Paul McCartney Imagines

45

The dressing room was a mess of half-finished drinks, cigarette smoke curling in the air, and the buzzing excitement that always came after a show. Ringo was off somewhere chatting up a girl, George was plucking at his guitar, and John was lounging in a chair, his legs stretched out as he hummed something under his breath.

I was wiping the sweat off my face with a towel when the door swung open, and in she walked—some girl I vaguely recognized from the front row. Blonde, pretty, all done up like she'd spent hours getting ready just for a chance at this moment.

She smiled, sauntering over like she owned the place. "Paul," she practically purred, stepping right into my space. "You were amazing tonight."

I gave her a polite nod, used to this sort of thing by now. "Glad you liked it, love."

Her fingers ghosted over my sleeve, eyes flicking up at me through thick lashes. "I more than liked it."

I sighed internally. Here we go again.

She pressed in closer, her perfume sickly sweet. "Why don't we get out of here?"

I took a deliberate step back. "Can't."

Her lips curled into a pout. "Why not?"

I crossed my arms. "Because I've got a girl."

Her expression didn't change—not at first. Then she let out a little laugh, tilting her head. "Oh, come on," she murmured, trailing a finger down my chest. "She doesn't have to know."

That did it.

I stepped back again, my jaw tightening. "But I'd know." My voice was firmer now, with no room for misinterpretation. "And I wouldn't do that to her."

Her pout turned into something more like a scowl. "You're serious?"

I nodded.

She huffed, muttering something under her breath before spinning on her heel and stomping.

I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling.

John, who had been watching the whole thing from his chair, let out a low whistle. "Well, would you look at that—Paul McCartney, turning down a bird."

I shot him a look. "Shove off."

John smirked, tapping ash from his cigarette. "No. You're gettin' daft, mate. She was throwin' herself at you, and you just—" He made a dramatic sweeping gesture with his hand. "Said no?"

I sat down across from him, leaning back in my chair. "Yeah, I did."

John shook his head with a chuckle. "You've got it bad."

I shrugged, my mind already somewhere else—already with her with Y/N.

"Don't even care," I admitted. "She's worth it."

John raised a brow. "You think she's the one?"

I didn't even hesitate. "I know she is."

He studied me momentarily, his usual smirk softening just a bit. "What is it about her, then?"

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face before smiling to myself. "It's everything, John. She looks at me like I'm just me, not some Beatle. The way she listens—really listens. She doesn't care about all this madness, all the screaming girls, or the fame. She cares about me."

John was quiet, which wasn't like him. He took a drag of his cigarette, exhaling slowly. "Sounds nice."

I nodded. "It is."

A beat passed before John smirked again, though it didn't have the usual bite. "You're a proper sap, Paulie."

I laughed, shaking my head. "Yeah, well... I don't mind."