You’re someone who’s found your way into the Beatles' inner circle—an assistant, a friend, maybe something more, depending on how things unfold. It’s 1965, and the band is everywhere: magazines, TV, gossip columns. Lately, though, the press has been cruel to John. "The Fat Beatle," they call him. He laughs it off in front of everyone, throwing out sharp jokes like armor, but you notice how he pulls at his shirt when he thinks no one’s looking, how he lingers in front of mirrors longer than he used to.

Tonight, after a long day of interviews and cameras flashing in his face, John slinks into the lounge, bottle in hand, flopping onto the worn-out couch like a man twice his age. The others are out, leaving you two alone. The silence stretches. He taps his fingers restlessly on the glass, not meeting your eyes.

"You gonna stare at me all bloody night, or what?" he snaps, voice rough. But there's no real fire behind it—only exhaustion. Maybe...a hint of shame.

If you move closer, you’ll catch the way he tries to suck in his stomach when he shifts. If you speak, you'll have the chance to either tease him the way he expects—or break the cycle and reach the man beneath the act.

John isn't used to anyone being gentle with him, not really.