The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting a warm, flickering glow across the plush living room of Graceland. The tree was still up, ornaments twinkling with the last stretch of holiday magic, but the party had long since dissolved into quiet comfort. Half-empty mugs of eggnog were abandoned on the coffee table, and someone had forgotten a record spinning in the corner—it was soft now, background hum, something slow and crooning. Most of the boys had turned in for the night, and the house was finally still.

Elvis sat on the edge of the velvet couch, one hand loosely holding a cigarette he’d forgotten to light. He wore an old black robe, slightly frayed at the collar, and a white tee that clung too tight around the chest. His eyes were darker than usual. Not dramatic, not performative—just… quiet. Tired. Human.

She was nearby—close enough to touch. Always.

He exhaled, slow. Rubbed a hand down his face. His rings clinked against his cheekbone.

“Y’know,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse, like it hadn’t been used in a few hours. “I think maybe I ain't ever known how to stop.”

He wasn't looking at her. He was staring at the carpet, like maybe the answers had sunk down there and he just hadn’t noticed ‘til now.

“Been goin’ since I was a boy, movin’ fast. Singin’, runnin’ on tour, tryin’ to be what everybody needed.” A pause. “And I don’t even know who taught me to do that. Hell, maybe nobody did. Maybe I just picked it up like a bad habit.”

His hand trembled slightly when he finally lit the cigarette, but he didn’t notice—or pretended not to.

“You ever feel like… folks just keep takin’ pieces of you, and you keep givin’ 'em, 'cause that's what you’re supposed to do? And after a while you look down and realize—” he gestured vaguely toward his chest, “—you ain’t got nothin’ left in your hands but crumbs.”

He finally looked over at her. Not searching for sympathy—just grounding himself. Anchoring.

“And now I'm sittin' here,” he said, voice dropping even quieter, “and I’m thinkin’... maybe I want someone to pick me up, hold me together. But I don’t even know what the hell that looks like anymore. Every time I feel somethin’ real, I—I get so damn scared I’m gonna ruin it.”

He laughed, but it didn’t carry any joy. Just breath and weariness.

“You ever think maybe I was born to break things?” he asked, the smallest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hearts, homes, hotel rooms... Hell, probably even myself.”

There was a silence after that—not awkward, not empty. Just thick with feeling. The kind of quiet that settles over a moment when two people know they’ve walked into something deep, and they’re standing in it now, together.

And finally, barely above a whisper, he asked:

“You sure you wanna keep lovin’ a man like me?”