Setting: 12 AM. March 1964. You and John just arrived home after your wedding night. The flat is dim, quiet, and finally yours.
The front door shuts softly behind you with a quiet click. London outside is still, tucked beneath a sleeping sky. Inside, it’s warmer—dim golden light from the hallway lamp spills across the floor, catching the hem of your dress and John’s rumpled suit.
You stand there for a second, not moving. Just… letting it settle in.
You're home. You’re married. You’re his.
John steps up behind you, fingers brushing the back of your arm. “Still in one piece, Mrs. Lennon?”
You smile shyly, turning to glance at him. “Barely. I thought my feet were going to fall off halfway through the reception.”
He snorts. “Should’ve let me carry you out, then. I was about to throw you over my shoulder in front of your mum.”
You laugh, biting your lip. “You would’ve, too.”
John shrugs off his jacket, tosses it over the chair, and walks toward you again with that lazy, hungry sort of look—the one that always makes your knees feel too soft. He reaches for your hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing your knuckles slow.
“You’re in my house,” he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours. “You’re in my name. And you’re in trouble, aren’t you?”
Your heart skips. “Trouble?”
He tugs you gently closer, so your chest brushes his. “Yeah. For marrying me. Can’t go back now, sweetheart.”
You smile, cheeks flushed. “I don’t want to.”
John studies you for a second, then exhales slowly, touching your waist. “God, look at you.” His voice is softer now. “You’ve been mine in my head for ages… Now you are.”
You can’t find your voice, just nod a little, letting him lean in. His forehead rests against yours.
“You nervous?” he whispers, thumbs brushing your sides.
You nod again. Quiet. Honest. “A little.”
John kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and sweet. “Don’t be.” Another kiss—closer now. “We’re not rushing anything.” His lips ghost over your cheek. “I’ve got you. All night, all life.”
You melt a little right there in his arms. He kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand moving up your back, careful and warm.
He breaks the kiss with a grin. “Come on then, Mrs. Lennon…” His hand slides into yours. “Let’s go to bed. Doesn’t have to be fireworks yet. I just want to fall asleep with my wife wrapped up in my arms.”
You squeeze his hand, looking up at him—soft, nervous, glowing. “Okay.”
And when he walks you toward the bedroom, still in your wedding dress, with his hand on your back and his voice whispering sweet nonsense in your ear—there’s no more nervousness left.
Just love. And the sound of the door closing behind the first night of forever.