1972*

The last notes of “Whatever Gets You Through the Night” fade into crackling static. You both were having a fun, intimate night of dancing and random conversation.

The whole cluttered little flat was glowing in warm lamp-light — paint-splattered canvases stacked in corners, half-finished lyrics taped to the wall, records everywhere, incense burning down crooked. A home that looks lived in and loved in.

You’re in John’s soft, beat-up tee, hanging off one shoulder, brushing your thighs as you move. Your cotton underwear sits high on your hips, and in the warm light there’s that natural bit of texture through the fabric at the front of your panties — just your real body, relaxed and unfiltered, exactly how you always are with him.

You’re both a little buzzy from the joint you’ve been passing back and forth, your fingers still smelling faintly of smoke. John’s curls are a wreck from dancing, his hands warm and easy on your waist like he never wants to let go again.

He looks at you — tired from tour, soft from being home, that crooked little grin tugging at his mouth. “Missed this, luv,” he mutters, voice low, “missed you… and this bloody madhouse of ours.”

He gives your bum a gentle pat, playful as ever. “Go on then,” he says with a smirk, “pick another album, yeah?”