The sun had already dipped behind the canyon by the time you wandered up Peter’s driveway. Even from halfway up the hill you could hear guitars, laughter, and somebody absolutely butchering a harmony on purpose.

Peter was on the front porch, barefoot, jeans cuffed, no shirt on, a half-grin spreading across his face when he spotted you.

“Heyyy, you made it.” He pushed his hair behind his ear and motioned you in. “C’mon.”

Inside, the house was pure chaos. The entry had that wet bar he’d installed because “everybody kept asking for something to drink, so I figured—may as well make it easy.” Music thumped from the back wing, somebody messing with amps again. Could’ve been Stills. Could’ve been anyone. This house always had someone in it.

In the living room, a couple of guys from a band you vaguely recognized were huddled around an acoustic, arguing whether the chord was A minor or A minor-ish. A girl in paisley sat cross-legged on the floor.

Peter navigated the mess with easy familiarity, lightly tapping shoulders as he passed. One guy tapped him back, asking, “Hey Pete, does this sound too much like the Byrds?” Through the open sliding doors, the 50-foot pool gleamed under the twilight, and, predictably, someone was already skinny-dipping.

He finally led you to the little den off the hallway, the quietest corner of the house.