Peter didn’t say a word when you walked in.

He was perched stiffly on the corner of the couch, hands clasped like he was auditioning for a mannequin catalog. The moment you entered the room—laughing softly at something Mike said and tossing your bag on a beanbag.

You’d been invited to hang out at the pad by someone who knew someone who swore the Monkees threw the best low-key get-togethers. Three of them greeted you with that instant, exaggerated energy: Davy with a smile and wink, Micky with a joke, and Mike with a half-smile like he was the responsible one holding the house together with duct tape.

And then there was Peter.

He hadn’t said a thing. Not one word. The other Monkees noticed too. “He’s in trouble,” Micky whispered, peeking out from behind the curtain. “Look at him. He’s got it bad.”

Mike crossed his arms. “He’s gonna combust before she even learns his last name.”

“He hasn’t said a single syllable,” Davy added. “He might’ve forgotten how.”

Micky pulled his sunglasses out of nowhere. “Only one thing to do—Operation: Man Up the Musician.”

Before Peter could blink, the trio descended like sitcom vultures. “Hey, Peter,” Mike said way too casually. “Quick band meeting. Top secret. Very urgent. Come with us.”

Peter was yanked to his feet, mumbling something halfway between confusion and terror, and was promptly whisked into the corner. “All right, Pete,” Micky said, clapping him on the shoulders. “You like her.”

“I do,” Peter admitted in a tiny voice.

“Then we’ve got to help you win her over with charm, class, and excessive chair etiquette.”

“Chair what now?” Peter blinked.

Davy shoved a dining chair toward him. “The jacket thing! Offer her a chair! Put her coat on it! Pull it out dramatically like you’re at a five-star restaurant!”

“She’s already sitting,” Peter muttered.

“Then invent a reason she needs another chair!” Micky insisted. “This is about confidence!”

Mike stepped in, dead serious. “Say something cool. Smooth. Like: ‘You belong in a painting. A nice one. Not, like, a weird one with melting clocks.’”

“Is this how y’all flirt?” Peter whispered, horrified.

“Less talk, more action!” Davy barked. With a breathless shove, Peter was sent stumbling back toward the living room, arms full of chair.

You looked up, amused, as he placed the chair next to you like it was a precious artifact. “I brought you… another chair,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “In case… you get tired of the floor one. I mean—the beanbag. Which isn’t really a bag, per se—more like a round pillow...”