A/N: Thanks so much for reading, I honestly can't believe chapter one got over 20 reads - it may not be that much, but it is a hell of a lot more than I expected. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy the rest of the story....

Wednesday - June 24, 1970
Peter and May's Home.

Oh, dirty Maggie Mae they have taken her away,
And she never walk down Lime Street any more.

Oh, the judge he guilty found her,
For robbin' a homeward bounder.
That dirty no good robbin' Maggie Mae.

May listened to the album whilst completing housework...when Peter was at work. It was otherwise too troublesome if he was around...knowing the history with May and the Beatles. The album was personal and intimate with her. She had been present when the songs were crap and time seemed so fucking slow. The only thing she could do was apply more lip balm and serve those teas the best she could. To some, she was just part of the background, not really much of anything.

She was, to an extent. May was never glamourous. She would keep her hair oily and greasy for weeks because she was lazy, wear the same pair of socks for a few days, and bite her fingernails. The latter had been a habit she slowly overcame however.

At the time, May was just a dumb, seventeen year old, and yet, George was enthralled with her. She was just so pure and delicious, that he could imagine lying in bed with her for hours and never running out of things to do.

* * * *

January 23, 1969 - Thursday Morning.
9 Commercial Street, Mayfair - May and Peter's Apartment.

May was buttering her toast, when Peter staggered into the kitchen, focused on buttoning his shirt.

"Hey," he mumbled, reaching for the tea pot.

Peter misjudged the hotness of the tea pot, and his fingers and palm suffered the consequences, receiving a minor burn, which definitely woke his senses up. A few muttered curses escaped his lips. Little did he know, that his soon to be wife had made the same mistake yesterday afternoon. May's hand was in recovery; the ache was pretty much gone, except the redness lingered. She had applied some Vaseline to her hand to relieve the inflammation whilst Peter was in the shower.

May ignored Peter's greeting for her that morning, with her silent treatment causing Peter to shake his head and sigh.

"Still ignoring me, huh?" he questioned, pouring milk into his cup.

She nodded, and spread a thick layer of raspberry jam to her toast, as the radio played a bluesy tune softly in the background.

"I said I was sorry," he sighed, exasperated that the previous tension from last night had persisted into the morning.

May swiftly set the knife down on the plate, looking at him, hands on her hips.

"No. No, you didn't."

"Well, fine then." he paused. "I'm sorry," he said, a hand in his pocket, as he took a sip of his tea.

Peter was serious in his expression and tone, yet there was a hint of insincerity to his apology. May struggled to confront his intimidating, informal stance. Peter reclined against the kitchen bench top, drinking his tea, and May was at a loss for words. She slid the knife through her toast, cutting it in half.

"You really hurt my feelings," she admitted softly, and didn't face him. "I stayed up till ten making those damn slices for you...and then you..." she trailed off, her raging unhappiness nearly suffocating her.

May stared at her toast, knife remained in her grip, and it tightened as she heard Peter sigh and gently place his tea cup down on the bench.

"Well, no one told you to do that," he delicately lulled to her, and shifted his weight onto the other leg.

"Dammit Pete!" she exclaimed, the words trapped inside of her. I wanted to impress you...

She opened her hand, the knife released from her grip. She continued to view her toast, her appetite now passing.

"I was tired last night, I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings,"

May turned her head away.

"Yeah, cause' working up at the butcher's is a real fuckin' drag," she mumbled.

"Excuse me?" Peter questioned, a tone of displeasure present.

They remained silent for a moment, as May continued to avoid Peter's glare. He poured the cold, creamy residual of his tea down the sink, before approaching May, his hand on her arm.

"I'm leavin' now," he spoke softly in her ear. "When I come to pick you up tonight, that smart mouth of yours better be gone," he hissed in her ear, his fingernails slightly stabbing into her arm, producing a numbness, which May would never forget.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, May."

With hesitation, she turned her head, coming face to face with Peter. When he noticed the tears in her eyes, his grip on her arm reduced slightly. May didn't cry however. She was never a person to publicly cry, and it bothered her when she witnessed others doing it. She was definitely a judgemental person, May didn't deny that. She stood there, quiet, and a part of Peter wanted her to retaliate, but she remained placid.

Peter slowly exited the kitchen, scratching at his neck, an attack of guilt seeping through his heart, as he remembered once his mother having May's exact frightened response when he accidentally walked in on his mother and father having a stressful exchange one night.

* * * *

Afternoon.
Apple Kitchen - 3 Savile Row, Central London.

May set down the box of Vanilla Slices on the bench top, sighing deeply. On the way to work, she stopped by the apartment, collecting the dessert she had prepared the night before. Since her efforts to make the slices were not appreciated by her fiancé, May figured the staff at Apple would find them enjoyable.

She carried George's jacket in her other arm, and placed it next to the white box, before getting started on the washing up. Lunchtime had ended just before May's arrival, resulting in a sink full of dirty dishes.

Before drying the dishes, May stood still, tea towel in her hand, staring at the box of slices, and her eyes watered. Despite the pleasant ride home, the rest of her night had consisted of Peter's muttered curses and loud boom of his boots up the stairs, with May trying to suppress the tears. Their rude exchanges this morning didn't ease her unsteady heart, and she could faintly feel his fingernails still buried in her arm. Now, standing alone in the kitchen, the need to weep was overpowering, and a tear brushed down her cheek.

If it wasn't for George, who stumbled into the kitchen in that moment, she would have collapsed onto the floor, and quietly sobbed. Her head turned, their eyes locking, and George was surprised by the heartache that was present in her hazel ones.

"Are you crying?" he heard himself ask, and it almost came out accusatory. However, he was genuinely concerned.

"No. Of course not," she replied, voice quivering. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she cleared her throat.

"No, thanks,"

May nodded and resumed her task of drying the dishes. George stood there for a minute or two, watching her, the sadness weighing down her shoulders. She put the plates and glasses away, both of them silent. George scanned the room, his eyebrows raised when he saw his jacket.

"Aye, you found it," he said, and patted the jacket.

She smiled weakly, putting down the tea towel.

"Actually...I stole it," she replied, walking up to him.

"What?"

May nodded. "I saw it in the studio, after everyone left. And I took it."

George noticed the dark circles under her eyes and pale complexion. Her appearance was similar to his. She licked her lips and the sensation it gave him burned down to his stomach. Her braid was quite messy today, with her hair oily and in need of a wash. George smiled.

"Well, well, May...that's very cheeky of you, isn't it?" He remarked, with a toothy grin - almost a sneer - and she immediately matched his flirtatious expression.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," he continued. "I know it was in safe hands, aye?" he smiled, and lightly pinched her cheek.

She softly giggled, putting her hands together, and glancing at the floor, in embarrassment. George sat on the kitchen bench top as May finished scrubbing the pots and pans, drying them, and placing them in the cupboard. She filled two glasses of water - one for her and one for George - and stood next to him, admiring the collar of his white shirt.

"What's with the box?" he asked, and lifted its lid, revealing the treats. "You made this for us?"

"Well...not exactly," she replied, a little too honestly.

He chuckled lightly. "Just say yes, love."

She sighed, deciding to tell George. "They were for Peter, but he didn't like them."

"Peter? Who's Peter?" he asked, not really paying attention, continuing to peer at the delicious desserts.

She cleared her throat, taking a small sip of water.

"My fiancé, George," she answered quietly, that it came out as a squeak.

His head turned sharply, facing her.

"Right, your...fiancé..." he mumbled, his eyes scanning down her braid and neck, her breasts faintly outlined in her white, school blouse.

"And the bastard didn't like em'?" George questioned, taking one of the vanilla slices from the box.

May fetched him a plate from underneath the kitchen bench top. George moved his legs so she could open the cupboard door.

"He has a name, George," she said, roughly placing the plate on the bench top, that the glassy bang echoed in the room.

Despite feeling hurt by Peter, she still cared about him, and didn't want people to disrespect him. There was always a loving for Peter, which began when May was young...fourteen years old to be exact. It wasn't that long ago that she was fourteen, but standing in the kitchen with George Harrison certainly made her feel a lot older. And she strangely liked it.

"Fine." he had to bite in his tongue in order to not roll his eyes. "Peter didn't like em'?"

"Yeah, weren't like his mum's. Threw his piece in the trash, can you believe it?" she questioned, her words laced with irritation.

She was still in George's jacket when May presented Peter with the vanilla slices. She had followed a recipe she found in 'Delicious' magazine, which her mother had loaned her months ago. May wasn't the best cook, she pretty much started baking only a month or two ago, when her and Peter became serious - i.e their engagement. Making the vanilla slices was a challenge for May - and they turned out a bit tough, she admitted that. But Peter's couple of mouthfuls and disappointed gleam in his eyes as he scraped his half eaten slice in the bin was heartbreaking for May. They were still fucking edible, she thought. And to top it all off...Peter had compared her to his "fantastic" mother.

"Well, I'll be the judge of how good they are."

George took a bite, the puff pastry crunching, and whipped cream and jam trailing out the sides. George hummed, licking his lips and fingers of the flour that had attached, savouring the sweet strawberry jam in his mouth.

"Mmm...they're delicious, May. Very good, love," he said and took another bite, cream falling onto the plate, more of it on his fingers, and May had the urge to slide her tongue down each finger, collecting every remnant from his skin.

She blushed at the thought.

"T-thanks, George." she smiled. "It's actually my first time making them."

"Really?" he mumbled, swallowing quickly. She could lightly see the dark residue of jam on the end of his moustache, which he swiftly wiped off.

"They're terrific! I promise, May. I'll take some to the band and the guys upstairs...they'll eat them all up."

May was beaming. She had never received such praise before, not even from her parents, who spent most of their time consumed with themselves to bother acknowledging their daughter's achievements. George complimented her with such conviction, that she didn't doubt him...not for a second. She had never felt such...joy, that her heart was beating wildly, with her cheeks even redder. She looked down, unaccustomed to the attention, until she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey, they really are good, May. Don't beat yourself up just cause' of what that prick said,"

May could have scolded George for calling her soon to be husband a 'prick', but the thought - and words - failed to appear. In fact, she agreed with George, and smiled.

"Here, take a bite. Enjoy what you created," he said, and held the other end - the uneaten bit - of the vanilla slice to her.

She leaned in, as George held the plate under her chin, and her teeth sunk into the soft pastry, cream filling her mouth. Jam smeared across her mouth, which she collected with her finger, licking the sticky remains off her skin. George grinned at the sight.

"Good, huh?"

"Fucking great, George," she laughed, and he joined in, encouraging her to think more positively.

Their bliss was interrupted when Sam, a recently employed assistant, walked in. Sam was startled by the sight of George Harrison - who was propped up on the kitchen bench top - and May - who he had seen around, looking "freakin' hot" in her short, school skirt.

"Oh, hi," May said, smiling at Sam.

He gave a short nod. "Hi."

Sam coughed, the awkwardness too much for his lungs. He was conscious of the fact he had intruded on a private moment.

"Uh, George...Ringo said he wanted you to listen to, uh, a song?"

"Oh, must be the Octopus one," he muttered.

George finished the small remainder of his vanilla slice, before hopping down from the bench top.

"Well, Maggie May...I hate to love you and leave you," George grinned, grabbing his jacket from the counter.

"S' okay, thanks for-

"Don't worry bout' it," he cut her off, and she smiled, grateful.

George held the box of desserts in one hand, but before leaving, opened the lid and offered Sam a slice, insisting on how "fucking tasty" they were. May could only grin until there were nearly tears in her eyes.

* * * *

Later in the afternoon...

May was making her daily rounds of teas. Her first delivery was to management, mainly the men and women upstairs, most of who didn't glance at her when she entered the room. After that, Mal Evans, Neil Aspinall, George Martin, and the various members of the film crew that were scattered around the studio, were served their tea and snacks. Extra roadies, session musicians and engineers were next. John and Yoko, Paul and Ringo followed after, with lastly - and her most favourite - George, to receive his cup of tea.

George noticed the box of biscuits under May's arm as she placed the tea on the table in front of him.

"An' what do we ave' ere'?" he asked, setting his guitar down beside him.

"One of your favourites. I managed to save a box," she replied, as she set them beside the cup.

McVities Digestive Biscuits. May had overheard from two chefs in the kitchen that he enjoyed the sweet with his tea.

"I've already 'ad enough sweets for today. But thanks anyway, love." he nodded, taking a sip of his tea.

She apologised, forgetting he had eaten the vanilla slice in the kitchen, but he assured her he appreciated the effort. May turned to return to the kitchen, when she heard George call her name.

"You're not doing much now, are you? Come, sit," he said, and patted the seat next to him.

"Uh..." she checked her watch. "Fine, okay, just for a few minutes, then," she replied casually.

He moved his electric guitar so she could sit. May watched in awe as George played; a few blues riffs here and there, old rockabilly tunes which she had never heard before. And he would joke around with it, playing a minor folky version of "Happy Birthday" for her, and they'd laugh whenever he would get out of control, his fingers swiftly flying down the fret board.

"That sounds great, George," she said, and he abruptly stopped, and regarded her with kind eyes.

"Wanna hear somethin' cool?"

She nodded immediately. He asked May to retrieve his acoustic guitar, which was a few feet away from her. She completed the request, and carefully handed George the guitar, as he rested the electric on the stand next to him.

"Now, place your head here," he instructed, and his fingers tapped the body of the guitar.

She furrowed her eyebrows, and knelt down beside George, her ear pressed against the natural amber top of the guitar, her forehead next to its bridge. And then George began to play, and she felt the strings of the guitar and its inner workings rush through her. He began to perform a slower, folky number, and she heard him make a mistake, accidentally brushing against the low E string. It was much more noticeable being so close to the source, and the ambience was incredible.

"Oops, sorry. I'll start again,"

"Okay," she breathed.

He played softly, her cheeks hurting from her smile. She had difficulty containing the happiness, as she had never experienced anything like it. She had listened to music loud before, but this was different. Her body and his guitar were connected; she wasn't just listening or watching him play; he wasn't on stage, and she wasn't lusting over him from ten feet away. She would move her head away and then return it to the same position, and the contrast of sound was so vastly different.

He fooled around with different riffs, until May recognised one of them: the solo of Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues", which was one of May's favourites, unbeknownst to George. It took him a few attempts however.

"Uh, fuckin', I hate the way I forget things," he grunted, but she encouraged him to continue, and gently squeezed his knee.

His fingers lingered along the fret board for a moment, until he played the solo note perfect, and it was magical.

The call of May's name startled them, and she hastily stood up, her joints cracking and feet slightly numb. George recognised it as Sam, who had summoned May. Fuck, he's beginning to pop up a little too much, he thought.

"May! Upstairs want a few more sandwiches and drinks!"

She nodded. "Okay, yeah. Be there soon!"

She glanced at George, and he appeared tiny and crestfallen on his stool. George struggled to control his sulky mood as he had been thriving in May's attention. With her warm body near his, hand on his knee, and her soft voice to match.

"I gotta-

"Yeah, I know."

She left shortly after saying goodbye, and the dejection in her tone remained with George for the rest of the session.

* * * *

Apple Kitchen - 6:20pm.

It was forty minutes until her shift ended, and with the Beatles still recording and most of the staff full after dinner, May treated herself to a sneaky snack of a red, delicious...apple. Very fitting, she thought, and peeled the apple sticker off its surface, before washing it. She was about to pour herself a glass of milk, when George entered the kitchen, surprising her.

"Oh...hi, George," she smiled, conscious of the awkward way they had ended their last conversation in the studio.

Despite her nervousness, the incident appeared long gone in George's mind, as he warmly greeted her.

"Hey, June. Just came in 'ere for some water,"

She didn't have time to offer assistance, as George brushed past her, to the cupboard, retrieving a glass.

"When do you knock off?" he asked, filling the glass up.

"Soon. At 7."

He nodded, walking to the freezer, as he dropped a few ice cubs into his glass. Quickly forgetting about the glass of milk, she sat on the kitchen bench top. George wished to join her, but he couldn't think of an excuse to stay. He wasn't quite ready to return to the studio just yet. As if she read his thoughts, she sweetly asked,

"Do you wanna share this?" gesturing to the apple. "Or are you still full after-

"Sure," he interrupted, silently thankful for her suggestion.

George fetched a knife from the drawer, before joining May on the bench top, sitting quite close to her. May began to twist the apple stem, saying the alphabet.

"...J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R-

She stopped, as the stem broke off, and glanced at George.

"What guys do we know that have a name starting with the letter 'R'?"

"What?" he questioned, smiling.

"Y'know...the apple game? You turn the apple's stem and say the alphabet and the letter you land on is the initial of the person you're gonna marry?"

"Ah," he raised his eyebrows. "And who do you know who starts with... ' R', was it?"

"Uh, I know a guy named Reece, at school. He's a bit of a nerd though,"

He chuckled. "Hmm...you might have to break it to Reece that you're already engaged," George smirked, as May cut herself a slice, and handed George the apple.

"Or I could just marry both—don't tell,"

George lifted his forefinger to his lips, indicating her secret was safe, before breaking off a piece of the apple with the knife. They sat eating the apple, passing it back and forth, as a few chefs and other staff walked in and out of the kitchen, most giving a brief hello to George, and ignoring May. She didn't mind however. She had received the same reception at Olympic Studios, so she was experienced in being disregarded. May quickly recognised that it was easy for her to become the background because George was so welcoming, that she somehow was pushed to the side. This wasn't intentional, and she understood that she wasn't the main star or musician, but it did hurt sometimes. She was young, and unfortunately a bit too thin skinned for the music business and its injustices.

"Ah, I forgot to ask, how's the hand?" George placed the apple core beside him, as May reached for the tea towel that was near the sink. Her white, school blouse lifted up as she did this, revealing her skin - so soft and pure - and George immediately noticed.

"Yeah, okay. Pretty much a normal day at the office," she replied, and they grinned.

"I meant to thank you for helping me out yesterday...y'know, with the cream and everything," she added, wiping her hands with the brown and white tea towel, before offering it to George, to dry his fingers from the apple's sticky residue.

"Oh, it was nothing, May—just a normal day at the office," he replied, and they laughed again.

Their smiles would always last a moment longer, eyes locked, as they felt very relaxed in each other's company. George hadn't realised, but he had spent at least twenty minutes in the kitchen, although it seemed much shorter. May's shift was soon to end, and she was aware of the fact that Peter would be - impatiently - waiting for her at 7:00pm outside the Apple Building.

"Well, I guess I better let you get back to it...and I'll be home soon," she said, and sighed, glimpsing down at her skirt and knees. "I have to also thank you for today, George."

"For what?"

"The vanilla slices, you didn't have to..."

May was too shy to admit how great George had made her feel.

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you mean, May,"

He gazed at her, encouraging her to express her feelings without insecurities.

"Well, uh," she began, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked him in the eyes. "For saying those kind things about the slices...I'm not the best cook, and just Peter really gutted me about them...but I just..."

She couldn't continue, because there was really no need. They both know what she was thankful for.

"I don't wanna take all the praise, May. I did nothing—nothing at all...just spoke the truth. Y'know," he began, and almost grimaced at the next few lines he said to her. "....just, go home and forget these things with Pete? Forgive and forget, May. Life is...very short," he said, and they both smirked at the allusion of the Beatles song.

"It's true, June. Swami Vivekananda was a Hindu monk who was a major figure in bringing awareness to Hinduism in the 19th century, and he said that everything - all the baggage and bullshit we carry - ends when we forgive and forget. And that's important, May. I'm sure Peter didn't mean what he said,"

Giving this advice, May listened and wanted to do good, and yet, George found some discomfort urging her to rekindle with her fiancé, when he fancied her himself. It was a bit of a mistake when George thought about it, but he just wished to continue talking with her...because she was fun and easy to hang out with.

She nodded. "I'll do that, George. Thanks...again," she replied, and rolled her eyes at the endless times she had shown her gratitude to him in the space of five minutes. He must get it all the time...he's probably sick of it...

He shook his head, not wishing to take all the credit.

"How long are you guys staying back?" May asked, and hopped off the bench.

"For a while, I think. I don't know, we're all sort've doing different things. We jam for most of the time, doing old rock tunes,"

"Oh," she nodded, licking her lips. "I just have to get my blazer from the control room, and then I'm off..."

"Let's go there together," he offered, and George slipped down, joining May, and as they exited the kitchen, she felt his hand on her lower back, guiding her. A very sweet and simple gesture, which made her smile.

* * * *

9 Commercial Street, Mayfair - May and Peter's Apartment

Driving to their home, Peter and May remained silent. The passing of cars and hum of the heater were the only disruptions. But as soon as they stepped inside, Peter reached for her hand, and guided May to the couch.

"I'm sorry, May. Honest, this time. I didn't mean it," he said softly, his eyes worn out.

She squeezed his hand. "Peter, it's fine. We were both tired, and said mean things, but it's...worth forgetting."

Peter smiled, and kissed her forehead, before they retreated to the bedroom.