Paul Mccartney Imagines

58

The fight had started small. A simple comment, an offhanded worry spoken into the space between you, meant to be harmless. But words had weight, and the ones you had spoken tonight had shattered something between you.

Now, the flat felt colder and emptier. The echo of the slammed door still rang in your ears.

Paul had left.

You sat on the edge of the couch, your hands trembling as they gripped your skirt. Your heart pounded so violently against your ribs that it almost hurt. This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go. You were supposed to be wrapped up in each other, buzzing with excitement, whispering about forever. Instead, you were here. Alone.

And all because you had let fear get the best of you.

An hour earlier

Paul had been watching you all evening, that keen gaze of his tracing your every move. You'd been quieter than usual, your thoughts elsewhere. He had noticed, of course. He always noticed.

So when he finally asked, voice gentle but searching, "What's wrong, love?" you had hesitated.

You should have told him the truth.

You were terrified—not of him, never of him, but of the life ahead. Of the unknown. Of standing next to a man the whole world was about to claim as their own and wondering if you could handle it.

Instead, you had deflected. "Nothing's wrong."

Paul's brow furrowed, but he didn't push. Not yet. "You sure?"

You forced a smile, but it didn't reach your eyes. "I'm just tired."

That was the first mistake.

Because Paul didn't let things lie when he knew you weren't being honest. He gave you a long look, then sat beside you on the couch, close but not quite touching.

"Talk to me," he murmured.

You exhaled sharply, rubbing your hands over your face. "Paul, I don't—I can't do this right now."

Paul's jaw tightened. "Do what?"

You hesitated, feeling the weight of his stare. "This conversation."

"Why?" His voice was quieter now, but something was sharp beneath the softness. "Is it because of tomorrow?"

Your stomach twisted.

Paul saw the flicker of hesitation on your face, and his expression darkened. "Bloody hell," he breathed, shaking his head. "You are having second thoughts."

Your head snapped up. "No—"

"You are," he insisted, his voice rising. He pushed up from the couch, pacing before you, running a hand through his hair. "Jesus, I— I thought we were past this."

You felt like you couldn't breathe. "Paul, I love you. I want to marry you. I just—"

He turned sharply. "But?"

Your chest ached. "What if this isn't right? What if I hold you back?"

Paul flinched like you had struck him. "Hold me back?"

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep going. "Paul, look at your life. You're about to be one of the most famous men in the world. People are going to worship you and follow you everywhere. You're—"

He cut you off, voice low and dangerous. "And what? You think I'd rather do all that alone?"

You hesitated, unsure how to say what was twisting inside of you. "I don't want you to wake up one day and regret choosing me."