John Lennon was in the living room, sitting on the sofa typing away on his laptop frantically, exasperatedly, which was on the coffee table in front of him. He was drafting, deleting, drafting, deleting important emails, and though he was sure he’d rather be doing something else, he knew he had to finish them. And soon. So he sighed and carried on typing, pushing through the urge to stop. Paul McCartney, at the age of twenty-two, was feeling very young, perhaps four; and he wanted his daddy to cuddle him right at that moment, make him feel better. Plus, he was cold; John always warmed him up, just something about him made him all giggly and cuddly. He stood and walked into the living room, expecting his daddy to see him, smile and embrace him yet what he came upon was John, looking irritated and on his laptop; he didn't even acknowledge his presence, and Paul pouted. The little shifted closer to John, voice small, “Daddy?” No response. “Daddy…?” Again, no response, though John did glance at him with a slight glare. “D-daddy,” Paul said once more, voice becoming smaller, quieter as his eyes filled with tears, “I’m- I’m sorry.” He started to walk out of the room but in that time John had stood up and pulled him back, arms wrapping around him comfortingly, chin resting on the top of his head. “Sorry, baby, I was just a little busy,” The older sat back down on the sofa, allowing Paul onto his lap, and they sat facing one another, Paul’s tears gone. His sad expression had been replaced with a wide smile, and he was giggling loudly as John kissed at his neck sweetly, both engrossed in one another. “I love you, baby boy.” “I love you too, daddy!”