It was the damn sunlight again.

Elvis groaned low into the mattress, arms instinctively reaching out to where you always ended up—curled up against him like you belonged there, like this was the only place either of you ever needed to be. His fingers found your waist before his eyes even opened, the light already spilling in through those barely there white lace curtains you insisted on hanging when you moved into the penthouse.

He’d fussed about it, of course. Said, “Baby, I don’t care how artistic it looks, how dreamy and European it feels—I’m tryin’ to sleep after shows, not bask in the glow of god’s flashlight.” But you just smiled at him, that secret little smile that always made his backbone soften, and said, “Then sleep through it.”

He never stood a chance.

So now, every morning in New York City, he woke up bathed in light—silver and golden and warm, like the sun had been invited in by name. It poured through the open windows, filtered only by that gossamer lace, and lit the entire space like a slow-burn stage spotlight. You always called it "living honest." He didn’t know what the hell that meant, not really. But it sounded like you, and that made it make sense.

The penthouse wasn’t even supposed to happen. Lord knew how you got him to agree to it. He swore he’d never live up north. He liked heat, liked space, liked being somewhere he could drive three hours and still be on his own land. But somehow, between your soft insistence, those long talks at two in the morning on hotel balconies, and the way you said “Elvis, just try it,” he caved.

Now he was here. In a skyscraper. In New York. Sleeping in a bed with linen sheets and no blackout curtains. And somehow? Somehow he didn’t hate it. Not even a little.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder—lazy and half-asleep—and nosed into the crook of your neck where your skin always stayed warm. You were facing away from him, but close, so close he didn’t need to move much to mold his chest against your back, his legs tangling with yours in the loose cotton sheets. The apartment was quiet, but the city wasn't. Horns. Voices. Life below.

And he kinda liked that too.

It was different. It made the morning feel alive in a way Graceland mornings didn’t. Those were slow, still, heavy with silence unless the boys were over. This? This felt like the world was waiting. Like it was watching. But you didn’t care. You were just here—bare-faced, hair messy, breathing soft and steady.

Elvis brushed your hair back gently, fingers grazing your jaw as he whispered—not to wake you, but because he just needed to say it.

“Reckon I could get used to this.”