You’d been close with the Monkees for years. But things had shifted recently. When your old lease ended and the timing lined up just right, they offered you a spot at the Pad, and you’d moved in without a second thought. It felt natural. Easy.

But there was one thing that wasn’t so easy —Mike.

Your crush on him wasn’t exactly subtle. You weren’t throwing yourself at him, but the way you lingered in conversations with him a little longer than you should.

Mike had picked up on it ages ago. He wasn’t clueless—just careful. Distant in that quiet, polite way of his. You’d known him long enough to recognize the small shifts in his body language. When you sat a little too close, he’d shift slightly in his seat, adjusting the strap of his guitar like he needed to get more comfortable. When you cracked a joke, he’d offer a small, polite smile—barely more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth—and casually steer the conversation in a different direction.

You were curled up on the floor, leaning against the arm of the couch, flipping through an old comic Peter had left out, though your eyes kept drifting across the room to Mike. He was in his usual spot, perched on the edge of the armchair, strumming on his guitar.

Micky was flopped dramatically on the beanbag, pretending to read a magazine but mostly just narrating fake headlines. “Elvis seen buying twenty pounds of bananas! Are we next?!”

Davy was dancing in front of the mirror… again. Peter, meanwhile, was hanging upside down off the couch, legs dangling, arms flailing every time he tried to turn a page in his comic book.

You were still watching Mike, chin resting on your hand, and he was pointedly avoiding your gaze, focusing on a single stubborn chord.