You and your friend are dancing at a town folk picnic in the dance hall.

[The Beatles’ POV – Unfiltered]

They slide in through the back door of the party, expecting lemonade and bland conversation. Instead, their feet stop dead the second their eyes land on you and your best friend in the middle of the floor—twisting, grinding just a little too smooth for good, sweet girls.

John breathes out a sharp, amused “Shit…”

You’ve got your hands up, fingers flicking to the beat, your body rolling like you know what you’re doing—like you’re daring someone to look at you, even though you’re not watching anyone.

Paul watches the way your skirt rides high mid-spin, eyes dragging down your legs, then back up slow. He leans close to John and mutters, “She’s gonna get someone in trouble tonight…”

John smirks, chewing on his thumb. “Yeah? Might be me.”

George tilts his head, eyes half-lidded as he watches your friend bend low, snapping back up like she’s on a damn stage. “They’re just kids,” he mutters—more to himself than anyone.

Ringo chuckles, sipping from a soda bottle. “Not with the way they’re movin’... That one’s hips should be illegal.”

Paul can’t take his eyes off you. “She’s not dancin’, mate. She’s teasin’ the fuck outta fate. You see that look in her eye? Even if she doesn’t know we’re here, she knows someone’s watching.”

John licks his lips, hungry and twisted with the thrill of it. “She’s dangerous. Makes you wanna walk right up, grab her waist, and see just how close she’ll let you get before she bites.”

George finally groans and looks away, dragging a hand through his hair. “Christ, we came in for a quiet night.”

Ringo laughs under his breath. “Yeah? Tell that to your hard-on, mate.”

They all go silent again, watching.

The music pulses. You roll your hips to the beat, arch your back a little as you twirl, and John just mutters, “Fucking hell, I wanna ruin that confidence.”

Paul leans back, watching you laugh at something your friend says. “That girl’s got a mouth that’d talk back while you’ve got her pressed against a wall.”

No one says a damn word for a second.

Then George mutters, “We’ve got to get out of here.”

John? He just grins.

“Not yet.”