Paul McCartney Imagines

64

It was almost 1:30 in the morning, and you were sitting alone on the edge of your shared bed, staring at the clock on the dresser like it owed you an explanation.

The apartment was silent. Cold. You clutched the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

He was late. Again.

The front door finally creaked open, and in stumbled your boyfriend—drunk, careless, and trailing the scent of someone else's perfume. Cheap and floral. Not yours.

"Where the hell have you been?" you asked, standing quickly. Your voice cracked halfway through.

He blinked at you, glassy-eyed. "Out."

"You smell like perfume," you whispered. "Don't lie to me."

He chuckled. "You jealous now?"

"I'm asking you a question," you said, your fists clenched. "Who were you with?"

"You don't get to interrogate me," he said, stepping closer. "I come home after a long night, and I get this?"

"You come home reeking of another woman," you snapped. "What am I supposed to think?"

He scoffed, turning away from you—but you followed.

"You cheated on me."

He didn't even try to deny it.

"Jesus, you're pathetic," he said under his breath.

"What did you say?"

That's when it happened.

His hand flew out, slapping you so hard across the face that your knees buckled. You gasped and hit the floor, your hand flying to your cheek, heart racing.

You looked up at him, stunned.

For a moment, even he looked surprised. Then coldness took over.

"Don't push me," he muttered, walking away like nothing had happened.

You didn't wait. You grabbed your coat, your bag, and you ran—barefoot and crying, the sting of his touch still burning on your skin.

⸻

It was raining. You barely noticed.

You weren't thinking—just reacting. And your heart, broken and bleeding, knew exactly where to go.

Paul's.

He was your best friend. The one person who'd always been there. He knew things about you no one else did. You trusted him with every part of yourself, except the ones you were still too afraid to admit.

Like the part that wished you had fallen for him instead.

⸻

You knocked harder than you meant to. The sound echoed down the street.

Moments later, the porch light flicked on. Then the door swung open.

Paul stood there in pajama pants and a gray t-shirt, hair messy, eyes heavy with sleep. But the moment he saw your face—your soaked clothes, the bruise blooming across your cheek—he woke up instantly.

"Oh my God—" He reached for you. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. You just stood there, shaking, until he pulled you inside.

His arms wrapped around you like a second skin. "You're safe now," he whispered. "I've got you."

You let go then. The sobs came, ragged and painful. Paul didn't flinch. He held you tighter.