#georgeharrisonfandom

i was wondering if you can do a reader x george harrison where the reader pulls a prank on george by asking him if he wants a kiss but really the reader means the chocolate - maybe george sneaks in an actual kiss as he takes the chocolate?

A Sweet Kiss

It was one of those lazy afternoons when George was stretched out on the couch, idly strumming his guitar while you lounged nearby with a mischievous smile on your face. A little idea had sparked in your head the moment you saw the bag of Hershey’s Kisses sitting on the table.

“Hey, George,” you called casually, trying to keep your tone innocent.

He hummed, still strumming a soft tune. “Yeah, love?”

“Do you want a kiss?” you asked, biting back your grin.

That caught his attention. His head lifted, dark eyes flicking toward you with the faintest hint of surprise and curiosity. A small, sly smile crept onto his lips as he set the guitar aside. “Do I want a kiss?” he repeated slowly, his voice low and teasing.

You nodded, holding his gaze, then reached into the bag beside you and pulled out a shiny little chocolate. “Yeah. A kiss.”

The look on his face was priceless. It caught between amusement and disbelief. “You little trickster,” he murmured, chuckling as he leaned forward to take the candy from your hand. But just as his fingers brushed against the silver wrapper, George leaned in closer than you expected.

Before you could react, he pressed the quickest, softest kiss to your lips, leaving you stunned for a heartbeat. Then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, he plucked the chocolate from your hand and leaned back, unwrapping it with a smug little grin.

“You asked if I wanted a kiss,” he said, popping the chocolate into his mouth. “Seemed a shame not to take both kinds.”

Your cheeks burned as you tried to glare at him, but his laughter was warm, boyish, and a little cheeky melted away any attempt at staying annoyed.

“You’re impossible, George,” you muttered, but deep down, you didn’t mind one bit.

(You got it! I hope you enjoy and I’m sorry if this took forever 🥺)

Beach Day with George ☀️⛱️🌊

The summer air was warm, humming with the scent of salt and seaweed as George parked his little car just beyond the dunes. The radio still played faintly from the speakers, a tune fading out into static as he turned the key and leaned over the wheel to grin at you.

“Perfect day for it,” he said, voice smooth in that Liverpool lilt, eyes sparkling like he already had mischief planned.

The beach stretched out before you with golden sand rolling into the blue waves, families setting up umbrellas, children shrieking as they chased the tide. But George hardly looked at any of that. He tossed his guitar case onto the blanket he’d brought and immediately tugged his shoes off, digging his toes into the sand with a sigh of relief.

“Better than being cooped up in a studio all day, don’t you think?” he asked, rolling his trousers to his knees and motioning for you to join him.

The two of you wandered closer to the shoreline, letting the foamy water lap at your ankles. George held his hand out, pulling you along with a grin. The cool water made you squeal, and he laughed, that warm boyish laugh that seemed to carry over the sound of the waves.

“You’ll thank me when you’re used to it,” he teased, giving your hand a squeeze.

Soon enough, the playful side of him came alive. He splashed water at you, darted back before you could catch him, and finally grabbed you by the waist, both of you stumbling into the shallows in fits of laughter. His hair stuck damply to his forehead, and the sight of him with the sunlight catching the curve of his cheekbones, a grin wide across his face, this was enough to make your chest ache.

After tiring himself out, George stretched on the blanket, shirt undone, chest still glistening from the sea. You settled beside him, sharing lemonade straight from the bottle and the sandwiches you’d packed in wax paper. The two of you talked between bites and snippets about songs he’d been writing, silly stories from Liverpool, dreams of someday seeing more of the world than just bits of England and America.

Every so often, George would lean over, pick up a seashell, and hand it to you with a little smirk, like he was giving you treasure. “This one’s got your name on it,” he’d say, even if it was just an ordinary pebble. You’d laugh, but tuck it away anyway.

As the sun sank lower, painting the water in streaks of orange and pink, the beach grew quieter. Families packed up, children’s laughter faded, and the two of you were left with only the rolling waves and the cries of gulls overhead. George shifted closer, resting on his elbow so he could look down at you.

“You know, love,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, “I think this might be the best day I’ve had in a long while.”

You smiled, the warmth of his words wrapping around you as much as the sun still clinging to the horizon.

Then, before you could reply, he leaned in soft, gentle, tasting faintly of salt and lemonade and kissed you. The world seemed to fall quiet, save for the sea. When he pulled back, his smile was small but certain.

“Sun, sand, and you,” he said simply. “That’s all I’ll ever need.”

Meeting on the set of A Hard Day’s Night as close as possible to the George and Pattie meeting story PLEASE

I love this request! And I hope you love it too! 💛

Can’t Buy Her Love: George Harrison X Y/N Story

The set was madness in the most glamorous, gritty way. Lights buzzing hot above, cigarette smoke curling through the rafters, women in curlers running lines with their arms crossed tight to keep warm. You’d never been on a film set before but obviously not like this. You’d done a toothpaste commercial, once, back in Croydon, but this was The Beatles.

The Beatles.

You were just meant to be a background girl. A schoolgirl extra, cast to scream and swoon and maybe get one of the boys to toss you a wink if the camera caught it just right. The casting agent had looked you up and down, said, “She’s got a good face for frame,” and shoved a school uniform into your hands.

The dress was too short. The socks too white. But none of that mattered now.

What mattered was that you were standing in a drafty corridor in Twickenham Studios, waiting to be called in for your scene, when George Harrison walked right past you.

Not walked but sauntered. Strolled. Glided like he had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there.

He had his hands tucked into his suit pockets and a single strand of dark hair falling over his forehead. His face was paler than you’d expected, elegant and almost soft, like he hadn’t quite grown into fame yet.

You tried not to stare. You failed. He caught you.

He stopped walking.

And smiled.

“Hello,” he said, voice low and even. “Haven’t seen you before.”

You felt every part of yourself stiffen. “I’m just an extra.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in an amused kind of way. “You don’t look like ‘just’ anything.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

“That your line, then?” you said.

“Only for the ones I want to marry,” he replied, as easy as breathing.

You blinked.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Will you marry me?” he said, fully serious, not blinking. “We’ll run off. I’ll write songs about you. You’ll never have to scream at a concert again. Deal?”

You felt yourself stammer. “I….. George, I—I have a boyfriend.”

That made him pause. A flicker of disappointment passed through his expression, but it was gone just as quickly. His voice didn’t lose its charm.

“Ah. Right. Well, if it doesn’t work out…” he gave you a shrug and the faintest smile, “…you know where to find me.”

You didn’t have time to reply. Someone behind you shouted, “George! Come on, they’re waiting!” and he tipped you a little wave before disappearing down the corridor.

Your heart didn’t stop racing for the rest of the day.

You saw him again two days later during a break between filming. You were sitting on a battered leather sofa in the lounge with a cup of tea, reading through your lines, when he walked in like he’d been looking for you.

“Still engaged to that lucky bloke?” George asked, already smirking.

You looked up at him, trying not to blush. “Still taken, yes.”

He flopped beside you and took a sip from your tea without asking. “Damn shame.”

You stared at the rim of your cup where his lips had just been. “You’re very persistent.”

He shrugged. “I’m a romantic.”

You almost rolled your eyes. Almost. But the truth was, he wasn’t what you’d expected. You’d imagined all four of them would be wild, loud, cocky. But George was quiet, thoughtful. A little cheeky, yes, but it came from somewhere gentle.

He never pushed. Just teased. Asked a few questions. Sat with you when he could’ve gone off with anyone else on set.

Once, he handed you a stick of gum without saying anything. Another time, he wrote a silly little limerick on a napkin and slipped it into your coat pocket when you weren’t looking. You didn’t know how he’d gotten your coat. You didn’t care.

But you still had a boyfriend.

Eric. He was a photographer. Moody. Talented. The sort who thought everything was about him. You’d been together over a year, but lately things had been… off. The phone calls were shorter. The visits less frequent. He once told you you were “too silly” for serious work in film. You didn’t cry. You just stopped calling back as much.

Still, he was your boyfriend. So every time George asked softly, quietly, like it wasn’t life or death, you still said no.

“No, I can’t.”

“No, not yet.”

“No, George.”

But you always smiled when you said it. He always noticed.

One afternoon, as shooting wrapped for the day and people began spilling into the hallways like dropped popcorn, he found you again. Your coat was half-on, your script tucked under your arm, and he just stood there in the doorway looking like something torn out of a daydream.

“I’m not going to ask today,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “No?”

He shook his head. “I’m going to give you some time.”

You laughed a little, softly. “You really think I’ll change my mind?”

He grinned. “I know you will.”

You didn’t say anything after that. Just looked at him. Really looked at him.

And maybe for the first time, you thought about what it might be like to not to be his fan, not to be one of the screaming girls outside but to be his. To drink tea with him. To watch him write something at 2 a.m. To sit across from him and hear him ask again.

Maybe you weren’t ready.

Of course! Here it is 💛

Warning ⚠️

This story deals with very sensitive topics, including:

• struggles with infertility

• a positive pregnancy followed by miscarriage

• emotional pain, grief, and guilt

• light hospital scenes and mentions of blood

The air in Kinfauns was always damp in winter. Fog rolled in through the trees like ghosts, soft and silent, pressing itself against the windows until it felt like the whole house was underwater. December had arrived heavy, bitter and slow, and inside the music room where the fire barely reached, you sat curled into the corner of the couch, your knees to your chest, eyes fixed on nothing.

The record player spun quietly in the background, some instrumental George had been fiddling with for weeks. He hadn’t titled it yet. He said it didn’t need words. Just sound. Just breath. You thought maybe it was meant to calm you, but all it did was make your thoughts louder.

You were tired. Not just physically, but deep in your bones. The kind of tired that seeped into your soul. For over a year, you had been waking up with the quiet ache of want in your chest a want that went unanswered again and again. Negative test after negative test. Late periods that teased you with false hope. Doctors who told you to “just relax” or “let nature take its course” while the days slipped through your fingers like sand. George never blamed you. He would hold you afterward, stroke your hair and murmur things like “we’ll be alright” and “maybe next time.” But there was always a sadness in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking. And that crushed you even more than the emptiness inside your own body.

You remembered the first time you really cried about it. It was in late summer, after a visit to a fertility specialist in London. You’d sat through two hours of sterile medical language, charts, and suggestions, only to leave with the cruelest answer of all “unexplained infertility.” You’d driven home in silence, your hand in George’s but your heart a thousand miles away. That night, you locked yourself in the bathroom and sobbed so violently that your ribs ached. George had waited outside the door, whispering to you that he loved you, that it didn’t change anything. But it did. It changed everything.

And then came October. A missed period. Nausea. Sore breasts. You didn’t want to hope….. you swore to yourself you wouldn’t. But you told George anyway, and he looked at you with the kind of cautious joy that made your chest hurt. He went out that night and bought three tests, even though he hated the idea of them, and waited with you in the bathroom in complete silence. You both stared down at the results, and when the faint pink line appeared, your hands flew to your mouth and the room spun.

Pregnant.

You were pregnant.

George pulled you into him and held you like a man gripping a miracle. He laughed, but there were tears in his eyes. For the first time in over a year, you felt light. Alive. Whole. You laid in bed that night with your cheek pressed to his chest, whispering names back and forth, giggling like children. He kissed your stomach, said “hello in there” and you fell asleep with hope blooming like spring inside your heart.

The next few weeks passed like a dream. George canceled press meetings. He stopped going to the studio. He stayed home and cooked you breakfast, bought you books on motherhood, even painted one of the spare rooms a soft sage green. You tried not to get carried away, but you felt something inside you shift like your body had finally opened its hands and accepted the gift it had refused for so long. You started knitting. You hummed to yourself in the kitchen. You held your belly in the mirror, even though there was barely a swell. George began writing a new song. You didn’t ask about it, but he played little pieces of it for you, always staring at you while he strummed the chords, like he was willing your joy into the strings.

But joy has its limits. And so does hope.

It was a Tuesday when the pain started. Just a dull cramp at first. Nothing alarming. You told George it was probably normal something shifting, stretching. He nodded, but his brow furrowed. That evening, you felt a small gush of something warm in your underwear. You went to the bathroom, half-expecting to find nothing. But there it was.

Blood.

You stared at it for what felt like hours. It wasn’t much just a streak. But it was too red. Too wrong.

“George,” you called, your voice barely above a whisper.

He came running. The look on your face was enough. He knelt beside you on the floor, his hands trembling as they reached for yours.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said quickly, but his voice cracked at the edges. “It happens, doesn’t it? Spotting? Early pregnancy?”

You nodded. You wanted to believe him. But deep inside you, something had already cracked open.

That night was the longest of your life.

The bleeding didn’t stop. It got worse. Cramping turned into waves of pain that wrapped around your back and belly like fire. You spent the night curled in George’s arms, biting into a towel so he wouldn’t hear your screams. He tried to stay calm, but you saw the fear in his eyes with raw and unfiltered. At dawn, the blood was undeniable. There was a large clot. Something that looked like it had meaning. George carried you to the car without speaking, drove to the hospital with white knuckles on the steering wheel.

They confirmed it before lunchtime.

The baby was gone.

You didn’t cry at first. You just stared at the wall, the sound of your own heartbeat pulsing in your ears. George sat beside you, his hand on your thigh, trying to stay strong. But when the nurse left the room, he broke. He lowered his head into your lap and sobbed with your shoulders shaking, chest heaving. You ran your fingers through his hair, not even realizing you were crying too. It was a shared grief, hot and choking, a weight that sat on both of your chests.

Back home, the green nursery door stayed shut. George stopped playing music. You couldn’t look at your reflection for days. It felt like your body had betrayed him. Had betrayed you both. The guilt crawled up your spine, made a home in your throat. Every time he touched you, it felt undeserved. Every time he looked at you with softness, it made you sick with shame.

But he never left your side.

He kissed you with reverence. He brought you tea. He lay with you on the couch and read aloud from the baby books you hadn’t thrown away yet. And one evening, he picked up his guitar again and played you the song he had written.

It didn’t have lyrics. It didn’t need them.

It sounded like snow falling on a quiet garden. Like hope, and loss, and love that didn’t break even when the world did.

You leaned into him, tears falling silently, and for the first time since the miscarriage, you whispered:

“Maybe we try again. Not now. But someday.”

yesss I love this idea!

I hope you enjoy 🤍

We’ll Meet Again

You hadn’t heard his name in a long time—not from someone who meant it, anyway. Sure, he was in the magazines and on the radio, splashed across headlines in every music shop window, but you’d trained yourself not to flinch anymore. Not when the newsboys shouted about The Beatles. Not when his name came up at parties, like a distant star everyone could point to but never touch. Not even when that voice of his—soft and measured, full of quiet ache—slipped through the speakers when you least expected it, forcing your breath to catch in your throat. You pretended you didn’t care. You pretended so hard you almost started to believe it.

But the truth was, there had never been anyone like George. Not before him. Not after.

The two of you had met before the world demanded so much of him. Back when he was just George—the boy with sleepy eyes and calloused fingertips, the boy who used to carry his guitar case like it weighed more than his whole body. You were both barely out of childhood, but even then, there was something between you. A quiet understanding. He’d sneak out of rehearsals just to meet you by the old record store, sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk while he played something rough and new, something half-finished, only to look up at you and say, “What d’you think, then?” like your opinion was the only one that mattered.

And for a while, it was easy. It was laughter spilling down cobblestone alleys, arguments over favorite albums, cold hands brushing together under the glow of yellow streetlamps. It was sitting on rooftops at dusk, dreaming out loud about places you’d never been. He’d talk about Hamburg and London like they were just around the corner. You’d pretend you weren’t scared of losing him to the very things he hoped for.

You’d both promised not to let it change things. That was the worst part of it all.

It started unraveling in little ways—missed phone calls, weeks without a letter, his voice sounding thinner on the line, more distracted. Then came the tabloids, the flashing lights, the fan girls who screamed his name like they owned it. Suddenly he wasn’t just George. He was George Harrison, and the world wanted pieces of him. And somewhere in the chaos, he stopped wanting to share those pieces with you.

The fight happened in his hotel room in London. You still remember the way the rain hit the windows like it was trying to drown the whole damn city. You were tired—tired of being sidelined, tired of being forgotten. And he was tired of having to explain himself to someone who still saw him as a boy in scuffed boots and secondhand jackets.

“I’m not that person anymore,” he said, voice low and cold. “You don’t know what it’s like now.”

You snapped before you could stop yourself. “I knew you before any of this! Before they turned you into some fantasy! But maybe that’s all you ever were.”

He didn’t answer. He just looked at you, eyes full of something sharp and unfamiliar. And when he turned his back on you, you didn’t beg him to stay.

You left without saying goodbye.

⸻

Six Years Later — 1969

London felt quieter than it used to. Maybe it was you who had changed.

You walked differently now—more certain, more guarded. You’d built a life for yourself, one that didn’t rely on echoes of the past. You worked at a small publishing press in Soho, drank black coffee, read books that made your heart feel full again. And most days, you didn’t think of George at all.

But fate doesn’t care about what you’ve worked to forget.

You saw him in the most unexpected place—outside a tiny shop tucked away behind Carnaby Street. You hadn’t meant to be there. You were meeting a friend who cancelled last minute, so you ducked into the shop on a whim, thumbing through old records when the doorbell jingled and in he walked.

George.

Time had touched him. His hair was longer now, brushing his shoulders. He wore tinted glasses, a soft corduroy jacket, and that same unreadable expression he’d always carried like a secret. For a moment, neither of you moved. He looked right at you like he wasn’t sure you were real.

Then his lips parted. “Y/N?”

Your name. Your real name, not some foggy memory. You felt your heart lurch.

“George,” you breathed.

He stepped closer, hesitant, searching your face. “God, it’s been…”

“Six years,” you said, and you both smiled, not because it was funny—because it was sad.

⸻

You sat together on a bench in Regent’s Park that afternoon, your coffees cooling between your palms as the silence stretched long and familiar. You didn’t talk about the fight. Not at first. You talked about simpler things—mutual friends, old haunts, the way the world had changed. He told you about India. About the sitar. About how sometimes, even now, he felt lonelier than he ever expected to.

You looked at him, really looked at him. And he wasn’t the boy you remembered. But he wasn’t a stranger, either.

“I still think about that night,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Which night?”

“The one in my hotel room. I played it back in my head for years. Thought maybe I should’ve chased after you.”

Your throat tightened. “Why didn’t you?”

He swallowed. “Because I thought you’d already stopped loving me.”

You stared at him, the ache from years ago blooming fresh in your chest. “I never did.”

His gaze met yours, and suddenly all the time in between didn’t matter.

“I wrote songs about you,” he whispered. “I just changed the names.”

You didn’t speak. You just reached for his hand. And for the first time in six years, it felt like home.

⸻

The days that followed were slow and careful, like opening an old journal and rereading words you hadn’t dared to touch in years. George didn’t rush anything, and you didn’t either. There was a reverence in the way you treated this second chance, as if it were made of porcelain something delicate, breakable, too precious to hold too tightly.

He called you the next day, his voice lower, steadier than it used to be, asking if you’d want to meet him at the garden behind Friar Park. “It’s quiet there,” he said, almost shyly. “No one’ll bother us.” And he was right. When you arrived, it was just the two of you and the late afternoon sun filtering through the trees, the grass soft beneath your shoes, and the smell of honeysuckle hanging in the air like memory.

You walked beside him, brushing shoulders here and there, still unsure of what this was. Still afraid of naming it. But it was there, undeniably — this warm pull between you. You felt it in the way he looked at you now, like he was trying to memorize the lines of your face all over again. He told you things he hadn’t said in years. About how fast everything moved. About the loneliness that crept in at night. How fame felt more like a cage some days. And how he missed the boy he was before the world wanted everything from him. The boy he was when you knew him.

And then, in the middle of talking about nothing at all, he stopped.

“I used to dream about this,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You. Me. Here. Like none of it ever fell apart.”

You didn’t respond at first. You just stood there, heart pounding in your chest, the kind of pounding that feels like it’s shaking every memory loose inside you. And when you looked at him, you saw it — not just the man he had become, but the boy you used to love, tucked just beneath the surface. Still there. Still yours.

“I think I stopped dreaming,” you finally said. “It hurt too much.”

George’s hand found yours like it was always meant to. His fingers laced through yours slowly, tentatively. And when you didn’t pull away, he let out the softest breath — like he’d been holding it for years.

⸻

That night, he played for you again.

It was just the two of you in the quiet of his home, the lights low, a single candle flickering on the piano where dust had settled thick, like time itself had forgotten to pass. He sat cross-legged on the floor, guitar in hand, and played something unfamiliar. Something raw. Unfinished.

“I never recorded this one,” he said, looking up at you through his lashes. “Couldn’t get it right. Never made sense without you.”

You sat across from him, legs curled beneath you, heart swelling as his voice filled the room. There was a gentleness to it now, weathered and wise, but still full of that same George magic — that ability to make the world fall away with just a few chords. The song wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And it was yours.

When the last note faded, the silence that followed was thick. Sacred.

And then you leaned in.

There was no grand gesture. Just the two of you — breathing the same air, holding onto a moment you both knew would change everything. His forehead touched yours first. Then his nose brushed lightly against your cheek. And then, at last, his lips met yours — soft, hesitant, like he was still asking permission even as he kissed you.

You kissed him back.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

⸻

The weeks that followed were golden.

He’d show up at your door with fresh flowers and vinyls he thought you’d love. You’d walk along the Thames in the early mornings before the city woke, fingers interlocked, laughing about how you used to sneak into record shops as teenagers. You spent rainy days tangled on his couch with tea and your legs across his lap, letting time slow down for the first time in forever.

George wasn’t the same boy you once knew and thank God for that. He was quieter now, more thoughtful. He loved differently. Deeper. You saw it in the way he paid attention to the small things — the way you liked your coffee, the page you left off in your book, the way your eyes drifted toward the sky when you were lost in thought.

And you loved him differently, too.

Not with the recklessness of youth. But with something stronger. Something earned. A love that had been torn apart, buried, and still found a way to rise again.

⸻

One night, you sat beside him in his home studio, the lights dimmed, the machines humming quietly as he replayed a track he’d been working on. You watched him, the way his fingers moved like they had a mind of their own, how his brow furrowed in concentration, how he chewed on his lip when he was trying to make something perfect. You reached for his hand.

“You never stop creating,” you whispered.

He turned to you with a small smile. “That’s the only way I’ve ever known how to feel.”

You paused. “And me?”

His eyes softened. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever truly felt.”

⸻

By autumn, he had cleared a drawer for you in his room. Not because he expected you to stay, but because he hoped you might want to. He never asked you to move in. He never needed to. You were already home.

And one morning, after you woke tangled in his sheets, sunlight painting your skin gold, George leaned over and whispered against your hair, “I don’t think I ever stopped being in love with you.”

You blinked at him, still heavy with sleep. “Even after everything?”

He smiled. “Especially after everything.”

⸻

You fell in love the way the leaves fall in September — gently, slowly, undeniably. There were no fireworks this time. No shouting from rooftops. Just a quiet, steady return. Like gravity. Like coming back to something that was always yours to begin with.

And the world — with all its noise, its chaos, its wanting — faded just enough for the two of you to build something soft, something private. Something real.

**Author note: Part four is finally here! Sorry it took forever!**

George stood there in the hallway, paralyzed.

The low murmur of Paul’s voice.

The soft, breathless gasps that followed.

Your voice.

He felt it like a punch to the chest.

He hadn’t meant to stay frozen, but every step felt impossible. Every breath, heavier than the last. His heart was thudding against his ribs, and all he could do was listen.

He had imagined a thousand things he’d say to you if he ever got the chance again.

But now, there was nothing left to say.

Just the sound of the bed creaking.

Just the muffled moans you tried to hold back.

Just the cruel reminder that you weren’t his.

Not anymore.

Maybe you never were.

He turned around. Fast. His jaw was clenched so tight he thought his teeth might break.

“Paul’s just grabbing something,” George heard your voice say faintly, sweet and breathless, like you were trying to compose yourself on the other side of that door.

He couldn’t bear to hear it anymore.

George grabbed his coat from the hook, didn’t say a word, and walked straight out the front door.

You adjusted your shirt with shaking hands, cheeks flushed, trying to steady your breath as Paul smoothed his hair in the bedroom mirror with a boyish grin.

“I needed that,” he chuckled, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek. “Now—where did I put those bloody lyrics?”

You didn’t laugh. You barely smiled. You felt like you were going to throw up.

“Paul,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “Where’s George?”

He glanced toward the bedroom door, frowning a little. “Should still be out there, I think. Probably waiting on me to stop ‘snogging’ you.” He winked at you playfully.

You gave him a tight smile and quickly walked out of the room.

But the living room was empty.

George’s guitar case was gone. The front door was slightly ajar, the cold air seeping in.

He had left.

No goodbye.

Your chest ached. You wrapped your arms around yourself, staring at the door, wondering how long he had been standing there.

Had he heard?

You already knew the answer.

You took a shaky breath and closed the door gently, leaning your forehead against it.

How did everything fall apart so fast?

And worse… why did it hurt so much that he left?

You were with Paul. He was your boyfriend. He adored you.

But it wasn’t Paul you wanted to chase after.

It was George.

That night, you sat alone in the kitchen with a cup of tea growing cold in your hands. Paul was out in the garage, tinkering with his car radio. The house was quiet. Too quiet.

The guilt was unbearable.

You reached for the telephone.

Your fingers hovered over the rotary dial.

G-E-O-R-G-E

But you stopped.

You couldn’t call him. Not after that.

You didn’t know what hurt more—kissing George and having to push him away… or letting him walk out the door today, thinking you didn’t care.

You did care.

And now, it might be too late to tell him.

It had been a week.

Seven long, dragging, agonizing days since you last saw George Harrison.

Since you kissed him. Since you pulled away. Since he walked out without a word and didn’t look back.

You hadn’t heard from him since. Not a single phone call. Not even a glance your way at the studio, not that you’d been by. You had avoided it. Avoided him. Avoided the thought of what happened that night in the living room, and again behind a closed bedroom door.

Paul didn’t notice your shift in energy—if he did, he never mentioned it. He was buried in work, in music, in his usual charm. He’d hum melodies under his breath and scribble lyrics on napkins while you washed the dishes. And you?

You were stuck in a fog. Going through the motions.

But not a moment passed without the sound of George’s voice replaying in your mind.

Not a second went by without remembering the look in his eyes when he whispered, “I’ve always had feelings for you.”

You’d lie in bed at night wondering if he regretted it. Wondering if he hated you now.

And then one day , on a quiet Thursday afternoon, the doorbell rang.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

You opened the door and there he was.

George.

His hair was tousled from the wind, and he looked tired like he hadn’t been sleeping either. His eyes met your eye color for only a second before he looked away, clearing his throat and holding out a folded piece of paper.

“Paul left this at the studio the other day,” he mumbled, not meeting your gaze. “I just thought I’d drop it off.”

You stared at him, your heart lurching at the sound of his voice. It had only been a week, but it felt like a lifetime.

“He’s not home,” you said quietly, your fingers brushing against his as you took the paper. “He’s at his dad’s.”

George nodded once, quickly, like he couldn’t get out of there fast enough. “Just… give that to him.”

And then he turned to leave. Just like that.

But your chest clenched. You couldn’t let him walk away again.

“George,” you called after him.

He stopped. His shoulders tensed. He didn’t turn around.

You stepped outside, the cool air biting your skin. “Can we talk?” you asked gently.

He turned slowly, eyes guarded. There was so much unspoken between you—so much tension wrapped around your words.

“About what?” he asked, voice low. “There’s nothing to say, is there?”

You blinked, taken aback by the sharpness in his tone. But you didn’t back down.

“Of course there is,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You just won’t let me say it.”

His eyes finally met yours. They weren’t angry. Just… wounded.

George ran a hand through his hair and looked away for a moment, then back again. “You made yourself pretty clear, Y/N.”

You stepped closer, your throat tight. “I had to stop it. That doesn’t mean it didn’t mean something to me.”

He said nothing. The silence stretched, aching and raw.

“I miss you,” you said.

His expression cracked just barely. A flicker of the boy you knew. The boy who kissed you like he meant it. The boy who looked devastated when you pulled away.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “I just want to talk. Please. Don’t shut me out again.”

George stood there for a long moment, and then slowly, reluctantly, he nodded.

“Alright,” he said softly. “Talk.”

And for the first time in days, you felt your chest rise with breath instead of guilt.

You were finally going to say what should’ve been said all along.

Part One

Part Two

The next few days passed in an unbearable silence.

You and George hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in days… since that night. The memory of his lips on yours still lingered in your mind, burning like a brand against your skin. But no matter how many times you tried to push it away, it always crept back in—especially in the quiet moments, when you were left alone with your thoughts.

George had left without another word, and you had forced yourself to believe that was for the best. You were with Paul. You loved Paul.

Didn’t you?

One late spring afternoon: The sound of an approaching car made you freeze, your heart suddenly hammering. Through the window, you saw George stepping out of his car.

Your breath caught.

He was here.

But he wasn’t here for you.

You watched as he adjusted his coat, then grabbed his guitar case from the back seat before making his way up the front steps.

This wasn’t about you. This was about the band.

Of course, it was.

Paul and the boys had been working on a new song for weeks now, and George was only here to go over some last-minute details before heading to the studio.

Still, the thought of facing him after what had happened made your stomach twist.

You didn’t want to see him.

Didn’t trust yourself to.

Before George could knock, Paul was already opening the door, greeting him with his usual cheerful grin.

“Geo! Just in time, mate. Come on in.”

George nodded, stepping inside with a small smile. But as soon as his eyes flickered past Paul and landed on you—standing frozen in the hallway—his expression faltered.

Your breath hitched.

Look away. Look away.

Without a word, you turned and hurried toward the bedroom.

You could feel George’s stare burning into your back, but you didn’t stop.

You just needed to be away from him.

As soon as you stepped into the bedroom, you exhaled shakily and leaned against the dresser.

Your heart was racing.

This was ridiculous. You were acting like a guilty woman.

Because you were.

Before you could compose yourself, Paul suddenly walked in behind you, closing the door behind him.

“I just need to grab the song lyrics,” he said casually, but there was something else in his tone. A certain playfulness that sent a shiver down your spine.

You watched as he rummaged through the papers on the desk, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Then, as if he had completely forgotten about what he was looking for, he turned to you with a slow smirk.

His eyes darkened.

Oh no.

You knew that look.

“Y’know…” Paul murmured, stepping closer to you. His fingers brushed against your waist, and you felt your breath hitch. “We’ve got a few minutes before George comes looking for me.”

You swallowed hard, your body stiffening.

“Paul,” you whispered, but your voice betrayed you—it was weak, trembling.

His lips ghosted over your neck.

“Hmm?” he hummed, trailing soft kisses along your jawline, his hands pressing you back against the dresser.

Your mind was screaming.

This was wrong.

George was right outside.

But then Paul’s hands slid under your blouse, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss, and every coherent thought melted away.

The bedroom door wasn’t even locked.

Anyone could hear.

And George did.

As Paul pulled you onto the bed, lost in his own desire, the unmistakable sounds of your pleasure carried through the thin walls.

Outside, George froze.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

But the second he heard your moans, a sharp pain twisted in his chest.

His jaw tightened, as jealousy grew in.

He should leave.

He should.

But he couldn’t.

Because every sound coming from that bedroom was a brutal reminder of what he could never have.

Of what he could never have of you.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Silence filled the line for a moment, the sound of your own heartbeat thudding in your ears. You felt your heart beat as you tried to steady your voice.

“Yeah… it’s me,” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper.

A soft chuckle came through the other end, warm and gentle. “I wasn’t sure if you’d actually call,” George admitted. “I was hoping you would, though.”

You let out a shaky breath, sinking onto the bed, holding the phone closer as if that would somehow bring you closer to him.

“I almost didn’t,” you confessed. “But I… I wanted to hear your voice.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for embarrassment, but George didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease.

Instead, he hummed softly, almost thoughtfully. “That makes two of us, then.”

Something in his tone made your chest tighten. It wasn’t just politeness—he meant it.

For the first time in what felt like forever, someone actually wanted to talk to you.

“So…” George continued, breaking the silence, “tell me, do you always have these long, life-changing conversations with strangers at coffee shops, or am I just lucky?”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see you. “No… I think you’re just lucky.”

“Good,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “I like feeling special.”

A comfortable quiet settled between you for a moment. You wanted to keep talking, but a gnawing sense of fear held you back. Allen was about to be home from seeing his friends. If he entered in the flat and heard you on the phone…

You shuddered at the thought.

George must have sensed your hesitation because his voice softened. “Are you alright, love?”

Your fingers twisted in the bedsheets. You could lie. You could tell him you were fine. That you were just tired. But the truth was clawing at your throat, desperate to be heard.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I feel like I’m… stuck.”

George didn’t rush you. He didn’t press for details. He just listened.

“Stuck how?” he asked gently.

You hesitated before whispering, “Like I can’t breathe.”

The words hung in the air between you.

You heard George exhale softly on the other end. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, more serious. “You don’t have to tell me everything if you’re not ready. But… if you ever need someone to listen, I’m here.”

Your throat tightened.

No one had ever said that to you before.

For a moment, you almost told him everything. About Allen. About the way he controlled you, the way he made you feel like a prisoner in your own life. But the fear was still too strong.

So instead, you whispered, “Thank you, George.”

He didn’t push. He just hummed again, as if to say, I understand.

A small smile tugged at your lips as you listened to the soft sound of his breathing.

“Tell me something happy,” you said suddenly, needing to pull yourself out of the darkness. “Something about you.”

George was quiet for a moment, then he chuckled. “Alright… let’s see. Well, Paul nearly fell on his arse today during rehearsal.”

You let out a small giggle. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he said, clearly amused. “Slipped right on stage. John and I were crying laughing, but Paul was just grumbling about how ‘graceful’ he is.”

You covered your mouth to muffle your laughter. “That’s amazing.”

“It was,” George agreed. “And that’s why I should’ve been the frontman. Paul and John might write the songs, but I’ve got the balance.”

You smiled, feeling lighter for the first time in days.

“See?” George said. “You’re laughing. That’s much better.”

It was.

For the first time in a long time, you felt like you.

But as the clock on your nightstand ticked past midnight, reality started creeping back in. You could only stay in this moment for so long.

“I should go,” you murmured, though you didn’t want to.

George sighed, but he didn’t argue. “Alright, love. But you’ll call me again, won’t you?”

You bit your lip. “Do you want me to?”

“More than anything.”

Your heart fluttered. “Then… yeah. I’ll call you again.”

A pause. Then, softly ….

“Goodnight, love.”

“Goodnight, George.”

You hung up, staring at the phone in your hands, feeling something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

You placed the phone down gently, your fingers still trembling. The warmth of George’s voice lingered in your mind, wrapping around you like a blanket of comfort. For the first time in what felt like forever, someone had spoken to you with kindness, with patience.

But that feeling of safety didn’t last long.

A loud creak echoed from the hallway. Your body stiffened.

Allen.

You barely had time to shove the phone under your pillow before the bedroom door swung open. His silhouette loomed in the doorway, his eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable.

“What are you doing up?” he asked, his voice rough.

You forced yourself to stay calm. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He lingered for a moment, eyes scanning the room, as if looking for something out of place. Then, finally, he huffed. “Go to bed.”

You nodded quickly, slipping under the covers, holding your breath as he shut the door.

It was only after you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall that you exhaled, your heart hammering in your chest.

You turned your head slightly, staring at the pillow where your phone was hidden.

You had to be careful.

But as you closed your eyes, George’s voice echoed in your mind -

“You’ll call me again, won’t you?”

And despite the fear curling in your stomach, you knew the answer.