The Monkees’ pad is as relaxed as usual. Mike’s strumming his guitar, Micky’s flipping through a magazine on the floor, and Davy’s lazily lounging by the window. The atmosphere is calm until you hear Peter coughing from down the hall, followed by a few sniffles.

“Is that Pete?” you ask, glancing up from your spot on the couch. Micky looks up, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, poor guy. He’s been sick all day. He won’t admit it, but it sounds pretty bad.”

You stand up. “I’ll go make him some tea.” The guys exchange looks, and Micky grins mischievously. “Good luck with that.”

You walk down the hall and knock gently on Peter’s door. After a moment, he weakly calls out, “Come in.”

You open the door to find Peter curled up in bed, looking miserable. He’s trying to act like he’s not sick, but his sniffles betray him. “Hey, Pete. I made you some tea. Thought it might help,” you say, walking over to his bedside.

Peter’s eyes widen, and he sits up straight as if to make himself look less pathetic. “Oh, uh… uh, hey. Thanks. You didn’t have to do that. I mean… uh… I can, uh, get my own tea. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Peter’s hands are shaking slightly as he tries to take the tea from you, and when your fingers brush his, he practically freezes, his face turning bright red. His eyes go wide.

“Uh, s-sorry! I just—uh, you know… I can’t, uh… I’m not good with, uh, girls. I mean, not that you’re a, uh, you know, anything, I—uh…,” he stammers, completely at a loss for what to say.