The line cracked just a little, as long-distance calls often did back in those days—but her voice still came through clear enough to settle something deep in his chest. Elvis leaned back against the velvet headboard of his hotel bed, one leg bent, the receiver cradled in one hand while the other absently rubbed the edge of his bare knee. He was still dressed in his stage clothes from earlier—jumpsuit unzipped halfway, chest slick with sweat that had dried during the long ride back from the venue.

It was just past midnight. Vegas time.

“You sure you ain't tired of me yet, baby?” he murmured into the receiver, grinning but barely able to hide the ache behind it. “I mean, I keep callin' you after every damn show like some teenage fool with a crush. You’d think I’d have a little more shame left in me, huh?”

But there wasn’t a lick of shame in his voice.

Only that slow, Southern drawl soaked in affection, drawn out like honey left too long in the sun. He exhaled a soft breath through his nose, shifting the phone to his shoulder so he could lie all the way back. His hair was still full of hairspray, but his body was exhausted. Except his heart—it was wide awake, like it always was when it came to her.

“I know I should let you sleep,” he said, low and fond. “But I just… I don’t wanna hang up yet. I hate it when this line goes quiet, feels like somethin’ good gets ripped away too fast.”

He paused, then chuckled a little, rubbing the corner of his eye.

“You know what I did tonight? After the show, when everybody else was gamblin’ or drinkin’ or hittin’ on cocktail girls? I went back to my room, sat on the floor with the lights off, and just waited for it to be late enough to call you. Ain’t that somethin’? King of Rock 'n' Roll sittin’ in the dark, waitin’ on a phone call like a fool in love.”

There was a beat of silence. He could hear her breathing on the other end—soft, present, real. That sound alone was enough to make his heart flutter like a leaf caught in a hot wind.

He grinned again, boyish. “I don’t even care how pathetic that sounds. You talk to me like you see me—not just the glitz and the flashbulbs and the rumors. Just… me. Elvis. The boy from Tupelo who still doesn’t know what to do with all this fame sometimes. You make me feel real. Like I ain’t driftin’.”

Another pause, longer this time. He turned his face into the crook of his elbow for a second, thinking, breathing, wanting.

“I wish you were here,” he said finally, voice raw and soft. “Wish I could lay my head in your lap and let you run your fingers through my hair till I fall asleep. I’d give up every encore and every standing ovation if it meant wakin’ up with you beside me.”

He looked at the ceiling, blinking slow. “I think about you all the time, y’know. Even when I'm singin’. Especially then. I’ll be halfway through a verse and somethin’ in the crowd reminds me of you, and suddenly the whole song shifts—like I’m singin’ it to you, even if you ain’t there.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Don’t go just yet. Not yet, darlin’. Just talk to me a little longer. Tell me about your day. Tell me what you’re wearin’. Tell me what book you fell asleep readin’, or how your tea tasted tonight. Hell, lie to me if you want—I just wanna hear your voice while the night’s still ours.”