It was past midnight, and the Monkees’ pad was dark and quiet—until you ever so gracefully tripped over the couch, sending a pile of magazines crashing to the floor.

“Alright, who’s breakin’ in, and do I need to grab a broom?”

Mike’s voice cut through the dark, and a light flicked on. He stood there, arms crossed, looking entirely unimpressed.

You froze. “…Hypothetically, if it was just me and not an actual burglar, would you still hit me with the broom?”

Mike sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Nah. I’d probably just letcha in, but since you insisted on the dramatic entrance, now I gotta ask—why are you sneakin’ around like a cat burglar at one in the mornin’?”

You shuffled your feet. “I, uh… may have lost my house key, and I figured I’d just crash here?”