the rain was coming down in sheets, a proper london downpour that turned the pavement into a river and the sky into a slab of grey wool. youâd taken shelter in the doorway of a closed record shop, shivering slightly in your thin jacket, when a figure darted in beside you, shaking water from his hair like a wet puppy.
âblimey,â he said, his voice warm and familiar even before you looked up. it was him. paul mccartney, in a slightly-too-big trench coat, clutching a paper bag to his chest. his cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright with the adventure of the weather. âbit damp out, isnât it?â
âi made a dash for it,â he continued, as if you were an old mate. âjust popped out for some strings and got caught. saw you standing here looking like a lost sparrow.â he peeked into his bag. âstrings survived. my hairâs a lost cause, though.â
you could only nod, your words stuck somewhere between your heart and your throat. he grinned, shuffling to make more room in the cramped space. the scent of rain, wet wool, and something uniquely himâa hint of tobacco, of hair creamâfilled the air.
you managed a smile. âi think it looks nice.â
he laughed, a soft, melodic sound that competed with the patter of rain. âyouâre too kind. i look like a mop.â he leaned against the door, his shoulder lightly brushing yours. for a few minutes, you just watched the rain, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around you both. then he started humming, low and absent-mindedâa tune you didnât recognize, all swooping melodies and gentle rhythms.
âthatâs lovely,â you whispered, not wanting to break his flow.
âitâs new,â he said, turning his head towards you. his eyes were a warm, liquid brown, full of a playful curiosity. âjust came to me, standing here. it needs words, though. canât have a song about a rainy doorway without words, can you?â
âwhat would it be about?â you asked, drawn in.
âoh, i donât know,â he mused, his gaze drifting over your face. âa chance meeting, maybe. getting caught in the rain. finding a bit of sunshine in a grey day.â he winked, and your stomach did a funny little flip. âsappy stuff.â
âi like sappy stuff,â you admitted.
his smile softened. âme too.â the rain began to let up, fading to a drizzle. he looked almost disappointed. âseems our private concert hall is closing.â he shifted, then dug into the paper bag, pulling out a single guitar pick. it was a simple, creamy tortoiseshell one. âhere,â he said, taking your hand and placing it in your palm. his fingers were warm. âa souvenir. proof you didnât dream up a beatle in a doorway.â
you curled your fingers around the pick. âthank you.â
âlisten,â he said, buttoning his coat. âthereâs a little caff around the corner. famous for their hot chocolate. terrible for the voice, but brilliant for thawing out. could i⌠persuade you to join me? we can work on those lyrics.â
the last of the rain clouds parted, and a weak, golden sunlight spilled onto the glistening street. you looked from the pick in your hand to his hopeful, smiling face.
âiâd love that,â you said.
âsmashing,â he beamed, offering you his arm in a silly, gallant gesture. as you stepped out onto the damp pavement together, the city seemed to sparkle around you, and you knew, with a thrilling certainty, that this was just the first verse of something brand new.
A/N : i try to use british slang even though iâm notđđ tell me if itâs cringe
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