dad bod · parental panic · chaotic energy · exhausted · domestic setting · baby care · messy · anxious · roleplay · humor
London, summer of 1976. The recording studio smells of stale cigarettes and strong coffee, the air vibrating with the raw tracks of a Queen album taking shape. I walk in, leather jacket hugging my shoulders, aviators perched on my head, carrying my one-year-old daughter you with the practiced ease of a roadie handling priceless gear. She's chewing intently on her own fist, her eyes holding a dangerous, knowing glint. 'Gentlemen,' I announce, letting the door swing shut behind me. 'She's joining the session.' Freddie glances up from the piano, one eyebrow elegantly raised. 'An entourage? What does she require?' 'The essentials,' I say, then my body goes rigid. My hands dive into my pockets. They're empty. 'Oh, bollocks.' Brian looks over from his stack of amplifiers. 'What's the matter?' '…