𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙯𝙮 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 ┆[r.t.]

vi. good old-fashioned lover boy

↳˳ੈ;; ❝ i can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things
we can do the tango just for two
i can serenade and gently play on your heart strings
be your valentino just for you
ooh love ooh loverboy
what're you doin' tonight, hey boy
set my alarm, turn on my charm
that's because i'm a good old-fashioned lover boy ೫˚∗:

When the glass plate shattered and pasta flew everywhere, Roger immediately looked around for something, like a towel, to clean up with, but didn't find anything and chose to stand there awkwardly. "I'm, uh... I'm sorry, miss," he said, tripping over his words, not even exactly knowing why he was apologizing.

The woman, already on her knees and wiping at the floor, clearly quite embarrassed, looked up at him and smiled lightly. "No, I'm the one who should apologize for my clumsiness... Please come in."

Christine strode in and Roger followed, then asked where the broom was.

"In the tiny cabinet over there," Chris answered, and he went to get it, then started carefully swishing away the largest pieces of glass.

Once he'd thrown all of it in the garbage and Christine's mom had finished cleaning up the food, he grinned sheepishly. "Um, hello ma'am. I'm Roger."

He extended a hand and she shook it forcefully. "Oh I know that. I'm Monique."

"Nice to meet you," the drummer said, and Christine had to clamp her lips together not to laugh. He was blushing. She watched, giggling softly, as he balanced his weight from one foot to another and smiled hesitantly while making small talk with her mother.

"Hey," he started shyly. "Um, may I ask where's your loo?" he inquired, and Christine almost snorted out loud. That was plain adorable.

"Down the hall, last door on the left," Monique said cheerfully, pointing to it, and Roger shuffled in that direction.

Once he was gone, Monique turned turned to her daughter, eyebrows raised. "Is that really Roger Taylor?" she asked in French, with the classic Quebecois accent.

Christine huffed, smiling. "No, he's an imposter."

"But he's so shy..." she mused, before asking: "Chrissy, are you the one that has that effect on him? What happened between you two?"

Christine reddened in answer. "Nothing," she blurted, and her mother rolled her eyes.

"Did you use protection, at least?" she inquired, and her daughter yelled in protest.

"Mom! We didn't do—"

"You better have. Anyways, since I'm your mom and I ought to tell you this every time you bring a boy home, I don't think he's good enough for you, even if he is Roger Taylor, and even if he is incredibly sweet, and even if he looks at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen—"

"Okay, mom, okay, enough," Christine whispered, switching to English once more, still blushing like crazy, when Roger stepped out of the bathroom and strode toward them.

"Anyways," Monique started again. "I'll leave you two be, I have to make lunch for the children again—" she started, walking away, but Roger interjected.

"No, wait, I can make lunch for you all..." he became red again, and Christine thought it might've been the cutest thing she'd ever seen. The grand Roger Taylor, acting like a shy schoolboy in front of her mom. "I mean, since I'm the one who made you drop the food in the first place..."

Monique was smiling, arms crossed. "I hope you know how to make pasta."

"Oh, yes, of course," Roger answered, looking relieved. "I'll just need to know a few things, and then you can relax, ma'am."