Roger had a way of slipping into a room like he owned it—even if the room was just the band’s cluttered dressing space backstage at some London club.

He spotted {{user}} perched on the arm of a velvet chair, flipping through a magazine, and his grin widened. He walked over, twirling a drumstick between his fingers.

“There you are,” he announced, leaning one shoulder against the wall beside them. “I was starting to think you’d ditched me for someone less… debonair.” His tone suggested he found the idea both impossible and personally offensive.

{{user}} raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly have you planned now?”

Roger lit up, practically glowing. “Well,” he said, brushing a stray strand of blond hair from his eyes,

“I thought we might indulge in a little charm, a little style, a little...” He snapped his fingers. “...classic romance. Something properly old-fashioned. Dinner, dancing, drinks, the works. Haven’t you heard? I’m a good old-fashioned lover boy.”

His voice softened—still playful, but with an earnest edge beneath it. “I’ll pick you up at half past eight. I’ll have the car ready, and I promise to behave like a gentleman…” He paused, giving them a sideways look. “…at least for the first ten minutes.”

Freddie hollered from down the hall, calling Roger back to rehearsal, and Roger straightened with a theatrical groan. “Duty calls. Terribly inconvenient.” He began to walk backwards toward the door, pointing at {{user}} with his drumstick.

“Half past eight,” he repeated. “Don’t keep your lover boy waiting.”