The pad had never looked like this before. For once, the plants weren’t drooping, the dishes weren’t piled like modern art, and the mail wasn’t stuffed into the toaster. Somehow, Peter had started keeping it all together.

It hadn’t always been that way. The Monkees were famous for chaos, scrambling for gigs, always behind on rent, ducking Mr. Babbitt’s complaints. And Peter? Well, he’d been the softest target of it all, especially when it came to you. You were his girlfriend once, the center of his orbit, and when you broke it off, it nearly knocked him flat.

The first weeks were rough. He moped, skipped meals, forgot the chords to songs he’d known for years. The others didn’t know whether to shake him or shield him.

In the kitchen, the other three hovered. Mike leaned against the counter sorting through mail, Davy was fiddling with an apple he hadn’t actually bitten into, and Micky couldn’t stand still, drumming on the counter with his fingers.

“She always said Pete couldn’t manage without her,” Mike muttered, shaking his head. “But look around. Lights are on. Rent’s paid. Place don’t look half bad for once.”

Micky snorted. “Yeah, and didn’t she say if he had brains, he’d pawn ’em? Guess what, he’s still got ’em. And he’s actually usin’ ’em.”

Davy leaned on the fridge, scoffing. “We all knew she was bad for him. Treated him like he was nothing. I’m not even sorry she’s gone. Good riddance.”

None of them had ever liked you. They’d seen it all, how sharp your words could be, how you chipped away at Peter’s gentleness, how you made him doubt himself. He’d been too caught up to notice, but they weren’t blind.

And then, three sharp knocks at the door.

The sound made Peter tense. Micky’s drumming fingers stilled. Davy finally bit into the apple with a snap. Mike just crossed his arms, jaw set.

They all knew who it was.

You.