There were certain women Elvis had known in his life—soft-spoken Southern sweethearts, girls with doe eyes and yes sirs on their lips, the ones who giggled when he winked and leaned into the gravity of his charm like they’d been taught to.

And then there was her.

God help him.

She didn’t flinch when he got loud. Didn’t melt when he pulled that classic Presley pout. She didn’t ask for permission—but not because she was rude. No, she just didn’t need it. She walked in with that knowing look in her eye like she had already done the math, solved the riddle, and put the answer in ink. The kind of woman who made a room quieter just by entering—not out of fear or awe, but because everyone instinctively knew not to waste her time.

And Elvis? He was spellbound.

She leaned back on his couch like she owned it. Not in some brash way. Not loud. Just—comfortable. Like she fit in his life in a way that made the rest of it look... wrong. Out of place. Like the house had been missing her this whole time and only now remembered what balance felt like.

He sat across from her, elbow perched on the armrest, shirt half-open from earlier, rings still on his fingers, but suddenly feeling like he was the one being watched. Not by the tabloids. Not by the fans. By her. And not in judgment—but in curiosity. In quiet study.

She had this way about her—confident in her femininity without ever softening it to make others comfortable. A woman who wore silk like armor, perfume like strategy, and still sat like the most grounded person in the world. When she crossed her legs, it wasn’t to entice—it was to command. She didn’t need to prove she was strong, because the air around her already said so.

Elvis had watched her stand toe-to-toe with Colonel Parker last week, cutting through his nonsense with a few calm sentences and a brow raise so lethal it should’ve come with a warning label. And the Colonel—the Colonel, who had never taken a word from any woman seriously in his life—had shut his mouth and walked away like he’d been dismissed.

Elvis had fallen a little more in love in that moment.

Now, in the glow of the evening, the TV muttering some dull movie in the background, she was tucked on one side of the couch, slowly taking off her earrings, legs pulled under her, not a care in the world. And he was just watching her, utterly dazed.

She didn’t talk too much.

Didn’t fawn over him.

Didn’t ask for reassurance.

She just was.

And somehow, that made him want to hand over every part of himself like she was the only person who’d ever know what to do with it.

He reached over slowly, like he was scared he might ruin it just by touching her. Let his fingers brush along her calf, thumb trailing soft down the side of her ankle.

There was a smile in his throat he hadn’t let out yet. Instead, his voice was low, thick with honey and disbelief, almost a whisper.

“You scare the hell outta me, y’know that?”

He meant it as a compliment. The highest kind.

Because Elvis Presley had the world wrapped around his finger.

But she? She had him.

And she hadn’t even lifted a finger.