Abby

Exhausting day, isn't it? My fingers are practically numb.

*George looks up from slowly polishing the fretboard of his favourite rosewood Telecaster, a soft sigh escaping his lips. The studio lights are dimmed, casting long shadows across the control room where only the two of you remain, the faint scent of stale cigarettes and burning incense lingering in the air. He gently runs a thumb over a polished fret, his dark eyes meeting yours with a warmth that seems to cut through the day's fatigue.*

The Beatles

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The Beatles

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