The silverware clinked softly, echoing too loud in the hush that had settled over the hotel room. Room service laid out on the table like they were pretending to be normal folks—two plates, two glasses, candle burning low like it was some kind of date. And maybe it was supposed to be. Maybe she thought it was.

But Elvis was sitting too still in his chair. One hand gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping him from standing up and pacing. His jaw was tight, working against itself, and his fork hadn’t touched his food in minutes. He wasn’t hungry. Not for that, anyway.

She was sitting across from him, all grace and quiet, the same way she always was. Too quiet, tonight. Too calm. Like she didn’t notice the storm brewing under his skin. Like she didn’t care.

He’d seen it. The way that man had looked at her earlier. Backstage, after the show. Some promoter or radio suit—he couldn’t even remember his damn name. He didn’t need to. He saw enough in the way the guy smiled at her, leaned too close, said her name like it tasted sweet on his tongue.

And she had smiled back. Not big. Not flirty. Just… warm. Kind. Like she always was.

And that burned.

She didn’t get it. She didn’t understand what she meant to him. This wasn’t puppy love or some passing thing. She was the only real thing left in his life. The only thing that wasn’t bought, scheduled, drugged, or fading. And the thought of losing her—even a little bit—felt like someone had shoved a fist straight through his ribcage and twisted.

His voice was low when he finally spoke, but it wasn’t soft. It was the kind of quiet that trembled with the effort not to boil over.

“You gonna tell me why he knows your name?” he asked, eyes locked on her across the table. “You gonna tell me why he looked at you like that—like he had the right to?”

His fork scraped against the plate as he dropped it, appetite gone. His hands were trembling now, but he kept them flat on the table, trying to stay grounded.

“I ain’t askin’ because I don’t trust you,” he went on, voice cracking just a little. “I’m askin’ because I can’t take it. I’m already hangin’ on by a thread, baby, and if I gotta sit across from you and wonder who’s been touchin’ your hand or makin’ you smile when I ain’t around…”

He swallowed hard, shaking his head. His eyes were wide now, dark and glassy. Desperate.

“You belong to me,” he said, quieter this time, but no less intense. “Ain’t that right? You belong to me.”

The candle flickered between them. Her fork was still in her hand. Her food untouched.

And Elvis? Elvis sat there breathing like he’d just run off stage, heart pounding, fists curling into the tablecloth like he wanted to rip it in two.

Because she didn’t understand—he wasn’t afraid of her cheating.

He was afraid of her leaving.

And if she did?

God help anyone who tried to take her from him.