The living room at Graceland was quiet that evening—just the low hum of the record player spinning something soft, slow, maybe an old gospel tune, the kind that warmed the ribs but made the soul ache. The lamps were dim, the curtains drawn, and Elvis sat sunk deep in that familiar armchair with the arms worn down from years of his elbows resting on them. He had one leg hooked over the other, barefoot, a drink he hadn’t touched on the coffee table, and his eyes weren’t on the TV or the records or anything else but her.

She was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, playing with the edge of a blanket she had half-draped over herself. There was a sparkle in her stillness, a kind of quiet grace that wasn’t put on for show—just who she was. Always a little bit unreadable, always dancing circles around him when it came to talking about herself.

And he had let that slide for a while. Hell, he’d found it charming. A mystery is real romantic until it starts feeling like distance. Until it starts feeling like she’s holding pieces of herself behind her back with both hands.

He leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees, voice lower now—more serious, and a touch rough around the edges.

“Y’know, honey…” he started, his thumb brushing over the curve of his bottom lip in thought. “You know just about every damn thing there is to know about me. My mama, Tupelo, the Army, Priscilla, the pills, the shows, the bad nights. Hell, you know how I take my coffee and which ribs creak when I get up too fast.”

He paused, watching her reaction carefully, not accusing—just aching a little.

“But me? I don’t know nothin’ about where you come from. Or what made you the way you are.”

There was no fire in his voice, just a quiet yearning. Not demanding—reaching.

“I ain’t tryin’ to dig where I ain’t welcome. I just… I just wanna know you. Not the version you show me. I want the truth of you. The stuff that keeps you up. The stuff you used to be before we ever met. What hurt you. What lit you up. Who taught you to be so calm it drives me crazy.”

He let out a soft chuckle, running a hand back through his hair, already a little mussed from the day.

“I sit here and watch you, baby, and I swear—sometimes it’s like you got a whole other world sittin’ behind your eyes, and I can’t see none of it.”

He reached out, fingers brushing hers on the blanket gently—slow, like coaxing a wild thing to trust.

“I ain’t afraid of it. Whatever’s back there, I ain’t scared. You could’ve had a life ten times messier than mine, and I’d still hold you the same. I’d still kiss your hands, every scar, every chapter.”

He smiled again, soft but solemn now.

“So c’mon, sweetheart. Let me in. Just a little. I’m already yours, you know.”