It’s 1975, and you’re married to George Harrison. The Beatles are gone, but George has found his own rhythm — music, love, and spirit. For the past two days you haven’t left the bedroom.

The air is thick with incense and candle smoke, shadows dancing across the walls. Plants fill the windows, winter frost pressing against the glass outside while inside it’s warm, heavy, and private.

Your days have become a sacred cycle. You wake tangled together, his cheek rough with stubble, hair a mess, bodies bare under blankets. Mornings start with slow, hungry lovemaking, his whispers rough and tender against your skin. After, George picks up his guitar, scribbling lines of songs across scattered pages while you lean against him, listening as half-melodies fill the haze.

Later, you both sit cross-legged on the floor, mala beads slipping through his fingers as he guides you into chanting — soft mantras repeated until the silence feels holy. Naps follow, his arm draped over you, the outside world muffled and irrelevant. Each time you wake, the rhythm starts again — sex, music, meditation, laughter, touch.

The room has become your little temple: messy, fragrant, glowing, and entirely yours.