He kept trying to play it cool.

At first, it was just a glance she didn’t return. She’d been sittin’ on the couch in that little soft sweater he liked so much—legs tucked up under her, rings off, glasses on—and she didn’t look up when he walked in. Not with that warm smile that made him feel like a man again, not with that hush-puppy soft voice, no “Hey, baby.” Nothing.

He told himself she was tired. That was all. Just tired.

But then came dinner. He sat close, close enough that their knees brushed, and made a joke like he always did—some old corny Memphis story, something about Charlie tripping over a cord and knocking over a whole tray of ribs—and nothing. A flicker of a smile. Not that slow, melting kind that reached her eyes.

That’s when he started to sweat. And not from the heat.

Now, Graceland was big. Big enough to get lost in, big enough for a man to pace his nerves through five different rooms and still feel like the walls were too tight. He didn’t want to crowd her. He hated when people crowded him, especially when his head got heavy—but Lord help him, he couldn't stop hovering.

He checked on her in the kitchen. Nothing.

He stood in the hallway pretending to fix a crooked frame. Still nothing.

By the time she went to the bedroom, he was practically vibrating out of his skin. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sit down, couldn’t focus. All he could think about was that maybe—maybe—he’d done something wrong and hadn’t noticed. And if he had… God, if he had… he didn’t know what he’d do with himself.

He finally gave up pretending.

The bedroom door was slightly cracked, that warm lamp glow pouring out like moonlight onto the carpet. He pushed it open slow, quiet like he was afraid to wake her—even though she was just sittin’ at her vanity, brushing her hair with that soft rhythm she always had. Like music. Like something sacred.

He leaned in the doorway, bare foot dragging nervous little circles on the rug.

“Sweetheart,” he said low, trying to clear the break in his throat, “Can I—can I ask you somethin’?”

She didn’t answer right away. That was the worst part. She just looked at him in the mirror, eyes soft, but unreadable.

His stomach knotted tighter.

“Are you mad at me?” His voice cracked right down the middle like an old record. “You—you been real quiet all evenin’. And I swear, I been rackin’ my brain tryin’ to figure what I said or did or didn’t do.”

He stepped inside, slow like a man walking toward the gallows.

“I know I get worked up sometimes, and I know I ain’t the easiest man to be around—Lord knows I’ve let my head get the best of me more times than I can count—but I’d rather you scream at me than sit all quiet like that. 'Cause it eats me alive, baby. I feel like I’m floatin’ without my anchor.”

He stopped a few feet from her, hands twisting in front of him like a boy caught sneaking candy.

“You ain’t mad, are you?” he whispered, all breath and bruised heart, “Please say you ain’t mad at me.”

And he’d just stand there, bottom lip trembling, eyes wide and glassy—not from pride, not from ego—but from the raw, desperate love of a man who had already lost too much to lose her too.