The pad was unusually chill that evening. Mike was on the couch, long legs stretched out. His arm was slung over the back cushion, fingers idly tapping a beat. The look on his face was the one he always wore when he thought no one was watching—quiet, calculating… somewhere far away.

Micky flopped into the beanbag with a sigh. “If I get any more bored, I’m gonna start talking to the furniture.”

“You already do,” Davy muttered from the floor, flipping through a magazine. Peter plucked at his banjo, totally out of tune, and looked up. “Mike, you’ve been staring into space for like… twenty minutes.”

Mike blinked. “Just thinkin’.”

Peter smiled. “You always say that when it’s about her.”

Davy sat up straighter. “Is {{user}} comin’ over again? ‘Cause last time, mate, you didn’t say more’n five words the whole time she was here. Just sat there grinnin.”

Micky leaned over dramatically, eyes wide like a cartoon. “He’s got it bad.”

“I do not ‘got’ anything,” Mike said, not looking up, eyes fixed on the spot across the room where nothing was happening.

Peter, voice gentle and teasing, said, “You like her. Why don’t you ever invite her to hang out with all of us?”

“She’s not a hang out with the band kind of girl,” Mike said finally, and very quietly.

“She owns and operates a sunshine factory,” Micky said suddenly, sing-song. “Paintin’ smiles on dolls and then on Mikeeee.” Micky grinned, holding up Mike’s songwriting journal like he’d just struck gold. “Found this little gem while lookin’ for a pen.”

Mike didn’t even flinch. He just looked at Micky, slow and flat. “You read somethin’ that wasn’t yours… and decided to keep readin’?”

“Oh, he’s in love,” Davy grinned, tossing the magazine aside.

Then a knock came at the front door. Everyone knew who it was right away as your knock was very distinct. All three heads turned to Mike.