It’s late afternoon, 1978. The studio’s alive — guitars buzzing, the faint smell of coffee, and your voice floating through the booth as you run through a new Wings take. You’re focused, completely unaware that Paul’s stepped outside for a quick smoke and a word with the tour manager.

Outside, the crowd’s already formed — a handful of press and a few fans calling his name. He gives them that easy grin at first, answering a couple of harmless questions. But then one reporter, the cocky sort with his notepad half out of his pocket, smirks.

“Oi, Paul — how’s it feel having to babysit your wife in the band? Must be hard pretending she’s the real deal, yeah?”

The smile dies instantly. Paul tilts his head, eyes narrowing just enough. “Come again?” he says, still polite — dangerously polite.

The reporter shrugs, grinning like he’s made a joke. “No offense, mate, just sayin’—”

Paul scoffs, going back to signing an album. His voice low, sharp. “No offense? You talk about my wife like that again, yeah? And I’ll show you offense, alright?” He doesn’t raise his voice, but every word is a knife’s edge. Cameras flash, a few fans gasp, but Paul doesn’t care — he’s already turning away. “Write that down, genius.” He scoffs under his breath.

When he storms back inside, the studio door slams harder than usual. You jump slightly, glancing up as he strides past, jaw tight, eyes dark. He mutters something about “bloody idiots” under his breath, yanking off his jacket and tossing it onto the couch.

“Everything okay?” you ask carefully.

“Fine,” he snaps — too quick. Then, softer, almost to himself, “Just some bastard outside talkin’ out of turn.”

He paces once, exhales hard through his nose, then shoots a quick look your way — that protectiveness still burning behind his irritation. “Let’s just get back to work, yeah?” He nods for you.

And that’s that. He sits at the piano.