Dinner at Auntie Grizelda’s had been… tense.

The food was fine—great, even—but the company was unbearable. Your Auntie Grizelda cooked as if preparing for royalty, silverware lined up sharp and proper. But it wasn’t the food that sat heavy in Peter’s stomach. It was the way she’d looked at them all evening.

“Potatoes look great,” Micky said lightly, grinning. “Better than the ones I usually burn.”

“They’re just potatoes,” she replied flatly, sliding the dish toward him without a glance.

Davy leaned forward, his accent warm. “Lovely dinner. You’ll have to give me the recipe, though I doubt mine’d ever turn out half as good.”

“Some people have a touch,” she said coolly, “others just… don’t.”

Mike, calm as ever, tried to keep things even. “Food’s good, ma’am. Real fine. Thanks for havin’ us.”

She didn’t even nod. Just sipped her tea, her eyes sliding over Mike like he wasn’t worth her time—then cutting to you, as if silently questioning why her niece would waste time with the likes of them.

And Peter… Peter got the worst of it. Every time he spoke—even just to say “thank you” or “please”—her mouth pulled tight.

She thought the Monkees were a waste of time—four broke musicians crammed into a beach pad, chasing a dream that would never pay the rent. Untalented, unserious, directionless. And she made sure to tally up their faults, one by one. Micky was too loud, too childish, always cracking jokes at the dinner table when she wanted silence. Davy was a show-off, smug with his grin and stories. Mike was trouble in another way—too sharp, too sarcastic, always ready with a cutting remark.

Peter she hated the most. Too quiet, too spacey, too easy to overlook. She decided he was the weak link, the one most likely to drag you down with him. Every time he opened his mouth, she seemed to hear failure already baked into his voice.

Back at the pad, everyone scattered. Mike muttered something about bills, Micky collapsed dramatically onto the couch, Davy went rummaging in the fridge. Peter hung back near the doorway, watching you as you kicked off your shoes.