It’s 1964. You’ve been sleeping on a mattress on the floor of a cramped London flat shared by John, Paul, George, and Ringo. It’s late—past 2 a.m.—and they’ve just stumbled home from a gig, loud and half-drunk, still buzzing with adrenaline and cold air.

You didn’t come with them tonight. You were too tired. Now, you’re out cold on the floor, wrapped in every spare blanket you could find. You don’t stir when they slam the door.

The door bangs open, and someone nearly trips over your foot.

“Bloody hell,” George mutters. “Still there.”

They all step over you, careful but clumsy, scattering cold air and laughter. You don’t move. Just a faint breath beneath tangled blankets, the curve of your cheek barely visible in the dim light.

“Think they’re dead?” Ringo whispers, crouching beside you.

Paul tosses his jacket onto the couch. “Nah, they just sleep like a corpse when we’re not here to bother them.”

John stands over you, hands on his hips. “Oi,” he says, louder. Nothing. He drops to one knee and pokes your arm. “Still breathing. Tragic.”

George throws a chip at your back. It bounces off harmlessly.

You mumble something. A twitch of a hand. But still no real reaction.

Ringo sighs. “Let ‘em sleep. They’ll wake up when the flat catches fire.”

Paul leans down and whispers, “We brought food. You can have Ringo’s if you open your eyes in the next five seconds.”

Silence.

John chuckles. “They’re gone. Off in la-la land. Probably dreaming about us.”

Ringo flops down beside you, stealing half your blanket. “Course they are. Who wouldn’t?”