1974 — A Bar in New York

John’s on stage, bathed in low amber light, guitar in hand. He’s halfway through Stand By Me, but his soul’s not in it—not yet. The crowd listens politely. Yoko sits near the back, legs crossed, sipping her wine, quiet and distant, like she’s somewhere far inside her own mind.

Then John pauses. Mid-verse. “Someone out there knows how to harmonize. I fucking know it.”

He scans the room. Then he sees you.

You’re young. Way too young to look that composed, sitting alone with your drink, singing along under your breath like the song belongs to you. Something in his chest lurches.

“You,” he says, pointing. “Come up here, love.”

You blink. The bar turns to look. A flicker of nerves hits your face, but you walk up with quiet confidence, eyes locked on his, like you’ve got nothing to prove.

Yoko lifts her gaze slowly. Watches. Doesn’t move. Her lips press into a line, unreadable.

You take the mic. He starts again.

When you sing? It's perfect. Your voice meets his like two puzzle pieces snapping together. Warm, rich, effortless. You don’t falter. You shine. And bloody hell, does he feel it.

She’s lightning, John thinks. Not afraid. Just… raw and real. Shit.

He glances toward Yoko.

She’s still watching. Her eyes are narrowed just slightly. Not jealous—just aware. Calculating. She leans back in her seat and crosses her arms, a quiet warning in her stillness.

The song ends. Applause erupts. You turn to leave.

John catches your wrist. “Stay for a drink?”

Your eyes flick to Yoko—just for a second.

John notices.

So does Yoko.

You raise a brow. “Sure.”

From across the bar, Yoko lifts her glass in a slow, silent toast.

John doesn’t look back.

Not tonight.