Paul Mccartney Imagines

59

The storm outside had been nothing compared to the one brewing between you and Paul inside your flat. Rain pounded against the windows, and the wind howled through the cracks, rattling the glass panes. But your voices filled the room, heated and sharp, cutting through the air like knives.

It had started over something stupid.

"You never listen, Paul! I swear, it's like I'm talking to a bloody wall sometimes!"

Paul gave a humorless chuckle, shaking his head as he stood in the middle of the sitting room, arms crossed. "Oh, come off it. You're being dramatic."

You felt your stomach twist at how he dismissed you so quickly; his voice edged with impatience. "I'm not being dramatic," you shot back, your voice rising. "I'm sick of feeling like I come second to everything else in your life!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, not this again," Paul muttered under his breath, running a hand through his already-messy hair.

Your blood boiled. "Not this again?" you repeated, your tone sharp as glass. "I barely see you anymore, Paul! You're always at the studio with John doing something that doesn't involve us! And when you are here, you're exhausted; you barely talk to me—"

Paul scoffed. "So what? You want me to drop everything, yeah? Just sit around and wait on you hand and foot?"

You stared at him in disbelief. "That's not what I'm saying, and you know it."

He exhaled sharply, pacing the room. His frustration radiated off of him in waves, his movements tense, his fingers twitching at his sides. "I'm doing this for us, y'know," he muttered. "I work my arse off every day so we can have this life, and you're standing here acting like I don't give a shit about you."

"That's not fair," you said, shaking slightly. "I've never said I don't appreciate what you do. I know how hard you work, Paul. But when do I get to see you? When do we get to be together, without you being too tired, or too distracted, or—"

"What do you want me to do?!"

His voice thundered through the flat, loud, forceful—angry.

It hit you like a punch to the gut.

Paul had never yelled at you before.

You had seen him frustrated, sure. You had seen him snap at John, argue with George, roll his eyes at Ringo. But this—this was different. His face was flushed, his jaw clenched, his breath uneven.

The worst part? He wasn't just annoyed. He was furious.

And he was furious at you.

Your heart pounded as you instinctively stepped back, your fingers curling around the edge of the table behind you. Your breathing had gone shallow, your body stiff, like every muscle in you was bracing for something.

Paul's face fell the second he saw your reaction. The fire in his eyes flickered, doused by instant regret.

"Love—"

But it was too late.

Your vision blurred as you turned on your heel, grabbing your coat from the hook near the door.

"I need to get out of here," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"Wait—please—"

But you didn't wait. You yanked the door open, stepping out into the cold without looking back.