Paul Mccartney Imagines

1

The soft strains of "All My Loving" drifted through your shared flat, a gloomy backdrop to your wandering thoughts. Paul had been touring with the lads for weeks, and the silence in his absence was deafening. You found yourself in the living room, surrounded by snapshots of your life together—candid moments frozen in time.

Your fingers traced the edge of a photo from your early days. Paul, all boyish charm and nervous energy, his cheeks flushed as he looked at you. You couldn't help but smile, remembering how he'd stammer and blush whenever you were near. It seemed like a lifetime ago, yet the memory was as vivid as ever.

Two years on, and sometimes you still couldn't believe it. Paul McCartney—your Paul. Those soulful brown eyes that seemed to see right through you, that crooked smile that never failed to make your heart skip a beat. But it wasn't just his looks that had you head over heels. It was how he'd bring you tea in bed on Sunday mornings, humming softly as he balanced the tray. He'd listen intently when you spoke like your words were lyrics to his favorite song.

You chuckled, remembering John's endless teasing. "Oi, Macca," he'd say, "remembered you've got a bird waiting at home, eh?" The lads loved to wind him up about it, but you knew the truth. Paul had eyes only for you, even with throngs of screaming fans throwing themselves at him every night.

Lost in thought, you didn't hear the door open. You didn't notice the soft footsteps approaching. It wasn't until a pair of arms wrapped around your waist that you realized you weren't alone.

You let out a startled yelp, instinctively tensing up. "Bloody hell!" you exclaimed, heart racing. "I was about to clock you one!"

A familiar chuckle rumbled against your back. "Easy there, love. It's just me."

The tension melted away instantly, replaced by a surge of joy so intense it nearly knocked you off your feet. "Paul?" you whispered, hardly daring to believe it. "You're home early!"

You spun around in his arms, drinking at the sight of him. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and stubble shadowing his jaw. But his smile—oh, that smile could light up all of London.

"Couldn't stay away," he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours. "Missed you too much."

You laughed, a bit breathless. "The great Paul McCartney, cutting a tour short for little old me? I'm flattered."

He rolled his eyes, but his grin widened. "Don't let it go to your head, eh? Besides, I had an ulterior motive."

"Oh?" you raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "And what might that be, Mr. McCartney?"

Paul's expression shifted, and a mix of nervousness and determination settled over his features. He took a deep breath and slowly lowered himself to one knee.

Your heart stopped.

"Y/N," he began, voice trembling slightly. "These past two years... they've been the best of my life. You've been there through the long nights, the screaming fans, and the chaos. You're my anchor, my home." He fumbled in his pocket, producing a small velvet box. "I love you more than anything in this world. Will you marry me?"

The world seemed to stand still. Tears blurred your vision as you stared at the man before you—the boy you'd fallen in love with, now asking you to spend forever with him.

"Yes," you choked out, barely above a whisper. Then louder, "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!"

Paul's face split into a grin so wide it must have hurt. He slipped the ring onto your finger—a stunning diamond that caught the light, sending rainbows dancing across the walls. Then he was on his feet, pulling you into a kiss that weakened your knees.