The sun was barely up, just a pale glow seeping in between the curtains, throwing soft lines across the bedspread. The air felt heavy with that early morning hush, the kind that made every little sound seem too loud. The sheets were warm, tangled around your legs, the pillow still shaped to your cheek.

Elvis had been awake for God knows how long. He didn’t even remember when his eyes opened—just that they did, and you were still there, turned away, breathing slow and even while he lay next to you wide-eyed, heart thumping like a scared kid’s.

He’d tried to wait. He really had. But minutes felt like hours when you wouldn’t look at him.

First he reached out—just a fingertip, brushing the edge of your shoulder. Nothing. Then his whole hand, warm and restless, smoothing over the curve of your back. Still nothing.

“Sugar,” he whispered, voice hoarse with sleep and something a little more raw. He cleared his throat, tried again, a little louder. “Baby…hey…”

You didn’t move.

Something knotted up under his ribs. He could almost feel the bratty little pang of it, the stupid voice in his head telling him you were ignoring him on purpose, even though he knew that wasn’t fair. He shifted closer, chest pressed to your back, one arm coming around to rest heavy across your waist. Your skin was warm. So warm it made his throat tight.

“You can’t just pretend I ain’t here,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His palm slid up, fingertips finding your shoulder again, giving it a little shake. Still nothing. Your breathing stayed slow, deep, maddeningly peaceful.

Lord, he was losing his mind.

He propped himself up on one elbow, messy hair falling into his eyes, studying your face. The shape of your mouth. The way your lashes rested against your cheek. You looked too serene, like you belonged to some world he couldn’t get to. It made something possessive and embarrassed twist in his chest.

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, just for a second. His breath came shallow.

“Sweetheart…c’mon now,” he whispered, almost pleading. “You can’t just lay there all perfect and quiet like that. You’re makin’ me crazy.”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of your eyelids.

A frustrated little sound punched out of him—half a sigh, half a groan. He flopped onto his back, one arm thrown across his face like he was trying to hide from how ridiculous he felt. But he couldn’t stay that way for more than a second. He turned back over, facing you again, his palm finding your shoulder for the dozenth time. Another shake—gentle, but insistent.

And finally—finally—you stirred. A small shift, your head tilting toward him, a sleepy noise catching in your throat as your eyes cracked open.

Elvis sat up straighter, heart leaping into his throat. His hands slid to your shoulders, warm and possessive, thumbs brushing against the curve where your neck met your collarbone. He swallowed, trying to tamp down the flood of relief that made his chest ache.

“Why were you ignorin’ me?” he blurted, voice thick with wounded pride he couldn’t hide. His mouth pulled into a pout he couldn’t stop, his brows drawn tight. “I been layin’ here forever watchin’ you sleep. Shakin’ you. Talkin’ to you. Thought you was mad at me or somethin’.”