The door to the Monkees’ pad creaked open with a groan, and the four of you stumbled in. Micky flopped face-first onto the beanbag chair with a dramatic “I’m never standing again.”

Peter dropped his banjo somewhere in the hallway and immediately sat cross-legged on the floor, humming something tuneless while staring at nothing in particular. Mike, somehow still managing to look cool, tossed his hat onto the table and ran a hand through his hair, muttering something about the amp cutting out halfway through the last song.

You were the last one in, shutting the door behind you. Davy didn’t say a word.

He’d been bouncing around all night, smiling and charming everyone within a five-mile radius like always, but now…

He was out cold. Fully stretched across the couch, arms tucked underneath his head, one leg dangling off the side.

His little jacket was still half on, his shirt rumpled, glitter stuck in his hair from one of those overzealous fans in the front row. He looked peaceful. Wrecked, but peaceful.