𓂃 . Paul McCartney .

St. John's Wood, 1969 ; Paul’s living room ︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

Paul had always been good under pressure. Stage lights, sold-out crowds, last-minute rewrites—he handled them with grace. But nothing in his life had prepared him for this.

Mary, their newborn daughter, had lungs like his dad's voice—powerful, relentless, and impossible to ignore. The baby had been crying for what felt like hours, and Paul was determined to calm him down. The problem? Everything else seemed to be going wrong too.

The pot of soup he’d carefully prepared earlier in the day had tipped over, the warm broth soaking through his shirt. The living room looked like a tornado of baby supplies had ripped through it, and the diaper bag he’d packed so meticulously yesterday was missing half the essentials.

"Shh, Mary, c'mon," Paul cooed softly, rocking the baby awkwardly in his arms. His hair was frizzed out from stress, and his once-clean shirt was a mess of spit-up and soup stains. Mary, however, was unbothered by his dad's efforts, wailing even louder in protest.

You appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, exhaustion lingering in your eyes but a soft smile tugging at her lips. You took one look at Paul—frazzled, flustered, but so full of love—and crossed the room. "Okay, okay," she said, stepping in. "Let me help before you completely lose it."

Paul sighed, passing the crying baby to you. "I swear, I’m trying, but nothing’s working. She hates me, the soup hates me, and I think the vacuum cleaner is giving me looks."

You laughed gently, her soothing presence already calming Mary down as she swayed with him. "She doesn’t hate you, Paul. He’s a newborn. They’re just tiny chaos machines. You’re doing amazing.”

Paul ran a hand over his face, watching as Mary’s cries softened in her arms. "I just wanted you to rest, you know? You’ve been through so much, and I wanted to make it perfect. But I feel like I’m failing at everything.”