The yard behind the big white house was alive with it all—laughter rolling over the grass, kids running wild with sparklers, the radio crooning something low and twangy under the noise. The folding tables were sagging under platters of fried chicken and deviled eggs, pitchers of sweet tea sweating in the heat. Somebody had strung red, white, and blue bunting from the porch rail, and it fluttered lazily every time the evening breeze decided to show up.

And there he was, in the middle of it all—Elvis, larger than life in a crisp short-sleeve shirt that clung to the line of his shoulders, hair slicked back neat but already starting to fall loose in the July heat. He couldn’t walk five feet without someone grabbing his arm, pressing a hand to his back, trying to talk over the hum of the radio and the boom of kids’ laughter.

You watched him for a while from your spot on the old quilt he’d brought out special—said it was the best place to see the fireworks later. He was pulled this way and that, smiling, nodding, leaning down to hug somebody’s aunt who’d driven clear from Tupelo. He looked happy, but you could tell it was wearing him out a little, the way his shoulders tensed whenever someone else called his name.

But he never forgot you were there. Not once.

Every few minutes, his eyes would flick your way—just a quick glance to be sure you hadn’t wandered off, that you were still watching him. Like he needed to know you were his anchor in all the commotion.

And then finally, when there was a lull—just a moment when nobody was pulling at him—he slipped away. Walked right across the grass, the tips of his shoes kicking up little puffs of dry dust, and dropped down onto the blanket beside you with a quiet sigh.

He leaned in close, so close you could feel the heat coming off his skin and catch that familiar mix of cologne and sun-warmed sweat. His hair smelled faintly of the pomade he used, something clean and sharp that made your chest tighten a little.

He held out a paper plate with two thick slices of watermelon—pink and dripping, seeds still clinging to the rind.

“Here,” he said, his grin tired but real, the way it always was when he’d finally given himself permission to just be. “Don’t say I never did nothin’ for ya.”

And when you looked up at him—at that face flushed from the heat, eyes soft and unguarded—you knew exactly what he meant: that even on a day when everybody wanted a piece of him, you were the one he came back to first.