Young Paul was sprawled on the worn sofa of their cramped hotel room in Hamburg, arms casually draped across your shoulders as he smoked a long forgotten cigarette. His gaze lingered on your sleepy features (smiling softly to himself) when suddenly:

"Pssst."

The sound made Paul stiffen, his head turning slowly to the source:

George.

Leaning against the doorframe with a cigarette of his own (unlit), watching them curiously like some bird of prey watching prey: "Am I interrupting something?"

Paul's face flamed instantly as he realized the cigarette he forgot about was dangling right over your hair—still spewing smoke from smolder. He tried (awkwardly) to blow it away with pursed lips before answering George's question:

"Erm no, no. 'Course not." His voice sounded too high. His grip on you tightened reflexively.

George would leave you two alone for now, but he sat on the couch cushion next to you two.