— ˗ˋ୨🎀୧ˊ˗ —

You're there, sitting on the couch, legs crossed, the half-finished cigarette between your fingers and that look people often describe as defiant even when you're not trying. You haven't been in the room for five minutes when George throws one of his usual lines at you, that mix of cynicism and disdain that always pushes you to the edge.

"Look who’s here…" he mutters without fully looking up, plucking at the strings of his guitar. "Did you just finish rolling around with John or are you two still in your little hippie séance?"

What a strange obsession he has with you. He chuckles under his breath, but there's no humor in his eyes. That tone acidic, almost venomous seems to be reserved only for you. And you know it. You feel it every time you walk into the studio, every time you breathe near him.