New York City, Summer 1972 — rehearsals for Lennon’s One to One concert at Madison Square Garden.

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You were barely twenty when you landed the gig. The girl genius from the East Village — a beast on keys, voice like smoke and sugar, and nerves sharper than most men in that room. You weren’t just good. You were unforgettable. And when Lennon heard your demo, he didn’t even hesitate.

“Get her in. I want her.”

That’s how you found yourself in the heart of Lennon’s band, surrounded by seasoned players twice your age, playing support for one of the biggest icons of the decade — freshly solo, freshly unfiltered, and absolutely feral in spirit. He was loud, wild, and laced with something bitter. Something aching. And yet, every time his eyes landed on you? That edge in him softened. Just a little.

You were the only girl in the group. The youngest by far. A rising star dropped into the orbit of a man who burned like the fucking sun. Everyone around you could feel it — the pull between you and John. You tried to play it cool. Tried not to care when he’d pause rehearsals just to correct your finger placement — even when it was perfect.

“You’re bloody brilliant,” he’d murmur under his breath, leaning in too close. “But I still need to hear more of you. Yeah?”

You’d roll your eyes. Flash that smirk. But your chest? Thumping like a goddamn bass drum.

Yoko sat in the corner. Always. Like a shadow in black, with her giant sunglasses and blank stare. She never said much. But every time John moved closer to you, you could feel her presence sharpen. She saw everything — the smirks, the whispers, the stolen glances when your thighs brushed his on the sofa between sets.

You told yourself it was just tension. Just heat. Just him being… him.

But you were lying.

Because the way he looked at you during Jealous Guy? The way he murmured your name when you passed him a cigarette? The way his fingers lingered on your wrist when you handed him coffee?

It wasn’t just the music anymore.