The late afternoon sun spilled lazily through the living room window of the Monkees’ pad, casting warm streaks across the cluttered floor. Someone had put on a Lovin’ Spoonful record, and it crackled faintly in the background, barely loud enough to cover Micky and Davy arguing in the kitchen about who finished the last root beer float.

You were sitting in the chair by the window, pretending to read, your legs curled up underneath you. But your eyes kept drifting to the couch.

To Mike.

He was sitting there with one ankle crossed over his knee, a hand resting lightly on his chin, thumb brushing his bottom lip. Not saying anything. Not even blinking much.

You hated how good he looked doing nothing.

The sleeves of his button-down were rolled to the elbow, revealing those long forearms, veins running like soft wires under skin. His wedding ring—thin, silver, permanent—caught the light every so often, just enough to remind you what line not to cross.

He must’ve felt you looking, because his eyes shifted.

Slow. Casual. Straight to you.

You looked away instantly, heat blooming behind your cheeks like you’d been caught thinking something wrong. You fidgeted with the corner of the magazine in your lap, flipping a page without reading it.

Peter walked through the room with a bowl of popcorn and offered you some. You shook your head, and he moved on, collapsing into the beanbag in front of the TV.

Mike shifted slightly, his elbow now resting on the arm of the couch, fingers tapping against his cheek. Not in a rhythmic way, just restless.

That wedding ring caught the light again. A flash. A reminder of Phyllis. The woman who knew every song he wrote before it was ever played with the Monkees. The one who got to see the pieces of Mike nobody else did.

Phyllis would probably be by later.

And you? You’d leave before she got there. Like you always did.