Paul McCartney Imagines

54

London, 1964
The night air bit at Paul's cheeks as he stepped out of the taxi, his heart beating faster than it had all week. He had never felt nerves like this before—he'd stood onstage in front of thousands of screaming fans and held his composure, smiled, cracked a joke. But now, walking up the steps to your flat, his hands were sweating.

The little black box in his pocket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He'd carried it for a week, waiting for the right time. Tonight was it. He could feel it. He'd gotten time off early—told the lads he had plans. John had raised an eyebrow and made a few lewd suggestions. Paul had just smirked. Let them tease. They didn't know.

They didn't know that tonight, Paul McCartney—bassist of The Beatles, adored by millions—was going to ask the only girl who ever made him feel normal to be his wife.

He wanted to surprise you.

So he didn't call. He just picked up some flowers from the shop around the corner, tossed a couple of coins to the driver, and climbed the steps, humming a soft tune under his breath. A melody he'd started writing about you.

But when he opened the front door with his spare key, the smile faded from his lips.

The lights were off. No music. No radio. No smell of tea or perfume.

Odd.

He closed the door quietly behind him and dropped the flowers on the hallway table.

"Love?" he called out gently, loosening his scarf. "You home?"

Still nothing.

He took slow steps forward, the sound of his boots echoing louder than it should have in the silence. He passed the living room. Empty.

Then he heard it.

A soft thud. A creak of the mattress.

He stilled.

Then a voice.

A moan.

And then—

"God, Mike..."

Paul blinked.

He wasn't sure if he heard right.

No. No, he couldn't have.

But then he heard it again. And this time, the name tore through him like shrapnel.

"Mike," you gasped again, breathless.

The hallway suddenly felt miles long. His pulse hammered in his ears. His legs moved without thinking, fast and heavy. And when he reached the bedroom door—slightly ajar, light flickering out from behind it—he hesitated.

He already knew. Somewhere deep down, he knew.

But he had to see it.

Had to make it real.

His hand shook as it pushed the door open.

And time stopped.

There you were, your body tangled in the sheets, bare skin glowing in the warm light of the bedside lamp. Your fingers were buried in his brother's hair. His hands were on your waist. Your eyes—half-lidded with something Paul had only ever seen you give him—looked up.

And met Paul's.

You froze.

Mike turned—his back slick with sweat—and his eyes widened.