light caress him if he kissed me in public instead of behind closed doors. If he was mine.

But that wasn't how this was supposed to be.

"You know," Paul murmured, his fingers brushing against my jaw as he leaned closer, his lips hovering just inches from mine. "I think about you when I'm away."

I froze. The air in the room seemed to be still.

He had never said anything like that before—not in all these months.

My heart pounded, and my first instinct was to push it away. To laugh it off, to make a joke, to pretend I didn't feel the weight of his words settling into my bones.

Instead, I forced a smirk. "That so?"

Paul frowned slightly. "Yeah, that is so."

His voice had become hushed and solemn, his eyes piercing yours, exposing you to his gaze.

This wasn't just about missing you in bed; he wasn't just saying words to fill the silence.

Sitting in your bed, the man who could have anyone adored by millions was confessing his feelings.