It started as a regular afternoon at Graceland. The guys were milling around—Red had the paper, Charlie was half-asleep with a soda in his hand, and Jerry was rattling off the day’s schedule from a crumpled notebook. Studio time at 3. Dinner with RCA reps at 6. Colonel was supposed to call around 4, something about a TV special.
And then, casually, like it wasn’t going to flip the entire day upside down, Sonny walked in and said:
“Hey, she said she might swing by later.”
Everything stopped.
Everything.
The air in the room changed like a thunderstorm rolled through. Elvis—who’d been halfway through tuning his guitar—froze, one hand on the neck, eyes lifting like he’d been summoned back to Earth.
“What’d you say?”
“Just that she might come by. Tonight, maybe. Didn’t give a time.”
That was all it took.
The man shot up like someone lit him on fire. He tossed the guitar aside—not gently—and was already halfway across the room with his mind in a million places.
“Cancel the session,” he barked, voice slicing through the room like a whip. “Tell ‘em I ain’t comin’. Hell, I ain’t even leavin’ the house.”
Charlie blinked. “E? We got the studio booked—”
“I don’t care if it’s booked or blessed by Jesus himself, she said she’s comin’ and I’m gonna be here.”
He was pacing now, hands running through his hair, muttering to himself like he had a war to prepare for. His voice dropped to a soft panic.
“Gotta shower—change—what the hell cologne did she say she liked? Was it the cedar one or the sandalwood? No, no, the cedar made her sneeze, dumbass, come on—”
And then, louder, to the house in general:
“Somebody clean the living room! Not like a man cleaned it—like a woman cleaned it, y’hear me?”
Red raised a brow. “You want me to put a doily out or somethin’?”
Elvis glared, half-serious. “Don’t test me, Red.”
He was in full-blown panic mode, but not the frantic kind—no, this was ritual. Reverence. She was sacred, and she was coming into his space. That meant everything had to be right. The lighting. The music. The damn air in the room.
“Put her record on,” he muttered. “She likes that one, the slow one. Not the upbeat stuff. She likes to hear her own thoughts.”
He said it like a prayer. Like he’d memorized every part of her and now couldn’t remember how to breathe unless the world was shaped to fit her.
The guys scattered like roaches under a lamp once it became clear she was actually on her way.
Red sprinted up the stairs to fluff the damn pillows (and complained the whole time), Charlie lit every candle they could find like it was a séance, and Sonny was wiping down the already spotless foyer mirror with the hem of his shirt, hissing, “Is this streaked? I swear this is streaked—”
Elvis had changed shirts three times and was now pacing in the hall in an open silk robe, bare chest catching the soft glow of the chandelier. His rings were back on, his hair was perfect, and there was that faint smell of cedarwood and honey trailing behind him like perfume. But he wasn’t calm. Not even close.
“What if she don’t like what I’m wearin’? Should I—should I go change again?”
Charlie peeked his head out. “If you change again, E, I swear—”
“I swear I’ll make y’all sleep in the damn pool house!”
He said it loud, but there was no real fire behind it. He wasn’t mad—he was wired. Like every nerve ending in his body had been tuned to her. The thought of her pulling up, walking up those steps, putting her hand on the front door—it made his throat tight. Like the whole damn house had to rise to meet her, or else it wasn’t worthy.
And then—
The headlights swept across the windows.
He didn’t even look at the guys. Just turned on his heel, walked down that long hallway toward the front door like a man possessed. A man in love. His fingers twitched with nerves, chest rising like he couldn’t get a full breath in, like something was pressing against his ribs.
The knock came soft.
He grabbed the doorknob, held it, paused like he was grounding himself—then pulled it open.
“..I thought maybe I was dreamin’. But you’re real, ain’t ya?"