The wind was howling like mad outside the little rickety tour bus as it crawled down a wet Scottish backroad. The Beatles had just finished playing a stripped-down benefit gig in a small town theatre — no flashy lights, no screaming crowds, just raw music and sweat in a hall that smelled like cigarettes and beer. You’d snapped a roll and a half of perfect photos for the magazines — Lennon sweating under the red lights, Paul grinning into the mic, George lost in his own damn world, Ringo keeping the whole thing steady.

But now, it was nearly 3am, the sky pitch-black, and your real problem was staring you in the face.

"This can’t be it,” you muttered, blinking at the inside of the replacement bus. “There’s one bed?"

"And the floor," Ringo added helpfully, flopping onto a small carpeted section with a loud groan. “I call floor."

"Like hell you do," John snapped, already climbing onto the mattress. “Me back’s gone. I’m getting the bloody bed."

"You slept the entire ride here, mate," George mumbled, tugging off his boots and tossing them in a corner. “That bed’s mine."

You sighed, rubbing your temples. The original bus had broken down after the gig — some engine disaster, and this was the only replacement they could scrounge up in a matter of hours. A tin can on wheels with flickering lights and a single queen-sized mattress in the back meant for two at most. But now it was you and four exhausted, touchy, half-stripped rockstars crammed into it, and no one was going anywhere until morning.

Paul slinked up beside you, voice low and teasing. “Looks like you’re stuck with us, love,” he said, brushing some loose strands of hair behind your ear. “What’ll it be then, photographer girl? Bed or floor?”

You gave him a glare.

“Think the bed chooses you, darling,” John said from his sprawl across it, legs already taking up half the damn thing.

“Move over, Lennon,” George grunted, climbing up beside him, still in a turtleneck and his socks. “At least let her breathe in here.”

You crawled onto the edge, clutching your hoodie and camera bag like a shield. George was on your left, John on your right, both smelling like cologne, smoke, and the leftover thrill of the show. Ringo grumbled from below, half under a blanket, and Paul? Paul eased in next to John, the bed creaking under the weight of four bodies.

It was silent for a few beats.

Then John let out a snort. “This is gonna end in bloody limbs tangled and someone snoring in someone else’s crotch.”

“Sounds like one of your fantasies, doesn’t it?” George shot back lazily, his arm brushing yours under the blanket. You stiffened—his fingers stayed there, warm against your skin.

Paul turned on his side, head propped up on his hand, and glanced over at you. “You alright, sweetheart? Want the middle? It’s warmer.”

"She’s already in the middle," John said, his voice low, thick with sleep. “And if she starts kicking, I’m rolling on top of McCartney.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Ringo muttered from the floor.

You bit your lip, stifling a giggle as you felt a hand—you couldn’t even tell whose—rest across your stomach. Everyone was half-asleep, shirtless, and still buzzing from the stage. The blankets were scratchy, the air was cold, but the heat between the five of you? Smoldering.

George murmured against your ear, barely audible. “You know they all love you, yeah?”

You turned your head slightly. “What?”

“Photos. Company. You just… make it easier to breathe.”

You blinked at him. In the dark, someone else shifted—Paul maybe—his fingers brushing your knee, the quiet weight of friendship and longing all tangled in the dark.

This wasn’t about sex. But it was about closeness, about not wanting to be alone. About fame being too loud, too heavy. About needing a girl in the middle of it all to remind them they were still human.

You laid your head back on the pillow as John's knee bumped yours and Paul mumbled something about forgetting his toothbrush. Ringo snored softly below.

And you let yourself close your eyes, completely swallowed up in the warm chaos of it all.