Paul McCartney Imagines

49

A loud, insistent knock at the door jolted you awake, echoing in the quiet of your home. Groggy and disoriented, you squinted at the sunlight streaming through your curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. You glanced at the clock on your nightstand—it was far too early for any visitor, and a sense of confusion washed over you.

Still cocooned in your warm, soft blankets, you groaned and ran a hand through your tousled hair. You knew your appearance was less than ideal; a quick look in the mirror confirmed that your hair resembled a bird's nest, and your face was still devoid of the usual splash of morning makeup. That unwelcome knock echoed again—this time sharper and more demanding—which prompted a deep sigh as you reluctantly dragged yourself from the comforting embrace of your bed.

"Alright, I'm coming!" you mumbled, shuffling toward the door, sleep weighing heavily on your eyelids.

When you cracked it open, bracing for the sight of perhaps your landlady or a postman with an early morning delivery, you were taken aback by the unexpected figure before you.

Paul McCartney stood there, hands casually tucked into his impeccably tailored navy suit pockets, the faintest smirk playing at the corners of his lips. His dark hair was slicked back perfectly, and an unmistakable glint of mischief sparkled in his bright eyes.

"Morning, love," he said, his voice warm and inviting.

Your jaw dropped, and you blinked in disbelief, gripping the doorframe to steady yourself. "Paul?!"

He chuckled softly, rocking his heels as if he enjoyed your astonishment. "Expecting someone else?"

"I—I wasn't expecting anyone," you stammered, still trying to process his unexpected arrival. "What are you doing here?"

With an effortless shrug, he answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Wanted to see you."

Heat crept into your cheeks as you became painfully aware of your disheveled state. You stood before him in an oversized nightgown that clung awkwardly to your frame, hair wildly unbrushed, and your face utterly bare of any makeup.

Instinctively, you tried to hide behind the door, the embarrassment bubbling up inside you. "Paul, you should've told me you were coming. I look... awful."

His smirk softened into a more tender expression, and his eyes held a warmth that made your heartbeat. "You look lovely," he said.

You scoffed, unable to believe his words. "Be serious."

"I am serious," he replied, stepping forward and gently pushing the door open wider, refusing to let you retreat further. "Are you gonna make me stand out here?"

With a huff, you stepped aside, letting him in. When the door shut behind him, he pulled you into a warm embrace, wrapping his strong arms around you as if he'd been eagerly awaiting this moment all week.

"You're here," you mumbled into his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne—a blend of earthy musk and a hint of cedar that brought comfort and safety.

He gently kissed the top of your head, a soft smile gracing his lips. "Would've been here sooner, but I figured barging in at dawn might get me a right telling-off."

You chuckled, but the insecurity still nipped at you like a persistent insect. Paul was accustomed to the company of glamorous women—perfectly polished, effortlessly beautiful. Meanwhile, you stood before him in your nightgown, feeling all too aware of your flaws, your hair a chaotic mess, and your eyes still heavy with sleep.

You slowly pulled back, biting your lip in self-consciousness. "I must look a fright."

Paul sighed, his expression shifting to one of exasperation softened with affection. He cupped your face in his hands, tilting it gently until you could meet his gaze.

"Do you think I care about all that?" he asked, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks with a tenderness that melted your worries away. "You don't need makeup or fancy clothes for me to love you. I love you—as you are."

Your heart raced wildly, the sincerity in his voice igniting a warmth in your chest. "Even with bed hair?"

He grinned mischievously. "Especially with bed hair."

Playfully, you smacked his arm, eliciting a hearty laugh from him. But before you could summon a witty retort, he leaned in, capturing your lips with his in a slow, lingering kiss. It was sweet, unhurried, filled with an affection that washed away your earlier anxieties like waves on a sandy shore.

When he finally pulled back, he whispered, "You're beautiful, sweetheart. Always."

A warm blush crept across your cheeks, but this time, it was no longer from embarrassment but from the sheer sincerity radiating from his gaze.

"...Well, since you are here," you said, trying to regain some semblance of composure, "you might as well stay for breakfast."

His face lit up with a childlike enthusiasm. "Thought you'd never ask."

You led him into the kitchen, where the sunlight flooded through the window, casting a golden hue over the room. He settled comfortably at the table, watching you with a playful glint in his eyes as you gathered the essentials to make tea and toast.

"You know," he mused, resting his chin on his hand, "this is nice. Waking up and seeing you first thing."

You shot him a teasing look. "Even if I'm not all dolled up?"

"Especially then," he countered, his smile wide and infectious.

You rolled your eyes playfully, unable to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. As you placed a steaming cup of tea in front of him, he reached out, catching your wrist and effortlessly tugging you down into his lap, enveloping you in his warm embrace.

"Paul!" you squeaked in surprise, but he only chuckled, burying his face in your shoulder and inhaling the scent of your shampoo.

"Mm, much better," he murmured, closing his eyes as he held you closer. "I could stay like this all day."

You sighed, sinking into him, the world outside fading away for those precious moments. "But you've got a busy day ahead, don't you?"

"Supposed to," he admitted, a hint of reluctance in his voice. "But I think I'll stay here a bit longer. Call it a well-earned break."

You laughed softly, running your fingers through his hair affectionately. "You're impossible."

He grinned against your skin, the warmth of his breath making your heart flutter. "And you love it."

There was no denying that—it was the undeniable truth.

As the morning stretched on, with Paul holding you close and the comforting scent of tea wafting through the air, you realized something profound—he had seen you at your most unpolished, your most authentic self, and yet he looked at you as if you were the most beautiful thing in the world.

And for the first time, you began to believe it, too.