The music had stopped an hour ago. The chatter had faded into soft echoes. Where there had once been people laughing and clinking glasses, now there were just empty chairs, stray streamers, and a faint smell of punch. You sat on the edge of the couch in the Monkees’ pad, kicking at a balloon with your shoe, feeling the night’s noise dissolve into quiet.

Mike had long since disappeared into his room, grumbling about the mess left behind and how he’d probably be the one to clean it in the morning. Micky stretched his arms wide, “Goodnight, ladies and gentlemen, you’ve been a beautiful audience!” he said, before disappearing down the hall. Peter had been the last to leave, yawning so wide he nearly tripped over the sofa on his way his room.

Across the room, Davy lingered by the doorway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. All night, he’d watched from a distance as people crowded around you, guys trying to talk to you, telling you how much they needed you, trying every angle they had to catch your attention.

But you hadn’t seemed interested in them, and he doubted you’d be into him, even if he had tried talking to you. And now, with the crowd gone, it was just you —no noise, no people between you.

Davy’s fingers toyed with the cuff of his jacket, a nervous habit. Now that the party’s over… now that the noise is through… He shifted his weight, then finally pushed off the doorframe.

He started toward you, slow steps across the scattered streamers and balloons, his mind still racing: I think I might just fall in love with you.