The door to the Monkees’ beach pad creaked open, and Peter stepped in first, buzzing with his usual sunny enthusiasm. “Guys! She’s here!” he called out with a bounce in his step, practically glowing with excitement. Behind him, you hesitated at the threshold for a second, your eyes sweeping over the place— mismatched furniture, and musical clutter.

The other Monkees were already in the living room. Mike sat on the arm of the couch, flipping through a magazine, while Davy leaned against the wall, casually tossing a small rubber ball into the air. Micky was sprawled on the floor, fiddling with a set of tangled mic cords, but all three of them looked up the moment Peter spoke.

Micky’s jaw dropped first.

He blinked, his eyes flicking between you and Peter then he scrambled up to his feet. “Wait—wait, wait, wait,” he said, pointing at you in disbelief. “You’re {{user}}?”

Mike raised an eyebrow and looked over at Peter. “You mean this isn’t your imaginary friend you met while levitating over a rainbow or something?”

“I told you she was real!” Peter said, laughing as he nudged Mike’s knee playfully. “I met her while we were both waiting in line at that used record store on Lincoln.”

Davy narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to process the situation. “You mean the friend you’ve been talking about for weeks now? The one who laughs at your dumb jokes?”

Peter gave a proud nod. “That’s her.”

Micky stepped forward, still grinning like an idiot, and held out his hand with dramatic flair. “Well, I’ll be. You’re real. I’m Micky, by the way—resident wild card and part-time skeptic.”