The suite was quiet in that eerie way only the big hotel rooms ever got. Heavy drapes drawn tight over the windows, muffling the neon lights outside. The faint hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, but it didn’t do a damn thing to cut through the pressure in the room.

Elvis stood near the door at first. Still in his stage clothes, all glitter and satin and rhinestones, though the performance was long over. The rings were still on his fingers, heavy as sin, but his cape was slung carelessly across a chair. His eyes weren’t on himself—not for once. They were locked on her. And she wasn’t the same tonight.

She wasn’t composed. Wasn’t sharp-eyed, wasn’t sitting straight-backed with that unreadable calm that always made him feel like she was ten steps ahead. No, she was shaking. Barely standing. Then not standing at all.

She collapsed onto the edge of the bed like her legs just gave up on her. Hands over her face, body wracked with trembling sobs that hit the room like thunder without the lightning. No yelling. No screaming. Just the kind of raw grief that pulled oxygen out of the air. And it scared him more than anything else in the world.

Because he didn’t know. All this time, all those days she handled his chaos with the finesse of a general—how could there be this kind of weight buried under that quiet smile? She’d walked into his life like a force, carved herself a space beside him without asking permission. And now… now she was crumbling right in front of him, and he realized he’d never even seen the cracks until now.

He didn’t rush her. God, no. His first instinct was to freeze, heart pounding, hands twitching with the impulse to do something. Fix it. Patch it up. Make it go away. That’s what people expected from him—to swoop in and fix. But this? This wasn’t a busted amp or a delayed flight. This was her.

And he couldn’t sing his way out of this one.

So he walked slowly—like approaching a wounded animal, or maybe something holy. He sat down next to her, not touching at first, just close. Then a hand on her back. Warm, firm. He could feel her trembling under his palm. The way her breath stuttered like it hurt to breathe. The way she wouldn’t look at him, because if she did, it might all come spilling out too fast.

She’d given him everything—every backstage detail, every bullet to dodge, every plan and strategy and disguise to keep his mess from exploding. She gave him quiet loyalty and cold reason and that wicked smirk that made him feel like she could talk any devil into confessing. But she hadn’t given him this. Until now.

He leaned in closer, forehead gently brushing the side of her head. He swallowed hard, like the silence might choke him, and then his voice came low, softer than he thought his voice could go.

“You ain’t gotta be strong with me, honey.”