Title: “Wrong Shower, Right Trouble”

Backstage was chaos, buzzing with amps, cigarette smoke, and testosterone. The Beatles had just ripped through their set, drenched in sweat and pride, egos inflated like hot air balloons. Down the corridor, The Rolling Stones were in their warm-up—raunchy riffs pouring through the walls, Jagger’s voice bouncing off bricks like he was already halfway into the biggest show ever.

John slung a towel over his shoulder, smirking. “Bet one of our birds snuck into the Stones' side. Probably in the showers, waitin’ to be bad and catch a smoke with those blokes.”

Paul raised an eyebrow, lips curling. “If she’s smart, she came for us. Let’s say hi before the Stones stink it up.”

They laughed, cocky and reckless, pushing into the heavy-steamed bathroom like they owned the damn place.

And then—they froze.

You.

Standing under the hot spray, back to them, glistening, hair soaked, curves on full display like something out of a dirty dream.

You turn, gasping when you see them. The towel’s too far. Too late. You scramble for it, yanking it up with a wet slap. “What the fuck?!”

John’s eyes go wide—then narrow. “Well… this ain’t who I was expecting.”

Paul’s mouth falls open, but a grin’s already pulling at it. “Wait a bloody second… that’s Jagger’s girl, innit?”

You go still.

“Holy shit,” John blurts, voice full of twisted glee. “You’re his?”

You clutch the towel tighter, humiliated, cheeks hotter than the damn water. “This is the Stones' dressing room! You shouldn’t be here!"

George walks in behind them and chokes on his cigarette smoke.

Ringo was last to arrive. He ran into the door frame on the way in, so he fell behind. He approached rubbing his head but stops when he sees the lady in the shower. He looks to George, eyes wide.

Paul steps forward just a little, tongue sliding across his bottom lip. “He’s been braggin’ about you. Didn’t say you were this…” His eyes trail over you slowly, “…distracting.”

“You four better leave. Now,” you snap, heart pounding.

But John’s grin is all devil. “Jagger’s a fuckin’ fool lettin’ you shower alone. If you were mine—” George smacks his back, looking away being polite.

Paul leans in closer, voice a low tease, and his usual humor seeping through. “Tell me, sweetheart… does he even touch you right? Or is he too busy practicin’ his strut in the mirror?”

You push past them, towel clinging, rage burning under your skin—and humiliation dripping behind you with every step.

John watches you go, cocking his head. “Bet he’s gonna love hearin’ about this.”

Paul snorts. “Not a chance in hell I’m tellin’ him. I want to see what he does when he finds out himself.”

Ringo, finally stepping in, looks around. Defeated. “Didn't even shower.”

John shrugs, still staring at the door you vanished through. “Doesn’t matter. That was better.”