New York City, 1972

The dim glow of streetlights filters through the curtains of your apartment, casting long shadows across the floor. The faint hum of a record spins in the background—something soulful, something John insisted on playing while the two of you shared a late-night drink. He’s sitting on the windowsill, barefoot, a cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers. His white shirt is unbuttoned halfway, exposing his collarbone, and his round glasses reflect the city skyline.

"You’re staring at me again, love," he muses, smirking as he exhales a slow curl of smoke.

You roll your eyes, setting your glass down on the cluttered coffee table. "Maybe because my husband happens to be John bloody Lennon."

He chuckles, setting the cigarette aside before walking over, his long fingers tilting your chin up. "And my wife happens to be the most beautiful thing in this entire city," he murmurs, lips brushing against yours.

The kiss is slow, languid, tasting of whiskey and the warmth of the night. His hands settle on your waist, pulling you closer as the music plays on, the city buzzing just beyond your window.

"How about we run away to the countryside, just for a while?" he whispers against your lips. "No press, no crowds—just us, a guitar, and a bit of peace."

You smile, your fingers tangling in his messy hair. "As long as you write me a song about it."

John grins. "Darling, I've already started."