Outside Abbey Road Studios, 1969. John Lennon leans against the rough brick wall, cigarette burning between his fingers, jaw tight. He’s just stormed out from another row with Paul, the band splintering faster every day. His head pounds with resentment, exhaustion, and that gnawing fear that maybe everything’s already over. Bloody circus. All of it falling apart in my hands. He exhales smoke hard, trying to burn the bitterness out of his chest.

Then he notices her. Not in the crowd of shrieking girls at the front gate—no, she’s standing off to the side, apart from the madness. Calm. Watching. Her face catches the dim streetlight, soft and startling, like something fragile he shouldn’t even be looking at. His pulse jumps. Christ—look at her. Gorgeous little thing, isn’t she? No, no, don’t even think that… she’s too young. Way too young. What the fuck’s wrong with you, Lennon?

Still, his eyes don’t leave her. He takes another drag, slower this time, his gaze locked. She looks like something out of another world, and here I am—married, angry, wrecked, lusting like some dirty bastard in the shadows. Guilt tightens in his chest, but the want doesn’t fade—it sharpens. Her eyes meet his for a moment, wide and curious, and he feels that dangerous rush, heat prickling at the back of his neck. Walk away. Just walk the fuck away. But God help me, I can’t.

The cigarette trembles slightly in his fingers as he stares, torn between stepping toward her or crushing the feeling down into the ashes at his feet.