nova˚𖦹

the rain had been going for a while now.. soft, steady taps against the windows. george moved around the kitchen quietly, filling the kettle, glancing toward the living room every now and then.

she was on the couch, guitar resting against her, playing absent-mindedly. the melody drifted through the house, gentle and unguarded, and george found himself slowing down just to listen.

he didn’t interrupt. he never did.

he poured the hot water, let the tea steep, but by the time he was done, he realized he’d been standing still, holding the mug, just listening. Like the music had anchored him there.

instead of sitting beside her, as usual, he crossed the room and lowered himself onto the floor in front of the couch, back against the coffee table. close enough to hear every small slide of her fingers, every quiet breath between chords. he rested his arms loosely over his knees, eyes fixed on her hands.

she noticed him eventually, smiling a little but not stopping. george smiled back, that soft, almost bashful one, he felt lucky just to be allowed here.

when she finally stoped, the room felt even quieter than before, rain still falling, tea still warm in his hands.

george looked up at her and spoke gently.

“you know,” he said, eyes warm, thoughtful, “it’s fun watching you come see me and the boys play.” he paused, then added, quieter, “but it’s even better like this.”

she tilted her head, curious.

“just sitting here,” he continued, tapping the floor lightly, “watching you play. just for yourself.” a small smile tugged at his lips.

he handed her the tea, their fingers brushing, and stayed right there on the floor, content, listening to the rain.

she laughed softly when he stayed right there, not moving. george looked up at her for a second. then, almost shyly, he rested his head against her knee. just barely.

she didn’t move away.

he exhaled, shoulders relaxing, eyes half-lidded as the rain filled the silence again. “you don’t have to play anything special,” he murmured. “just… whatever you were doing before.”

so she did.

the guitar came back to life under her fingers, quieter this time, more careful. george listened like the sound was wrapped around him. every now and then, he’d hum along.

the grass was tall and a little wild, golden-green and swaying with the breeze. somewhere in the distance, a train rumbled by, distant and dreamy. the sky was impossibly blue, cotton clouds drifting slow as the afternoon hummed.

john was laying flat on his back, arms stretched out, his sunglasses had slipped slightly down his nose, not that he minded anyway.

he was sitting cross-legged a few feet away, idly tugging at blades of grass, pretending not to smile at the way he kept flicking little pebbles towards him like a bored child.

"you're gonna hit me in the face, lennon," he warned.

john grinned, lifting his sunglasses just enough to peek over them. “and what if i do?”

“i.. uhm.. just shut up.”

john smirked, bitting the inside of his cheek, something that he used to do when he got nervous.

“dangerous threat, that,” john muttered.

he crawled over and flopped down beside him, his head finding its place on his shoulder, letting out a little “oof”, john then wrapped an arm around him, pulling him in lazily. “you’re warm,” he mumbled into his hair.

“you dragged me out into the middle of nowhere for this exact reason.”

john tilted his head to look at him. “not really, just wanted to mess around with you.”

before he could stop him, john grabbed his arm and pulled him up, bolting toward the huge old oak a few feet away.

he stumbled after him, still laughing, both of them tripping through the grass. john climbed halfway up, sprawled across a low branch like a lazy cat, looking down at him with a grin.

“well, come on then,” he said. “up here’s better.”

he huffed dramatically, but his hands were already on the bark, following john up. he reached the branch, sitting beside him, legs dangling, shoulder to shoulder.

john leaned his head against his. “s’nice, innit?”

he nodded. “better than the city.”

it was quiet for a moment, then, softer “it’s way better with you.”

he turned to look at him, for a second, he wasn’t smirking, teasing or pretending not to care.

he was just john. quiet and real, looking at him like the sky wasn’t worth noticing unless he was under it too.

the breeze rustled through the branches overhead, and for a long moment, neither of them moved.

john shifted slightly, shoulder brushing his. “hey,” he said, voice quiet.

“is everything ok?”

john didn’t answer right away. he looked down at his own hands, then glanced over, that familiar flicker of nerves in his expression, the one he tried to hide behind cleverness, teasing smirks and sometimes even sunglasses.

“can i…” he started, biting his cheek again, “…can i maybe kiss you?”

he blinked, lips parting just slightly in surprise. not because he hadn’t wanted it. he had. god, he had, but because it was john, and john never asked for things gently.

but right now, here he was. soft and a little pink in the cheeks, asking like it mattered more than anything.

“yes,” he breathed, “of course you can.”

and that was all john needed.

he leaned in slowly, almost like he wasn’t sure the moment would stay if he moved too fast. one hand came up to cup his jaw and then, finally, his lips pressed against his.

it was slow at first. gentle.

john kissed him as if he didn’t want to miss a second of it, he wanted to remember every detail. his hand slid to the back of john’s neck, fingertips slipping into his hair, pulling him just a little closer.

when they pulled apart, john didn’t move far. his forehead rested against his, a soft little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“been wantin’ to do that all bloody day,” he murmured, voice rough in the sweetest way.

he laughed, breathless. “so why didn’t you?”

john teased. “you looked too pretty when you were pretending not to smile. didn’t wanna ruin the view.”

he rolled his eyes but leaned in again, stealing another kiss, quicker this time, grinning against john’s mouth.

“you’re impossible.”

“and yet,” john said smugly, pulling him into his chest as they leaned back against the branch, “you climbed a tree for me. must mean something.”

“just means i’m an idiot,” he muttered as john chuckled.

...

the tree creaked gently above them, its leaves whispering in the breeze like it was keeping their little secret. after a few minutes of sitting tangled up on the branch, john gave a soft sigh and said, “alright, love, my legs sre going numb.”

he shifted with a laugh, clumsily hopping down from the branch and landing with a quiet ´thump´ in the grass.

“you alright?” he asked, brushing off his trousers.

“yeah,” he grinned, climbing down after him.

john grabbed his hand before he hit the ground and pulled him into his chest, just a little too close on purpose.

they toppled gently into the grass, john tugging him beside him like gravity wanted to keep them apart. he tucked his arms around john, the grass was soft beneath them, golden and cool, and the world was all hush now, just the sound of birds settling in and the wind rustling through the leaves overhead.

they layed like that for a long time, saying nothing, until john eventually pulled back enough to look at him, his expression soft in a way most people never got to see. “you alright?”

“why wouldn’t i?,” he said honestly. “you?”

paul was sitting on a stool, bass resting in his lap, scribbling something down in a notebook. martha was curled at his feet, snoring gently.

she sat cross-legged on the studio rug, strumming gently on an old acoustic guitar, mouthing the lyrics she’d been working on, something simple, something sweet.

paul glanced over his notebook at her, a smile tugging at his lips.

“you always do that, right?,” he said.

she looked up. “do what?”

“that scrunchy face. when you’re trying to rhyme something, you get all serious like you’re trying to solve a math problem.”

she rolled your eyes with a grin. “well, you know that rhymes aren’t really my thing’.”

“well yes,” he said, hopping down from the stool. “but it’ll always be funny.”

she flushed, ducking her head. “you’re terrible.”

paul sat beside her on the floor, close enough that their knees brushed. he held out his notebook, turning it so she could read.

it was a half-finished verse.

her breath caught. “that’s so pretty.”

“well, yeah,” he said sheepishly, shrugging. “it’s about you.”

she blinked at him, a warm, quiet ache blooming in her chest.

“okay, your turn,” he said, nudging her notebook toward hers. “if i can be sappy, so can you.”

she hesitated, then flipped a few pages. “it’s not done yet…”

“doesn’t have to be,” he said, chin on his hand, eyes soft.

she cleared her throat and read the half finished verse.

paul blinked, then slowly broke into the biggest grin.

she laughed as he lunged towards her, tackling her into the rug with a playful groan. martha barked and came over, tail wagging, promptly plopping herself on both of their legs.

“martha, love, we’re being romantic, come on,” paul mumbled into her shoulder while she giggled.

lying there, tangled up with him and the fluffiest sheepdog in britain, she sighed contentedly.

paul looked down at her, eyes glowing. “you know… this could be our thing. a bunch of love songs for no one but us.”

she smiled. “and martha.”

he grinned. “of course, how can we forget about our executive producer?”

it was late. the flat was dimly lit, one lamp in the corner casting a pool of amber light, and the soft crackle of the radio playing low in the background.

she sat curled on the couch, knees tucked to her chest, blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders.

she was calmer now but still shaking. her breathing had evened out, the exhaustion after everything was too much.

she didn’t notice when george sat down beside her, not at first.

but then his fingers brushed her arm, slow and careful, not startling. just checking.

“hey,” he said softly, as if he’d been there the whole time. “still with me?”

she nodded, barely. her throat felt tight.

george didn’t ask what happened. he didn’t insist. he never did.

he just reached for her hand, open and patient, and when she gave it to him, he held it in both of his hands, delicate and warm.

“it’s alright,” he murmured, thumb brushing gently over her knuckles. “i’ve got you, don’t worry.”

he stayed close, his shoulder brushing hers, his presence like a steady hum underneath the anxiety.

“i made tea,” he said after a few minutes, voice light. “it’s gone a bit cold, probably. but i could reheat it. or make cocoa if you’d rather.”

she shook your head, then leaned into him, just slightly.

he shifted a little so she could rest her weight against his side, one arm gently coming around her shoulders. his other hand rested over hers, grounding her.

“don’t worry, love,” george whispered, so quietly it might’ve been just for the walls. “i know what it feels like, well i think so.. but you’re not alone, you know i’ll always be here for you.” the warmth of his voice and his body beside her made her feel so calm that she let her eyes flutter closed.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he added. “even if you dont’t want to talk for a while. what do you say if we listen to some music, yeah?

she nodded as he tightened his arm around her, his cheek resting lightly against the top of her head.

...

they stayed like that for a while, the soft murmur of the radio wrapped around them, the light from the lamp casting lazy shadows against the walls.

eventually, george stirred gently. “right, that tea’s not going to heat itself, is it?”

she nodded sleepily against his shoulder, not quite ready to move. george gave her hand one last squeeze before slipping away, returning a moment later with two mugs.

he passed her one carefully, then settling back into the couch. “still warm,” he said, nudging her with a small smile. “miracle, that.”

she smiled faintly, fingers curling around the mug. the warmth felt good. they sipped in silence, like there was nothing that needed to be filled.

and then the phone rang.

george groaned lightly and set his tea down, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head before rising to answer it from the hallway.

she stayed still, but her ears perked up. she could hear him through the thin flat walls, his voice low and tired, but steady.

“yeah, i’m home… no, not tonight.” a pause. “no, i’m not just being boring. i’m with someone.”

she could practically hear john’s voice even though she wasn’t on the line, some teasing remark, no doubt.

george huffed a small laugh. “yeah, yeah, laugh it up. i’m just.. uhm.. takin’ care of someone, alright?”

another pause, softer this time. “she’s not doin’ great. had a bit of a rough night.”

then quieter: “no, i don’t want to leave her just now. you know how it is.”

his voice faded for a second, like he was turning away. “look, tell ringo i’ll be by tomorrow, alright?.” then he added, “this matters more right now.”

when he came back in, he looked a little sheepish. “sorry about that, the lads were worried i’d gone missing.”

“did you tell them i’m here?”

george shrugged, sitting back down and handing her a fresh blanket. “told them i’m with someone important, didn’t give 'em details. they don’t need to know everything.”

he gave her a sideways glance. “i mean… unless you want them to.”

she shook her head, still half-curled under her blanket. he nudged her with his shoulder again. “you better now?”

she nodded. not fine,or perfect, but better. and that was enough for now.

the rain had been tapping against the window for some hours now, soft and steady. the room was dim, the curtains drawn, silence on every corner. she hadn’t left her bed all day, not feeling like doing much of anything really, her thoughts distant.

there was a knock at the door, it was soft.

she didn’t answer.

there was a little pause before the door slowly creaked open.

“love?,” george’s voice asked. she hadn’t seen him in a few days. he’d called and even left some flowers outside her door one night, which she found the next morning, with a small note: “thought this one might make you smile. please call me when you're ready. i love you.”

“i’m coming in,” he said gently, peeking his head through the doorway.

she didn’t move, still curled up in bed and buried in blankets, face pressed to a pillow she hadn’t changed in days.

george stepped in quietly. he didn’t say anything at first, just walked over, slow and soft, and sat on the floor beside her bed like he always used to when she’d study or read.

“i was worried,” he murmured, fingers nervously fidgeting. “did i do something wrong?”

her heart cracked a little at the sound of that.

“you didn’t,” she whispered, voice hoarse from disuse. “it’s not you.”

he nodded, trying to understand and, in a way, he did. he didn’t press her, just stayed there, hands resting in his lap. he looked up at her, eyes warm and full of concern.

“i miss you,” he said after a long moment. “even when you’re right here.”

tears pricked her eyes before she could stop them. she hated that she’d been pushing him away. not on purpose, but it was like her body was protecting itself by keeping everyone else out.

“i’m sorry,” she croaked, throat tight. “i don’t know why i’ve been like this. i don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

george shifted closer, “there’s nothing wrong with you,” he said firmly, “you’re just hurting. and there’s nothing wrong with that, it’s okay.”

when she finally sat up, slowly because of the pain in her limbs, george reached for her immediately. not rushed, not forceful, just open arms. like an invitation.

she let herrself fold into him.

he held her close, her head tucked under his chin, his fingers gently brushing up and down her back. she could feel his heartbeat steady, grounding.

“you don’t have to explain it,” he whispered. “you don’t even have to fix it all today. just let me be here with you, please?”

she nodded against his chest, silent tears slipping down her cheek.

“i’ll stay,” he added. “all night, all week if you want. we don’t have to talk, let me hold you. i can play you something later if you feel up to it. or just sit, whatever you need.”

she pulled back just enough to look up at him, his brown eyes soft and sincere, his thumb brushing gently under her eye to catch a tear.

“i love you,” he said simply, “even on your bad days, especially on your bad days.”

george stayed close. he helped her shift the blankets, tucking them around her legs and gently sitting beside her, as if she was made of porcelain. he didn’t ask questions, didn’t make her speak. he just held her hand loosely, his thumb brushing the back of it.

the rain kept tapping softly at the windows.

then, with a small hop, a little blur of fur appeared at the end of the bed.

“is that your cat?” george asked softly, smiling as the feline trotted over with confidence only cats could have. she gave a small nod.

“she’s lovely,” he murmured, letting the cat sniff his fingers before she promptly settled herself between them, purring loudly like a small engine.

george chuckled. “she’s a fan already.”

she smiled for the first time in what felt like days. a real, tired, soft little smile. and that was enough to make george’s whole chest ache.

“you wanna lie down?” he asked after a while, voice gentle.

she hesitated, but then nodded.

he helped her, carefully easing down beside her on the bed, her cat curling herself into a donut shape at their feet.

george propped himself up on one elbow, his other hand still in yours. she shifted a bit under the covers, the fabric brushing against her arm. she flinched slightly, that’s when george noticed.

he didn’t say anything right away, just shifted his hand slowly, gently tracing over her wrist with the lightest touch. his eyes flicked down, seeing the scars. faded, some newer, some long past. his breath caught just a little, but not in fear. not in judgment.

he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her wrist, so soft it almost didn’t feel real.

then he leaned in close, forehead brushing hers.

“you don’t have to be okay all the time, but please don’t do this,” he continued. “not for me. not for anyone. but i want you to remember something, alright?”

she nodded, tears slipping silently down your cheek.

“you are loved,” george whispered. “you are loved on the hard days, on the quiet days, even when you feel like you don’t deserve it. and i’m not going anywhere.”

she couldn’t stop the tears then, but george didn’t mind. he just gathered her close, wrapping his arms around her and letting her cry quietly into his chest, his hand cradling the back of her head.

“i’m here,” he kept murmuring. “you don’t have to carry it all on your own. i’ve got you.”

eventually, she started to drift, worn out, but warmer somehow, her body relaxing into the softness of the bed, into the steady rhythm of george’s breathing.

george pressed one last kiss to her temple and whispered:

“you are my heart, love. just as you are.”

...

the room was quiet again, not in that heavy kind of way. the world outside could knock and knock but wouldn’t be let in.

george hadn’t let go of her hand once. even as the rain ticked on outside. even as her cat curled tighter at the foot of the bed.

when he saw the scars, he didn’t say anything at first. just saw. just noticed.

then, softly, so gently: “can i hold you properly now?”

she hesitated, but george just gathered her into his arms. not urgently, not pitifully. just full of care.

she buried her face into his chest, and for a while, neither of them spoke.

then she whispered, just barely: “i don’t know how to make it stop. i don’t even know what’s wrong with me.”

george’s arms tightened slightly around her.

“there’s nothing wrong with you,” he said, and there was steel under the softness this time. “you’re hurting, it doesn’t make you broken. it makes you human.”

her fingers clutched at his shirt. her body started to tremble, the weight of everything, the numbness, the shame, the guilt, the exhaustion, everything rushing out of her all at once. she couldn’t stop it. the sobs were thick and hot in her throat, and the tears came harder than she meant to let them.

“i’m so tired, george,” she choked out, “i’m so tired.”

he cupped the back of her head and tucked her closer. “i know, love. i know. let it out, you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

her tears soaked through the fabric of his shirt, but he didn’t move. he just kept whispering, over and over: “you’re safe now, i’ve got you.”

when her sobs quieted, not fully gone, but gentled to sniffles and hiccups, george pulled back just enough to see her face. his thumbs brushed her cheeks. his eyes were glistening too.

“you don’t have to hide this from me,” he said. “not your pain, or your scars, not even your sadness. i don’t love some perfect version of you. i love you. and this is part of you.”

he brought her arm up gently, and ran his fingers along the faded lines there.

“these,” he said, voice thick, “are proof that you’ve survived every day you didn’t think you could. you’re still here. and i’m so proud of you for that.”

a fresh wave of emotion hit her chest. but this time, it wasn’t from the loneliness, it came from the impossible weight of being seen, truly seen, and not being abandoned for it.

george leaned in and kissed her forehead, then her temple, then her hand.

“promise me something?” he asked quietly.

she nodded.

“if it ever gets too much again… will you tell me? before you hurt yourself? let me help you?”

“i don’t want to be a burden,” she whispered.

george frowned, “you’re not, you never will be, i want to be here. i’m not here out of pity but because i love you. you matter to me more than anything.”

she didn’t say anything, just leaned into his chest again, her arms around his waist this time, holding him.

the cat stretched at her feet and curled up against her legs. the room smelled like rain and worn cotton and that faint trace of george’s cigarettes, warm, safe and steady.

after a while, he shifted a little to pull the blanket further over both of them. his voice was softer now, sleepy.

“i was thinking… maybe tomorrow, if i could play something for you. or we can just sit by the window, talk about nothing. or maybe i’ll read something to you, what do you think? we’ll take it slow. one soft day at a time.”

she nodded into his chest. “that sounds nice.”

the quarrymen had just finished their set, the boys laughing as they packed up their instruments, half-hungry, half-buzzed from the tiny roar of the crowd. george was still catching his breath, combing his fingers through his hair, leather jacket slung over one shoulder as he stepped off what they called stage.

that’s when he saw her.

at first, he just noticed the way she was leaning against the bar, nursing a drink, her head tilted in amusement as she talked to someone. he didn’t recognize her right away. not until she turned slightly and smiled at something.

his stomach dropped.

there was no way.

he called her name, and she turned, eyebrows lifting in surprise, then her face lit up.

“george harrison? is that you?”

“you got taller,” he said dumbly.

she laughed, stepping toward him. “you got cooler.” she gave a pointed glance at the slicked-back hair and the collar of his jacket. “leather jacket and everything.”

“well, you know. gotta look the part.”

“i almost didn’t recognize you,” she said softly. “last time i saw you, you still had that guitar you refused to let go of.”

“still there,” he grinned.

they both laughed, and somehow it wasn’t awkward. it felt easy.

he hesitated for a second, then tilted his head. “wanna get out of here? i mean.. not like that, i just.. wanna talk, catch up?”

she smiled. “i’d like that.”

they ended up at a quiet little café down the road, one of the only places still open, it was dimly lit, warm. they sat across from each other, cups of tea between them, steam curling in the air.

george leaned back in the booth, hands around his mug. “so… you moved back?”

she nodded. “just a couple months ago. i was gonna write to your mum, see if you were still around, but then i figured, maybe you’d outgrown the old neighbourhood.”

he gave her a crooked grin. “not a chance. still got my mum’s biscuits to come home to.”

they both laughed, and soon the conversation spilled into stories from when they were little kids, how he used to chase her around, how she dared him to climb the tallest tree in your street and he nearly broke his arm, the time he tried to impress her by doing tricks on his bike and ended up in a bush. he groaned, hiding his face.

“i knew you’d never let me live that down,” he muttered, but he was laughing too.

at some point, she reached across the table to touch his hand, just briefly, just to emphasize a point in a story, but george went completely still. he stared at her fingers resting on his for a second too long, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the butterflies that suddenly exploded in his chest.

she noticed, and smiled just a little.

when she started to yawn not long after, george offered to walk her home, ever the gentleman.

they walked side by side, his jacket slung over her shoulders, her arms occasionally brushing. and right before they reached her door, she paused.

“y’know,” she said, turning toward him, “i used to have the biggest crush on you when we were little.”

george blinked, visibly stunned. “what? and why didn’t you say anything?!”

“i dunno,” she said with a cheeky shrug. “you were too busy climbing trees and falling into bushes.”

at this point george was red, grinning down at his shoes.

“well,” he said, “if it makes you feel any better…”

she tilted your head. “what is it?”

he looked up, cheeks flushed, but eyes completely sincere.

“i think i’ve got one now.”

she stared at him, stunned for a second, then you both started laughing again, giddy and warm in the night air.

...

it had only been a few days since they saw eachother again, but to him, it felt longer, like something had shifted. she’d always been warm in his memories, but seeing her again had brought it all into sharp focus. and now?

he was standing outside her front door, holding a small, slightly uneven bouquet of daisies he’d picked on the way over, trying to keep his palms from sweating.

he knocked once.

then again.

and just as he was about to lose his nerve and flee, she opened the door.

“george?” she blinked, surprised. “what’re you doing here?”

he cleared his throat, trying to sound casual but already failing. “erm… hi. thought maybe you’d… fancy coming to a gig tonight?”

her brows raised, delighted. “another quarrymen show?”

he nodded quickly, thrusting the daisies toward you like they might help his case. “brought you these. they’re not much i know, but.. well they reminded me of you. dunno why.”

she smiled as she took them, her fingers brushing his. “they’re perfect.”

george looked away, pink creeping up his cheeks. “it’s nothing fancy. just at the church hall down the road. but i figured… maybe you'd wanna see what i'm like these days. y’know, when i’m not falling into bushes.”

she laughed. “lead the way, mister.”

when they arrived, the other boys were already halfway through tuning and setting up. paul was the first to notice her walk in behind george, he nearly dropped his guitar.

“look who’s brought a guest,” paul grinned.

“oh shut up.”

john leaned in from the side of the stage, eyebrows raised. “he picked flowers for her, did you know that?”

george rubbed his face, clearly embarassed. but then she slipped her hand into his casually, he peeked at her from behind his fringe, lips curving into the softest smile.

they ran through their set that night with extra spark, george’s eyes flicking to her between verses.

after the show, when the others wandered off to pack up cables and flirt with other girls, george pulled her aside behind the stage curtain.

“sorry about them,” he muttered, “they’re so annoying when they know something new.”

she grinned. “you mean when they know you’ve got a massive crush?”

his eyes went wide, “what? well i never said..”

“c’mon george,” she cut in, stepping closer, the curtain brushing her shoulder. “it’s okay. i’ve kind of got one too.”

he blinked.

then slowly smiled.

...

after that night, it became sort of... a thing.

george started showing up outside her house a little more often. sometimes with records, tea, even once with a packet of her favorite sweets that he swore he just “found in his pocket” (which was absolutely not true, given the corner shop receipt poking out of his jacket).

and one day, out of the blue, it was paul who knocked on her door.

“you coming to rehearsal or what?” he asked.

“rehearsal?”

he grinned. “yeah, george didn’t ask you? he’s been useless all morning, forgot his capo and everything.”

she raised an eyebrow, amused. “he invited me?”

“didn’t say the words, exactly,” paul admitted, “but he’s been staring at the door every five seconds. so i’m the one taking initiative.”

...

the rehearsal was in someone’s garage, probably stuart’s cousin’s or an old mate of john’s. she wasn’t sure, but the moment she walked in, george lit up.

“you came,” he said, voice cracking slightly before he cleared his throat.

“you forgot to invite me,” she teased, plopping down on a creaky folding chair. “but paul handled it.”

george threw a look at paul, who just winked.

the rehearsal started a few minutes later, and she sat there, quietly watching as the boys fell into rhythm, their banter easy, music raw and full of charm. george stood in the middle, guitar strapped low, fingers dancing across the strings, his eyes flicked over to her from time to time, just to make sure she was still there.

and every time she caught him looking, he’d blush, fumble a chord, or drop his pick.

john caught on fast.

by the third time george messed up, john groaned, stopping the song mid-way. “alright, alright george. you’re gonna kill that chord if you keep lookin’ at her like that.”

george’s ears went red, “oh shut up.”

paul smirked, “i mean, she is sittin’ there all dreamy and stuff. maybe we should make her sit in another room so you can function.”

george rolled his eyes, adjusting his strap. “maybe you should sit in another room.”

ringo raised a hand. “do i get a say in this, or…?”

“please don’t,” george said.

she just sat there, laughing into her hand, heart fluttering.

after rehearsal, while the rest of the boys filtered out to grab something to eat, george stayed back, pretending to tune a guitar that was already in perfect pitch.

“so… did you like it?” he asked, fiddling with a knob.

she stepped closer. “you were brilliant.”

he looked at her, mouth twitching into a small smile. “i was distracted.”

“yeah?” she teased. “by what?”

he shrugged, mock casual. “some girl in the front row. bit distracting, y’know? she keeps looking at me with that pretty face.”

the other boys were scattered across the space, paul cheking over scribbled lyrics, ringo drumming on the floor out of boredom, and john... well, he was watching george.

“alright,” john said suddenly grinning, “what’s got you all misty-eyed over there, harrison?”

george blinked, looking up from the strings. “what?”

“you’ve been smiling at your fretboard, i dont think you like your guitar that much,” paul chimed in.

“i wasn’t,” george mumbled, immediately ducking his head. but his ears were already turning pink.

“you’ve been off in space since this morning,” ringo added helpfully. “all dreamy and quiet. it's suspicious.”

“i’m allowed to be quiet,” george huffed, fiddling with a string a little too aggressively.

john raised an eyebrow. “you’re always quiet, mate. but this is different, it´s the ‘i’ve written another song about her’ quiet.”

george’s fingers froze mid-chord.

paul’s eyes lit up. “oh! he has, hasn’t he? that’s why he was humming like a monk all through lunch.”

george buried his face in his hands. “can’t a man write a song without getting interrogated?”

“no,” they all said, “it’s us you’re talking about, c’mon” added john.

...

later that week, there was a little party at someone’s flat, someone who probably had no idea four bugs... plus their birds... and half the studio crew. they would mostly end up squeezed into their living room, laughing too loudly over a scratched record.

she was leaning against the kitchen counter, chatting with maureen, when the three troublemakers approached.

john sauntered up first, holding two drinks. “so,” he said, glancing at george across the room, “you know he’s written, like, six songs about you, right?”

she blinked. “who, george?”

ringo nodded. “we caught him grinning at his guitar yesterday. didn’t say a word for at least ten minutes.”

paul leaned in, “he’s been saying it’s about ‘the stars’ and ‘feeling centered,’ but trust me, he definetly means it’s about you.”

she laughed, a little breathlessly. “are you messing with me?”

“absolutely not,” john said. “he’s a proper romantic, that one.”

across the room, george was watching with thinly veiled panic.

“oh no,” he muttered under his breath.

he looked down at his drink, then back at her, and when their eyes met and she smiled, this soft, knowing little smile that said she heard everything, he nearly dropped his glass.

...

the party had mellowed and people were starting to leave, she found him outside, on the balcony, hands in his coat pockets, looking up at the stars like they might rescue him from embarrassment.

“you okay, georgie?”

he turned, startled. his smile was sheepish, “they told you, didn’t they?”

she stepped closer, brushing some dust off the front of his coat and adjusting it, “that you wrote songs about me?” she teased. “maybe.”

he covered his face again. “they’re never going to let me live this down.”

she laughed, getting closer to his chest, almost leaning on him “i think it’s sweet.”

he hesitated, then wrapped his arms around her gently, chin resting on her head. “i didn’t want to scare you off or anything, it may sound creppy but i just... think about you a lot.”

she giggled, “you can tell me when you, you know, think about me and that” she whispered. “or maybe sing it.”

he pulled back slightly, his hand brushing her cheek. “i’ve got one i haven’t shown anyone yet,” he said shyly. “it’s... really stupid i think.”

“i want to hear it,” she said, smiling up at him, “please?”.

he blushed again, ducking his head with a soft laugh.

“well alright, but only if you promise not to tell the others how red i go.”

...

the party had dwindled to only a few stragglers, quiet music playing as the night finally began to settle.

after that long conversation on the balcony, they both ended up in the dim glow of the living room, curled together on the old sofa while everyone else slowly filtered out.

“i’ve got it with me,” george said, taking a folded paper out of his pocket. “its the lyrics. there aren’t any instruments here, but i thought that maybe you would want me to read’em for you”

she looked up at him with tired eyes, already warm from the closeness and the late hour. “you really.. you really want to show them to me?..”

he nodded. “only if you’re awake enough.”

he looked at her, examining every little detail, she was asleep.

one hand resting near her cheek, her breathing soft and steady. he smiled, tender and stunned all over again. he didn’t move, didn’t want to disturb her peace.

“you don’t even know,” he whispered. “you don’t know what you do to me.”

he brushed a strand of hair away from her face, heart aching at how effortlessly perfect she looked. “every little thing you do...”

he paused, feeling a little foolish for talking to someone asleep, but he couldn't stop.

“you just.. you make everything better. i think sometimes, when i’m writing, its like the music’s already there, but it doesn’t make sense until i see you. and then it’s like, yeah... that’s what i meant to write.”

he smiled down at her, completely gone.

that’s when he heard it. a snort.

then a quiet giggle.

george’s eyes darted toward the hallway, and there they were.

paul, ringo, and john, piled awkwardly around the doorway like cartoon characters caught in the act.

“beautiful,” john whispered dramatically, “a true poet.”

george scrambled up so fast, his face going completely red.

“were you spying on me?!” he practicaly hissed.

“you were monologuing mate,” paul said grinning, “we could not.. uh not listen.”

“i knew you were a softie,” ringo said cheerfully. “should’ve brought tissues.”

...

she didn’t mention it right away the next morning.

the way he’d sat beside her, thinking she was asleep. the things he whispered, she’d heard every word. his fingers going trhough her hair and his voice vibrated softly in the space between them.

she didn’t open her eyes only because… well, part of her just wanted to hear it, to let it exist without him getting all shy and brushing it off, or the boys barging in and turning it into a joke.

but now, the sun was rising again, and she found herself back on the balcony where it all began. the party was somehow still going, even though it had faded to a soft buzz inside, muffled through the closed sliding door. just her, george, and the glow of the sunrise pressing gently against their shoulders.

he stood beside her, quiet, thoughtful.

“you were awake, weren’t you?”

she looked up but gave him a guilty little smile.

he huffed a soft laugh, looking away. “course you were.”

“couldn’t help it,” she murmured. “i didn’t want to interrupt you.”

“suppose i meant it all, anyway,” he said visibly flustered.

she turned towards him, her voice barely above a whisper, “you said i make everything better.”

he met her gaze, steady now, no backing away, no hesitation, “you do.”

it was silent for a beat. she stepped closer, so close he could feel the warmth radiating from her. “then i guess i should do something about that, shouldn’t i?”

his eyes searched hers, and without a word, he moved.

he kissed her like he’d been waiting for the right second his whole life.

his hands found her waist and pulled her in slowly, his lips were warm. he tilted his head just enough, her arms went up around his neck, fingers tangling in the soft ends of his hair, that’s when she felt the way his mouth curved into a smile against hers.

his grip tightened a little at her hips, pulling her even closer to him, it was the sweetest thing they’d ever felt.

when he finally pulled back, breath warm against her lips, he stayed close.

“you drive me crazy, you know that, right?”

she smiled, “i think i do now,” she whispered.

inside the house, just out of sight, the three boys were definitely watching from the window.

“well it was ’bout time,” paul muttered, sipping his drink.

the flat was warm and noisy, filled with the kind of hazy laughter and low music that clung to everything in the air. people were scattered around with drinks in hand, vinyl spinning on the record player, and the smell of cigarettes and alcohol drifting lazily around.

george was near the doorway, half-hidden behind a bookshelf, a cup of something in his hands. he wasn’t really one for big crowds, theres a reason why they call him the shy beatle.

across the room, there she was.

she were standing in the glow of a low lamp, laughing at something paul said, her hand brushing against his arm as she leaned closer to hear. the other boys hovered near, talking, teasing and enjoying the warmth of the night. but george, well he couldn’t even bring himself to walk over.

he’d seen her when she first walked in. the second she smiled at someone, it was as if nothing else existed. she wasn’t loud or showy, but there was something about her that felt familiar, even if they’d never spoken.

he meant to talk to her. really, he did.

but every time she glanced in his direction, and she did a few times, he felt like a deer in headlights. he’d half-lift his hand to wave or say something, then lose the nerve entirely, it was stupid. at least thats what he thought. just the thought of being seen by her made his palms all sweaty and his ears turned red.

later, as the party faded into coats and shoes and goodbyes, the boys wandered out into the cool night air, cheeks flushed and spirits high.

“that girl you were talking to,” george mumbled, trying to sound casual as he pulled his jacket tighter. “where do you know her from?”

paul blinked, then smirked, walking backward down the street. “oh, she´s an old friend, what about her?”

george gave the tiniest shrug. “she seemed nice.”

“oh she is lovely,” ringo piped in, catching the look on george’s face immediately.

“real sweet,” john added, grinning. “pretty too, thought you’d say hello, actually.”

george looked away, cheeks already turning pink. “didn’t get the chance.”

“oh, right,” paul said, his voice exaggeratedly innocent. “must’ve been busy hiding behind the furniture.”

george shoved his hands in his pockets. “shut it, alright?.”

but the boys were already exchanging knowing looks, paul nudged ringo.

“she asked about you, you know?,” paul said. “said she was hoping to talk to you but didn’t wanna bother.”

george stopped in his tracks.

“she.. she really did?”

“mhm,” ringo said, clearly enjoying this. “looked disappointed when you disappeared.”

“she thinks you’re cute, georgie,” john added, giggling like a little girl. “imagine that.”

george opened his mouth, his face was fully red now, and he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with his hands.

“don’t worry, we’ve got you covered,” paul said with a wink. “you’ll see her again.”

“but you better talk this time,” ringo said, “or we’ll physically drag you to her.”

...

the boys had arranged a band practice, george wasn’t suspicious when paul said that.

he should’ve been, maybe. paul had that overly casual tone he used when he was up to something, but george was too distracted to notice. his brain was still buzzing with the memory of that pretty girl he never even talked to, specially that one perfect smile she gave him from across the room.

so he showed up, guitar on hand, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair still damp from the drizzle outside. the rehearsal space was one of those half-lit corners of an old pub they sometimes used when the main studio was booked, all mismatched chairs and a little upright piano pushed against the wall.

“thought we were meeting at three,” george said as he walked in, tuning his guitar absently.

“well, you’re on time,” paul grinned. “for once.”

ringo and john were already there, but they were acting weird, not weird-weird, but... weird.

and then the door creaked open behind him.

“oh, um.. am i interrupting something?”

george froze. his fingers slipped over the strings as he turned and saw her standing in the doorway, holding her coat, a little breathless, her smile just a tiny bit nervous.

his mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“oh!” paul stood quickly. “there you are, thought you got lost.”

“found the place eventually.” she stepped inside, eyeing george for a second longer than necessary. “hi.”

“oh, um hi,” george managed, barely.

“well!” john clapped his hands, too loud. “we’d love to stay and play a tune, but,” he dramatically patted his pockets, “i just remembered we have to… uh… return a borrowed amp.”

“from that bloke, er..” ringo added, snapping his fingers, “the one with the dog, the big one.”

“what was his name again?” paul asked no one, already heading for the door. “big.. uh, tony?”

“tiny tony,” john corrected. “ironic, really.”

george blinked. “wait, what?”

“see ya later, have a lovely evening!” they said, practically shoving themselves out the door.

and then… silence.

she stood across the room, still holding her coat, looking slightly stunned. george blinked at the door, cheeks pink, then looked back at her.

she tried to hold back a smile. “so… did they plan that?”

“i.. i really don’t know,” george muttered, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “probably?”

she laughed softly, and something about that sound made his heart trip over itself.

“wasn’t a bad idea,” she added, quieter now, as she stepped a little closer. “i’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

george looked up, properly this time. “really?”

she nodded, nervous now too, fingers fiddling with a ring on her hand. “you seem sweet, just… shy.”

he huffed a little laugh, shifting his weight. “i get a bit… like that.”

she took a breath. “would it help if i maybe sat and listened to you play?”

george’s whole face softened. he blinked a few times, then gave a small nod. “sure, i think it would.”

she settled into one of the little uncomfortable chairs, and he picked up his guitar, still flustered but calmer now, like something inside him had settled. his fingers moved slowly over the strings.

and when he looked up mid-song, she was already watching him, chin on her hand, eyes warm, heart visibly unfolding.

he looked away quickly, the corners of his mouth turning up, unable to stop the shy smile growing across his face.

the guitar notes faded gently into the warm air of the little pub corner, george let the last chord ring out soft and sweet, barely daring to breathe as it hung between them.

“that was really beautiful,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

george looked up quickly. “you really think so?”

“i know so.”

he flushed immediately, ducking his head to look at his hands. “it’s just a little thing i’ve been messin’ around with, its not finished or anything.”

she smiled. “well, i’d still like to hear it again sometime. even unfinished.”

george gave the softest laugh, his fingers still resting on the strings. “you’re gonna make me mess it up if you keep sayin’ things like that.”

she tilted her head, watching him gently. “you always get this shy when someone’s nice to you?”

“uhm..” he started, then stopped, looked up at her with that smile. “only when it’s you.”

her heart did a full somersault. the air suddenly felt warmer, heavier, full of something unspoken and glittering.

she stood slowly, walking over to where he was sat, and for a second, neither of them said anything. his gaze flickered to her lips, then away, then back again.

she smiled softly. “i wanted to talk to you at the party, you know. but you were always just out of reach.”

“i wanted to too,” george said, voice quiet and rough with nerves. “just couldn’t seem to move.”

he set his guitar down carefully, like it was made of glass, and stood up. they were so close now, closer than either of them had been the whole afternoon. close enough that she could see the little freckles he had and the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked.

and then he stepped in, just slightly, just enough.

his hand brushed her wrist. his eyes found hers, searching, warm, unsure.

“i-uhm…” he began, voice almost trembling, “can i maybe-”

then ehe door slammed open.

“georgie boy!” paul’s voice rang out like a bell. “did we interrupt something?”

they jumped apart, and george nearly tripped backward over the amp cord.

john strolled in next, ringo behind him, both with identical knowing grins.

“oh no,” john said, “were you two about to kiss? tragic timing, really.”

“blame tiny thomas,” ringo added. “tiny tony” whispered paul, “yes alright, well the thing is that he kept talkin’ about his dogs.” he added with a smirk

george looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. she was hiding a smile behind her hand, cheeks burning.

paul gave her a wink and turned to george. “right, we’ll leave you two to your little jam session, then.”

george groaned into his hands as they disappeared out the door again, laughter echoing behind them.

she stepped closer again, still smiling, her voice soft in the aftermath.

“so…” she teased gently, “what were you going to ask me before the comedy trio arrived?”

george peeked through his fingers, lips twitching with an embarrassed smile. “i think you already know.”

“maybe, or maybe i just want to hear you say it.”

he lowered his hands, still shy, still glowing red, but he met her eyes this time, steadier now.

“can i kiss you?,” he said above a whisper.

“you can, but maybe… after they’ve gone for real this time.”

george laughed, full, genuine, and so light it made her heart swell. and as the door clicked softly shut behind the boys, he reached for her hand, gently threading his fingers through hers.

and it slowly killed him.

george sat on a stool in the recording booth, guitar in his lap, pretending to tune it even though it was already perfectly in key. his eyes flicked to the control room glass, there she was, biting the end of her pencil while listening to the tracks. every once in a while, she’d write something down, then laugh at something paul said through the intercom. george caught that laugh like it was a song stuck in his head.

“she’s just doing her job, y’know,” john said beside him, smirking.

“i didn’t say anything,” george mumbled, but his ears were already turning red.

“you don’t have to,” paul chimed in from across the room, lounging on the couch. “you go all dreamy every time she walks by, it’s adorable, really.”

“oh shut up.”

“you should tell her,” ringo added, munching on crisps. “before one of these days you explode or something.”

“i’m not going to "explode",” he muttered, strumming a little too hard on the guitar.

the truth was, he didn’t know how to tell her. she was brilliant and knew all the techy things that he could never wrap his head around. and he… well, he wrote little songs and stared at her too long.

...

then came that one evening, late in the session. the others had gone for a break, but george lingered, plucking a few chords while she stayed in the control room, scribbling something in her notebook.

he looked up, their eyes met through the glass. she gave him a small wave, then gestured toward the intercom.

“play that again, please?” her voice crackled through the speaker. “the little bit you just did.”

he blinked, then played it again, softer this time, sweeter. she tilted her head, smiling.

“that’s nice,” she said.

“really? wrote it a while ago about someone,” he replied before he could stop himself.

there was a pause.

“oh yeah?” she asked gently, her smile faltering just a bit. “anyone I know?”

he hesitated, fingers hovering over the strings. then, in a rare burst of bravery, he leaned toward the mic and looked her right in the eye.

“it´s about you,” he said.

the room went still. no sound but the faint hum of the equipment.

she didn’t speak for a moment, just blinked surprised. then her face lit up, soft and glowing, like she'd been hoping for that exact moment without even realizing it.

“well,” she said, voice soft through the speaker, “i hope you keep writing.”

...

george wandered into the café down the street with his coat collar pulled up and his hair still a bit tousled from sleep. the rest of the boys were already there, halfway through their breakfast and gossiping like old ladies.

“you’re late, romeo,” john teased, raising an eyebrow as george slid into the booth.

“oh please,” george muttered, stealing a piece of toast from paul.

“come on,” paul grinned. “tell us what happened, you looked like you were gonna pass out last night after that whole ‘it´s about you’ line.”

ringo leaned forward eagerly. “she smiled, right? looked dead pleased?”

george tried not to smile but failed miserably. “she said she hoped i kept writing, maybe i think she may like me too.”

john clutched his heart in fake agony. “young love, it makes me sick.”

“oh, please just shut up,” george mumbled through a mouthful of toast.

“you should ask her out,” ringo said with a shrug.

george blinked. “just like that?”

“well, you like her, you think she likes you, so what’re you waiting for, a sign from the sky?”

he thought about it for a second, the way she looked at him through the glass, the way her voice had gone just a little shy when she asked, “anyone i know?”

“right,” he said, half to himself. “right, yeah i’ll do it.”

...

back at the studio, she was a blur of movement. scribbling notes, adjusting mics, talking too fast, laughing too loud, something was definitely off.

george watched her for a moment, brows furrowed.

he caught her arm gently as she passed him the third time, still mid-sentence about the track settings.

“hey,” he said, voice low, steady. “are you alright?”

“yeah! just a bit behind on schedule, and i’ve got to-”

“you’re nervous.”

she froze, blinking up at him. “i’m not.”

he tilted his head slightly, gaze soft but fixed on her. “you’ve been avoiding me since i got in.”

“i haven’t.”

“yes, you have, is it because of what i told you yesterday?.”

she took a small step back, flustered, cheeks flushed. “i just, it’s been a weird morning and i’m trying not to overthink things and-”

she turned like she was about to pace again, but george stepped in front of her, just close enough to stop her in her tracks. close enough that she had to look up at him.

the air shifted.

her eyes widened a little, lips parted in surprise. “george?”

he looked nervous too, but his voice was warm, steady. “you’ve got me thinkin’ i did something wrong.”

she shook her head quickly. “no-no, it’s just... yesterday, it felt so surreal. i didn’t know if you meant it or if-”

“but i did,” he said, and he smiled softly. “i really mean it.”

she was quiet for a moment, heart racing. then, finally, she exhaled, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

“i was afraid you’d change your mind,” she admitted.

george leaned in a bit, his nose brushing hers, his voice barely above a whisper. “not a chance.”

she smiled, really smiled, and he thought it might be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

his grin turned a little lopsided. “go out with me? please?”

“how could i say no?,” she said, breathless.

it was raining outside, there was a steady, quiet drizzle that tapped gently at the windows. inside the hotel room was warm, the light was golden and low, filtered through the curtains. a record was playing quietly in the corner.

ringo was buried under at least three blankets on the couch, his hair a little messy, cheeks pink from the low fever he’d woken up with. he had one arm poking out from the mountain of fabric, holding a half-drunk cup of tea she'd made him an hour ago.

she was sat on the floor beside him, flipping through a magazine, glancing up every so often to check on him.

“you alright, love?” she asked softly, reaching up to brush a bit of hair away from his forehead.

he gave her the tiniest smile, eyelids heavy. “mhm, bit tired,” he murmured, his voice thick and sleepy.

“you look tired,” she teased, brushing her knuckles gently along his jaw. “well, more sleepy.”

ringo chuckled, then coughed softly into his blanket. “i’m a sick, what did you expect?” he croaked.

“you look kinda cute like this,” she added, and he leaned into her hand just a little.

"i always look cute," he said as she laughed.

she climbed up onto the couch beside him carefully, sliding under the blankets with him. he immediately turned towards her, resting his head against her shoulder. she wrapped her arms around him, her fingers tracing slow circles on his back.

“this is nice,” he whispered, a little congested, nuzzling closer. “i could stay here forever.”

the rain tapped gently against the window. somewhere down the hall, they could faintly hear the other boys laughing, probably playing cards or making a mess in someone else’s room. but here, in this little pocket of stillness, it was just the two of them.

at one point, ringo lifted his head to look at her, eyes soft, nose a little red, curls falling into his eyes.

“thanks for takin’ care of me,” he murmured. “even when i look like a sad mop.”

she laughed, brushing her fingers through his hair. “you always look like a mop, love. just usually a happier one.”

ringo grinned, then tucked his face back against her neck with a sleepy sigh. “you dont know how much i love you.”

she felt her heart skip a beat and looked down, but he was already dozing again, warm and safe in her arms.

...

the storm outside didn’t let up, and neither of them minded.

she stayed like that for a long while, curled up with him beneath the weight of the blankets, one hand stroking his hair. every so often, he let out the tiniest snore, barely a sound, really, more like a sigh. it made her smile every time.

at some point, he stirred again, eyes blinking open slowly like he’d just remembered where he was. he looked up at her, cheeks still flushed because of the fever, but his gaze soft and utterly content.

“you’re still here,” he murmured, voice rough.

she kissed his temple. “where else would I be?”

she shifted a bit to get a better look at him, tucking the blankets around his shoulders. “oh my, you’re warm like a little oven.”

“’m a multifunctional oven,” he mumbled sleepily.

her fingers traced over the freckles on his face. “you’re ridiculous.”

then a knock at the door followed by john’s voice, “oi, has the mop kicked the bucket yet, or is he still hogging all the sympathy?”

ringo groaned loudly and buried his face into her shoulder. “ignore them, if they ask i’m dead.”

she giggled. “you want me to go tell them off for you?”

ringo nodded. “please..”

she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “i’ll let them know, very noble of you.”

another voice joined in from the hallway, it was george this time. “tell him if he wants soup, he better come fight me for it.”

“he can’t fight anyone, george, he’s practically soup himself!” she called back through the door.

“exactly!” came paul’s voice now, laughing.

ringo just groaned again and pulled the blanket further over his head. “tell them i’m retiring, this is my new life now. the blanket kingdom.”

she snorted, curling back in beside him. “fine your majesty, shall i fetch the royal tissues?”

she woke up to the smell of tea, and it was not the sad hotel tea from last night, but something stronger, more proper in a way. the sound of gentle clinking, porcelain against porcelain, and a spoon stirring sugar.

she blinked, her eyes opening slowly.

the other side of the bed was empty, the sheets still warm. sunlight filtered in through the sheer curtains, painting golden strips across the room. she sat up groggily, rubbing her eyes.

"good morning, sleepy."

she turned to se george standing at the foot of the bed in mismatched socks, one plain black and one striped, probably borrowed from ringo. he looked tired, wrapped in a hotel robe that looked way too big on him, with his hair falling into his eyes.

his voice was still scratchy, barely there, but he’d found enough of it to talk, kind of.

he was holding a tray. two mugs, a slice of toast and a little folded napkin with something written on it.

she laughed softly, heart swelling as she sat up against the pillows. “you made breakfast?”

he gave her a sheepish nod and set the tray on her lap carefully, mouthing “surprise.”

“i should be taking care of you,” she teased, running a hand through her messy hair.

george just shook his head, a little grin pulling at the corners of his lips. then he plopped down beside her, leaning his head on her shoulder, just like yesteday, makeing it feel like it was the most natural thing in the world.

she looked down at the napkin, in his familiar loopy handwriting, it read: “still sick, still yours, forever, if you’ll keep me. (p.s. i stole paul’s socks. don’t tell.)”

she laughed, turned her head and kissed his hair.

“forever doesn't sound like that much, don't you think you can stay a little more,” she whispered.

he turned his head slightly, just enough to press a faint kiss to her collarbone, his lips were warm, and he smelled like the tea he was drinking a while ago

“maybe,” he murmured, half into her skin, half into the blanket. “but don't worry, you'll be stuck with me for a long time.”

she smiled, wrapping her arms around him, staying like that for a moment, her fingers brushing through his messy hair, his cheek resting against her shoulder, the tray of tea going slightly cold on her lap. until someone knocked on the door.

three sharp knocks on the door.

“room service!” a high voice called, not bothering to disguise its liverpool accent.

george groaned quietly and buried his face deeper into her side.

the door creaked open before she could say anything, and in tumbled paul and ringo, carrying a plate of croissants and a suspiciously large jar of strawberry jam.

“hope you two are dressed,” paul sang, dropping the jam dramatically on the desk like it was a trophy.

john followed behind, peeking over paul’s shoulder. “we brought offerings for the sickly lovers, and we also want the sock back.”

george didn’t even lift his head.

“go away,” he mumbled, muffled into her stomach now.

“aww, come on, georgie,” paul said with a grin, walking over and stealing a piece of toast from the tray like it belonged to him. “we missed you at breakfast.”

“you’re in my breakfast,” george croaked, finally lifting his head to glare at them.

“and she’s wearing my shirt, by the way,” paul added casually, pointing at the tee she’d pulled on at some point during the night. “which i think makes us even.”

she looked down and blushed. “oh i.. well it was on the floor.”

john wiggled his eyebrows. “are you sure?”

“john, please,” george coughed, clearly too weak to fight but not too weak to look completely scandalized. he tried to swat him with a pillow but missed by a mile.

“alright, alright,” ringo chuckled, tossing a spare blanket onto the bed. “we’ll leave you lovebirds alone, just wanted to check on you, and also show you the massive jam.”

which at this point, paul was already dipping a croissant in it.

george let out a long sigh and leaned his head back against her shoulder, clearly giving up.

as the boys trickled out, bickering, laughing, and leaving a little trail of crumbs, she kissed george’s temple.

“they’re not so bad,” she whispered.

“they’re awful,” george muttered, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

she picked up the napkin again, rereading the words he’d written earlier. "still sick, still yours, forever, if you'll keep me"