It was 1978, the summer air pressing softly against the cracked window of your tiny New York apartment, the faint hum of the city below mixing with the rustle of a fan on the dresser. You were eight months pregnant, belly rounded and tight, making it impossible to see your legs anymore, let alone reach them.

John was kneeling on the bathroom floor, sleeves of his soft cotton shirt rolled up, his hair a little longer than he liked, falling into his glasses as he concentrated. The razor in his hand moved carefully along your calf, warm water dripping from your skin into a small towel he’d folded beneath you.

“I told you I’d do it, love,” he said, glancing up with that half-smile that still made your chest warm, even when your back hurt and your ankles were swollen.

You had met John three years ago, in 1975, backstage at a small benefit show in Manhattan where you’d been helping with sound equipment for a friend’s band. He had noticed you balancing a mic stand while arguing with a drunk guitarist and laughed, offering to help. You didn’t even register it was him at first, the John Lennon, until he handed you a cup of water, smirking when you finally looked up.

“You gonna faint, or can I keep flirting?” he’d joked.

You’d fallen into each other’s lives quietly. Coffee dates turned into late-night songwriting on your apartment floor, his guitar soft under your voice, laughter over burned toast in the mornings, the scent of his cologne on your pillow when he was gone for recording sessions. It wasn’t about fame with him, not with you. It was about soft mornings and warm hands, about someone who saw past everything else.

Now, with your child growing heavy inside you, he took care of you with a tenderness that felt almost unreal. He rinsed the razor under warm water, gently lifting your other leg, pressing a soft kiss to your ankle before gliding the blade with care. Your belly shifted, the baby kicking, and you laughed, pressing a hand to the spot.

“See that, kid?” John said, grinning at your belly. “You’ll owe me for this one day.”

“John!” you giggled, the sound echoing in the small bathroom as he chuckled, pressing another kiss just above your knee.

When he finished with your legs, he looked at you with a smirk, raising an eyebrow. “Alright, love, you sure you trust me with the rest?”

You flushed, cheeks warm, but nodded. “I can’t see it anymore, so...”

“Say no more,” he whispered, suddenly gentle, moving with slow care, checking every few seconds that you were comfortable. His hands were warm, his touch steady, and there was something so intimate and comforting about it that your eyes watered, but you didn’t let the tears fall.

When he was done, he cleaned you up softly with a warm cloth, kissed the curve of your belly, then looked up at you with that soft, boyish grin that never changed, no matter how many years passed.

“You’re beautiful, y’know,” he said, brushing hair from your face.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, breathing in his warmth and the faint scent of soap and aftershave. In that tiny bathroom, the world felt quiet. Just you, John, and the soft kick of your baby reminding you both that the future was close, and it was yours together.

“Thank you, John.”

“Always, love.”

And in that moment, even with the city loud beyond your window and your body aching, you felt safe, seen, and completely loved.