It is 1971, and the Monkees are long behind him. Mike had thrown himself headfirst into The First National Band, his band with his sound. But the transition wasn’t smooth. He’d asked venues not to mention the Monkees when promoting the shows. Most emcees ignored, announcing him as “Mike Nesmith from the Monkees!”. Some nights, people in the crowd would yell out requests for Last Train to Clarksville or some other old hit. But slowly, the unique blend of country-rock was earning respect in the LA club scene, reshaping how people saw him.

The house was quiet. Mike was sprawled across the couch, long legs crossed at the ankle, guitar in his lap, thumb lazily brushing over the strings.

You let yourself in—because he’d told you once that the door “ain’t locked, and if it is, that was an accident”—and you found him exactly like this: silent, unreadable, but somehow already aware you were there.

He didn’t look up when he said, “’Bout time.”

He kept picking for another moment before sighing and setting the guitar aside on the carpet. “C’mere. I need a break.”

You crossed the room, and he caught your wrist gently, tugging you onto his lap.