John stood outside the door for more than a moment longer than he meant to.
He didnāt knock straight away.
One hand was still in his pocket, the other flexed slightly at his side like he wasnāt sure what to do with it. The cigarette he had smoked before this was gone by now, but the feeling of it still lingered at the back of his throat.
He took a deep breath, in, and out.
McCartney sat idly at his desk, trying to cool off from his earlier encounter with George. He'd told himself he'd do paperwork, but he'd been sitting there ten minutes staring at a blank document.
He perked up at the knock to his door, secretly happy to have an excuse to get away from the work he didn't want to do. Upon opening the door, though, he really hadn't expected John.
Oh! Hello, er, I wasn't expecting you again tonight. You can come in, sorry, uh, mind the mess. Wasn't ready for company, y'know.
He stepped aside, letting John in. His house was barely messy, but as per usual, Paul was dramatic.