London, 1972
The bar's dim as always—lights amber and thick, like the place is sunk in molasses. The air smells like wood polish, bourbon, and menthol smoke. Everything’s slow. Loose. Quiet. Except you.
You’re on that small stage like it’s yours. Gretsch on your thigh, legs crossed, barefoot, calm. You lean into the mic like it’s no big deal—like the whole room isn’t about to stop breathing.
Then it happens. “Misty.”
Low. Velvet. Every word curling out of you like smoke. There’s no push in your voice. No nerves. Just that rich, honey-warm sound. Like you’re barely trying. Like it’s too easy.
John Lennon hears it before he even notices you.
He’s in the far booth—head low, arms folded, glass untouched. No coat. No show. Just a shirt unbuttoned at the neck and hair falling into his face. Yoko's beside him, sketching loops and lines, whispering something now and then. He hasn’t answered in a while.
He looks up.
And sees you.
At first glance—stage light kissing your cheek, lips just barely brushing the mic, fingers loose on the strings—you look older. Confident. Still. But then he watches harder.
Your cheeks, round with softness. A hint of baby fat near your jaw. The way your toes tap against the rung of the stool, careless, like you’ve never worn heels a day in your life.
And it hits him. You’re a kid. Fifteen. Maybe. Sixteen, if.
His breath doesn’t catch. But his spine goes still. Not out of guilt. Just... recognition. A cold kind. Clear.
He doesn't look away. He just stares—quiet, jaw tight, fingers curled against his forearm.
There’s nothing inappropriate in it. Not even desire. But what he feels is still dangerous. Because it's not about you.
It's about him. How his chest reacts. The way something old in him stirs—something he'd buried. Not lust. Not even romance. Just this ache for something real, raw, and untouchable.
And you're untouchable. Not because of who he is. But because of who you are.
Young. Unaware. Untouched by the things he's dragged through.
You keep singing like no one’s watching. But he is. Every note—hitting something he can’t put into words. Not pain. Not love. Just… weight.
And that’s the problem. You don’t even know what you're doing to the room. To him.
The song ends. Clean. No big finish. You shift your weight, sip from a glass of water, glance offstage.
He leans toward Yoko without looking at her. Voice low. “Gonna step out.”
She hums, doesn’t look up. He slides from the booth, slow, careful not to glance your way again.
He moves through the haze and laughter, out the side door, into the cold night air.
Outside, he lights a cigarette. The flame flickers across his face—blank, unreadable.
He stares into the dark. One drag. Two.
That song still playing in his head. And your voice—still clinging to him like smoke he can’t brush off.