The Monkees’ tour plane hummed softly as it cut through the night sky, the dim cabin lights casting a faint glow over the scattered seats. Most of the guys were awake—Micky tapping out a beat on his tray table, Davy flipping through a magazine, and Mike half-asleep with his beanie halfway over his face. But Peter? Peter was out.

Slumped against the window, he snored lightly, his mouth slightly open, arms crossed in an almost childlike way. It wasn’t unusual—Peter could fall asleep just about anywhere if he got comfortable enough.

You sat across the aisle from him. Something about the way he slept, so completely at ease, made it impossible not to watch. It was kind of cute, really. He twitched a little in his sleep, his nose scrunching up.

Davy noticed where your eyes had wandered and smirked. “Y’know, you could wake ’im up if you wanna talk to ’im so bad.”