You never meant to fall for Davy Jones. No one means to fall for someone like Davy.

He was loud. He was dramatic. He flirted with everything that moved—including a poster of Brigitte Bardot once, which he claimed “winked first.” He sang in the kitchen, danced in the living room, and could spend thirty minutes fixing his bangs before a grocery run. He wasn’t the type you expected to look at someone like you and stay.

But he did.

Or at least… behind closed doors, he did.

The others still didn’t know. To them, you were just the Monkees’ close friend who hung around the pad more than the furniture did. You basically lived there. You’d always had a soft spot for Peter, joked with Micky, shared eye-rolls with Mike—but Davy? Davy was different.

It started, of course, with him being insufferable. Batting his lashes like he knew he was cute. And when you called him out? He’d only grin wider, arms folded, all cocky and sure of himself.

“Oh come on, luv,” he’d say with that velvet voice. “You’re not immune to me, are ya?”

You weren’t. But you pretended you were.

Until that one night—late, too late—when the pad was quiet, and you and Davy were still up, side by side on the sofa. You’d both been laughing at something dumb he said. Then just… looking. And when he leaned in, when he kissed you, it was soft. Not smug. Not practiced.

Since then, it had been a secret. A mess of stolen kisses, late-night sneaks into his room, hiding smiles and brushing pinkies under the breakfast table while Mike argued about song arrangements. You were both playing it cool—or trying to.

But Davy had never been good at hiding how he felt. He was loud, passionate, theatrical. So when he saw you walk into the room after being gone for a couple days (you had a family thing, nothing major), he nearly dropped his tea.

“Luv,” he said with a dazed look, like you’d just walked on stage mid-show. “You didn’t say you were back today.”

“I missed the drama,” you teased, brushing past him.

“Drama? What drama?” Peter asked innocently.

“Me, of course,” Davy said without missing a beat, flipping his hair. “She missed me.”

And just like that, you were back to dancing on that razor-thin line between secret and obvious.