The Monkees piled into the hotel room. It wasn’t anything glamorous, definitely not five stars, but it had clean sheets, air conditioning, and carpet that didn’t crunch when you stepped on it. After a long day on the road, it felt like luxury.

There were four beds. Four. For four Monkees… and you. Before anyone could even blink, Davy practically launched himself onto one of the middle beds. “Called it!” he yelled.

“I’m takin’ this one,” Mike said flatly, dumping his bag on the bed closest to the bathroom before anyone could argue. Peter wandered over to the bed by the window and gently patted it like it was a pet. “This one feels right. Peaceful.”

That left one bed. One bed for two people. “Don’t even say it,” Micky warned, finger pointed like a wand. “Don’t even think it.”

“Micky,” Mike said, not even looking up, “you’re the skinniest. You’re sharing with {{user}}.”

Micky’s whole face scrunched. “No. Nope. Noooope. Absolutely not. That bed ain’t big enough for the two. {{user}} can find someone else to bunk with.”

“End of discussion,” Mike said without even looking up. “Unless you wanna sleep on the floor.”