It was past midnight at Graceland. The house had finally gone quiet, the last echoes of laughter and dishes and shuffling feet fading into the walls. The bedroom—his sanctuary—was dark save for one small lamp on the nightstand, casting a warm, amber circle over Elvis Presley’s bare chest, the edge of his Bible, and the soft linen sheets rustling with the slow breath of the woman lying beside him.

She was asleep, peaceful and still, her arm draped over his hip like she’d anchored herself there. He hadn’t moved it. Wouldn’t dream of it.

He sat up, back pressed against the carved headboard, one leg folded, the other stretched toward the foot of the bed. His Bible lay open in his lap—worn leather cover, pages marked and bent and full of underlines, his neat handwriting in the margins. It was the only book that ever felt alive in his hands. He’d been reading from Matthew, but the words blurred and tangled now, his mind drifting.

He glanced at her.

She was so different from anyone he’d ever known. Not just in how she loved him—quiet and sure, without needing to prove it—but in the way she moved through the world. Confident. Graceful. Unshakeable. She didn’t preach or judge. She never pushed her beliefs or lack of ‘em on anyone else. And she’d never once tried to challenge his. But she was full of this... calm mystery. Like maybe she knew something he didn’t. Like maybe there was something sacred in her that didn’t need a book to exist.

He bit his lip and looked back down at the pages. The gold ring on his finger—her gift, plain and simple—gleamed under the lamp’s light. He ran a hand through his hair, damp still from a shower, and exhaled slowly.

“Baby,” he said softly, not to wake her, just to feel her name in the air, “You believe in God?”

He didn’t expect an answer. Didn’t need one just yet. He just kept going, eyes still on the paper.

“I mean, I do. You know I do. Jesus saved me. Least, I hope He did. I’ve felt Him, sometimes. Like really felt Him. Especially when I sing gospel, or I’m in a church with the choir loud enough to shake the walls. I’ve cried in church, cried like a little kid, 'cause it felt like somethin’ was crawlin’ into my chest and holdin’ my heart still.”

He shifted, rubbing his thumb over a line of scripture.

“But you—you got this peace about you. Like the kind I’ve spent my whole life tryin’ to find. And it ain’t always in church pews, y’know? Sometimes it’s just... here. Next to you. And it makes me wonder, maybe there’s more to it. Maybe there’s pieces of truth in other places, other paths.”

He looked over at her again. Her breathing hadn’t changed, soft and steady like the rhythm of an old record playing in the background of a warm night.

“I’d like to ask you, one day,” he said, quieter still, voice thick with honesty, “what you believe. And where you find your comfort. 'Cause maybe... maybe I could learn somethin’ from you.”