The performance had barely ended before the crowd surged forward. The makeshift barricade around the back of the venue? Useless. The moment someone spotted Davy’s in the alley, it was over with.

Micky was eating it up, posing dramatically, signing napkins, kissing cheeks with zero shame. Mike, towering and cool as ever, trying to look unimpressed, but he was still scribbling autographs with quick efficiency.

And then there was Peter.

Sweet, deer-in-headlights Peter.

He stood in the middle of the chaos like a tree with a smile that said I’m trying my best but his eyes absolutely screamed HELP.

A girl to his left was tugging at his sleeve, asking if his eyelashes were real. Another one reached up and ruffled his hair with both hands. “It’s so soft!” she squealed.

Peter let out a nervous little laugh, ducking slightly as more hands patted at his hair. “Uh, yeah, I guess I… use shampoo?”

Someone handed him a pen and asked him to sign their arm. Someone else asked if he believed in soulmates. A third asked if he wanted to come to dinner with her parents tomorrow night.

He blinked.

“I—I’m not sure if I’m free for dinner with anybody’s parents tomorrow,” he said politely. Another girl pressed a button pin into his hand. “It’s me! I made this of us in my scrapbook!”

He nodded like this was a perfectly normal sentence.

“Awww, gee. Thank you,” he said, holding it carefully like it might explode. A few feet away, you were watching all of this play out.