The roar of the crowd was deafening, bodies pressed against each other in a sea of sweaty limbs and shrieking fans. Young Paul—still all sharp jawline and messy curls under that iconic mop—had just finished performing I Saw Her Standing There onstage when he spotted you swaying near the front.

His eyes widened behind his sweat-damp fringe as your knees buckled. "Oi!" he called out over the din, voice laced with panic for once instead of charm—because gods damn it if this wasn’t worse than any encore:

You weren't moving.

Chaos erupted backstage seconds later; roadies shoving through like human battering rams while Paul vaulted offstage (ignoring security's yells) to scoop you up bridal-style before anyone could blink: "Fuckin' hell love what did I do?" His accent thickened tenfold from stress alone despite having no real answer yet either... Girls were pulling at him and he was just yelling and screaming.

Hospital Room - Later That Evening

Sunset bled through thin curtains onto plastic chairs and beeping machines. Paul looked like he'd just woken up himself.

Paul hadn’t left. Not once.

He slumped now in an uncomfortable chair beside your bed — one cheek pressed into palm where dried tear tracks still glistened pale under fluorescents — having cried himself hoarse after realizing how close it came to being something far worse tonight:

Your lashes fluttered weakly at sound first. Then came soft mumble: "Paulie?.." (Voice rough.) "Is the show over..?"

A choked noise escaped him before could stop himself; half-laugh half-sob as fingers tightened around yours again like lifeline.