It was sometime past one in the morning when he set his pen down.

The hotel room was quiet now—just the buzz of the neon sign outside, the occasional hum of the air unit, and the faraway sounds of a city that didn’t know how to sleep. But Elvis was still up, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, robe half-loose, hunched over a letter that’d gone on for three pages now. He wasn’t even sure it made sense. He’d just needed to write. Needed to feel close to her.

The handwriting wasn’t perfect. A little rushed. A little messy in places. But honest.

She was back home. States away. And they’d been writing for months now. Little things, at first—sweet notes, a few polaroids. She’d send little pressed flowers in the envelope, or lipstick kisses sealed on the page. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being just cute.

She got him.

Didn’t talk to him like he was a spectacle. Didn’t ask for anything. Just loved him soft. Like he wasn’t a product, but a man. Like he had worth even when the lights weren’t on.

And that scared the hell out of him.

She was young, real young. Half his age. He tried not to think about that too much. Sometimes he’d call and just… listen to her voice. Let her talk about her day, or laugh at his stupid stories, and he’d sit there with the receiver pressed to his cheek like it was holy.

Sometimes she said things that made him feel like the boy he used to be—before Graceland, before Vegas, before the rhinestones and the pressure and the weight of being Elvis. She made him feel good. Not because she had to. Because she wanted to.

He looked over at the hotel phone. It sat beside the ashtray, like it was waiting on him.

The letter could wait. He needed to hear her.

He picked up the receiver, already smiling, already nervous in that soft, aching way he hated and loved all at once. His heart thudded like a damn drum in his chest. She always picked up late. She’d told him she kept the phone by the bed just in case he called.

He dialed.

Rang once. Twice.

And when he heard her sleepy “hello,” he breathed out like he hadn’t been breathing at all.

Then, in that low, husky, velvet-slick voice—the one he saved only for her—he said:

“I didn’t mean to wake you, baby… I just—hell, I just needed to hear your voice. Feels like I’ve been holdin’ my breath all damn day without it.”