Paul McCartney Imagines

59

It was the kind of summer night Liverpool rarely gave — warm air thick with cigarette smoke, the scent of bitter beer and perfume mingling beneath low golden lights. The pub was packed with familiar faces: Beatles crew, Cavern regulars, a few journalists, and Londoners who wanted a taste of the northern scene.

And Paul?

He was there. And he was watching you.

From his table in the corner, drink in hand, eyes dark under the fringe of his thick lashes, he hadn't stopped looking at you once since you walked in wearing that goddamn dress — the one that hugged your hips and made your eyes look brighter, the one you knew drove him mad.

You'd done it on purpose. Not to tease. But because... well, tonight was your last straw. The tension between you and Paul had been building for months. Nights after gigs, private smiles backstage, whispered jokes in crowded rooms, the way he looked at you when no one else was watching — but nothing ever happened. He never made a move. Never kissed you. Never claimed you.

So tonight, you danced with someone else.

Alan. Tall, broad-shouldered, charming Alan from the local record shop. He was safe. He was flirty. And more than anything, he was available.

You swayed to the music, his hand low on your back, and you laughed at something he said — maybe louder than necessary, maybe just enough for Paul to hear.

And Paul did hear.

From across the pub, he nearly crushed the glass in his hand.

George said something to him — something about the crowd or the upcoming London gig — but Paul didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on you like a loaded gun.

His jaw ticked. His fingers tapped rhythmically against his knee. His legs bounced with restrained tension.

Alan twirled you under his arm. Your skirt lifted just enough to reveal a strip of thigh.

Paul stood.

He didn't even realize he'd moved until he was halfway across the pub, weaving through people, ignoring shouted greetings, eyes locked only on you. You felt him before you saw him — a pulse of heat behind your spine. Then a voice, low and sharp, just behind your ear.

"You havin' fun?"

You turned. Paul was close. Too close. The air shifted.

"Paul," you breathed, caught like a deer. "Didn't see you walk over."

"No?" He cocked a brow, his lips tight. "That's funny. You've been dancing right in front of me all night."

Alan awkwardly stepped back, sensing the tension. "I'll, uh—grab another pint."

Paul didn't even glance at him.

You crossed your arms, trying to steady yourself. "What's your problem?"

"My problem?" He laughed dryly, low and rough. "My problem is watching you toss yourself all over some tosser when I've been bloody waiting for you to notice I'm right here."

Your heart punched your ribs.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." His tone was controlled but dangerous. "You think I haven't noticed the way you look at me? The way you dress when you know I'll be around? How you always sit next to me, laugh at my daft jokes, bat your lashes?"

"You never did anything," you said, voice cracking slightly. "What was I supposed to think? That you were stringing me along?"

He moved closer — bodies brushing now, the scent of his cologne mixing with the heat of beer and sweat. "I didn't make a move because I didn't want to fuck it up. Because when I touch you, love, it's not gonna be casual. I'm not just gonna have you once and toss you aside."