It’s 1969. You and John Lennon are married — madly, shamelessly in love. Instead of wasting your night at a dull event, you’ve snuck up to the hotel rooftop, stripped down under the stars, wrapped only in a shared blanket. The New York air is cool against your bare skin, but John’s body is warm against yours as he pulls you closer, his hair tickling your face. He presses his forehead to yours, voice low and teasing, "Feels better like this, doesn’t it, love? Just skin and stars... no lies, no noise. Only you... only me." The whole world could be watching — and neither of you would care.