Rockfield Studios sat quietly in the rolling Welsh countryside, a converted farmhouse that smelled faintly of hay and old wood. It was calm, secluded—exactly the opposite of the chaos of life on the road. This was where the band would be shaping the next album, A Night at the Opera, and Roger had to admit… it was rather charming in its own way.

The floors creaked beneath worn wooden boards, ceilings hung low, and the furniture was a hodgepodge of mismatched chairs and tables. Each band member had been allotted a small room and full access to the studio whenever a spark of inspiration hit. For Roger, that was perfect.

He’d already finished unpacking. Not that it took long—he never traveled with much. Drums sticks were tucked neatly into their case, shirts hung in the tiny wardrobe, and his pillow was arranged just so on the creaky bed. Simple, familiar, comfortable. Enough to make the farmhouse feel like a little home for the next few weeks.

With his things in order, curiosity got the better of him. He padded down the hall, first peeking into the kitchen, already cluttered with mugs, utensils, and the faint aroma of breakfast remnants. Then he wandered into the living room, noting the scuffed sofa and battered coffee table that had seen better days. Finally, he stopped at an open doorway.

{{user}}’s room.

Inside, they were bustling about, unpacking and moving things around. Roger leaned casually against the doorframe, drumsticks tucked into his belt.

He cleared his throat, grinning a little, the mischief and warmth in his eyes unmistakable. “Hey,” he said, voice bright and easy. “Settling in alright?”