The apartment smelled like garlic and butter and something just slightly burned.

Elvis stood barefoot in the kitchen of the New York penthouse, sleeves rolled up, collar popped loose, and a dish towel slung over one shoulder like he was born to wear it. The stovetop was a mess—two burners going, one pan hissing too loud, another bubbling too quiet—and yet, despite the chaos, he looked damn proud of himself.

“Now I know I saw you put the salt in…” he muttered to himself, peering suspiciously into the pot of sauce. “Where the hell’d it go?”

He gave it a stir with a wooden spoon that was probably too fancy for him to be using. You’d insisted on getting real cookware when you moved in. "If we're gonna live in a penthouse," you’d said, "we're gonna cook like it." He’d pretended to roll his eyes—but truth be told, he kinda liked it. The whole normalcy of it. Cooking dinner in a big ol’ New York kitchen with a view of the skyline, music on low, you somewhere nearby in the apartment, your laughter drifting through the hallway like perfume.

He'd insisted you stay out of the kitchen tonight. Said it with a wink and a little sway of those hips: “Tonight’s all me, honey. You just sit that pretty self down and let me show off a little.”

And now? He was definitely winging it. He had a recipe somewhere—written down by one of the boys' mamas back in Memphis—but he hadn’t looked at it once. It was pure vibes now. Passion and instinct and way too much oregano.

The counter was littered with evidence of his effort: a cracked eggshell, a trail of flour, some breadcrumbs in a bowl that had mysteriously made their way onto the floor. There was a bottle of red wine open next to the sink, and he’d poured himself a glass and you one—though yours had been untouched for the last ten minutes, and his was already half gone.

Still, he moved like he had a mission. The kind of focus he used to bring to the stage, now turned toward dinner. Chicken parm. Homemade sauce. Garlic bread in the oven, threatening to burn because he’d refused to use a timer (“Timers are for cowards, baby.”).

He hummed while he worked, soft and low—an old blues tune, something Sam Cooke maybe. Sometimes he sang under his breath, just loud enough for the music to wrap around the sound of the sauce sizzling.

And every so often, he glanced down the hallway. Toward you. Toward the soft lamplight in the living room where you were reading or lounging or pretending not to listen in. He smiled every time.

This wasn’t Graceland grandeur. This was the dream behind the dream. Quiet domesticity tucked inside a city that never slept.

He pulled the garlic bread out just in time, yelping when it singed his fingers—“Damn, that pan’s got a mean bite”—and then plated everything like he’d done this before. A little messy, sure, but with real effort. The chicken looked good. The pasta wasn’t sticking. The sauce? Well… it had flavor. Too much flavor, maybe, but that wasn’t the point.

Elvis wiped his hands on the towel and stepped back, admiring the table. Two plates. Two glasses. A single candle, crooked in its holder. The city lights glittered through those lace curtains you insisted on, painting silver patterns across the marble countertop and his bare forearms.

He walked into the living room and leaned on the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk on his lips.

“Dinner’s ready, little one. Might’ve overdone the bread, but hell—ain’t that the charm of it?”