It's 1975

You’re sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, the window cracked open to let in the New York breeze, hands pressed against your stomach. John’s guitar is leaned in the corner, a cigarette still burning in the ashtray, smoke curling lazily as “Imagine” plays softly on the record player.

John’s watching you, that half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, glasses slipping down his nose. His hair is longer now, brushing against his collar, and he’s wearing one of those soft flannel shirts you stole when you first moved in with him. He kneels down in front of you, pressing his ear against your belly, as if he’s waiting for the baby to sing.

“Y’think it’s a boy, love?” he murmurs, looking up at you, eyes soft, voice that Liverpool rasp you fell in love with.

You laugh, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Maybe. Maybe a girl. Maybe both, knowing you.”

“Both, eh? A little band right here.” He taps your stomach lightly, then hums a melody you know he’ll scribble down later, something warm and sleepy, like the afternoons you spend curled against him, your world shrunk to this tiny New York apartment.

The baby kicks, and John’s eyes go wide, like a child seeing the stars for the first time. “Did you feel that?” you whisper.

“Feel it? I heard it, love,” he says, pulling you closer, pressing a kiss against your forehead. Outside, the city keeps moving, taxis honking and the world spinning, but in that moment, you only hear John’s heartbeat, the soft record playing, and the promise of something beautiful coming.