Paul McCartney Imagines

67

London sat under that pale, washed-out winter light that made everything look a little too honest. Too exposed.

Your mother's house always felt heavier in that kind of light.

Too quiet. Too observant.

And today, it felt like it was waiting for something to go wrong.

You tried not to think about that as you let Paul pull you into the hallway, his hands cold from outside, his smile soft like he didn't carry the rest of the world with him in his pockets.

"Hi," he said, like he hadn't already been thinking about you all day.

"Hi," you answered, already calmer just because he was here.

He kissed you immediately. Not rushed. Not careless. Just familiar—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You alright?" he murmured after, forehead resting briefly against yours.

"Yeah," you said automatically.

He gave you a look.

That little pause.

That quiet "I don't believe you, but I won't push yet" look.

You sighed. "Mostly."

"Good enough," he said softly, and kissed your hand like that solved something.

⸻

You shouldn't have gone upstairs.

You told yourself your mother was out. You checked the time twice. You listened for the house settling into its usual rhythm.

It felt safe enough.

It wasn't.

The room upstairs was dim, curtains half drawn, the kind of quiet that made everything feel further away than it really was. Paul was gentle with you in a way that always made your chest tighten—like he was careful with something he actually valued.

"I love you," he said quietly at one point, like it just slipped out.

"I know," you whispered back.

And you meant it.

You always did.

Because when you were with him, the world didn't feel as sharp.

⸻

The sound downstairs didn't register at first.

Just the house shifting.

A door.

A pause.

Then footsteps that didn't belong to either of you.

You both froze.

Paul lifted his head immediately. "Did you hear that?"

You already knew.

"No," you whispered, even though your body had already gone cold.

The stairs creaked.

Once.

Then again.

Slower now.

Intentional.

Your stomach dropped before your brain even caught up.

"No," you breathed. "She's not supposed to be—"

The door opened.

And your mother stood there.

Still for half a second.