Elvis Presley was pretty sure he’d gone mad.

Or maybe he was dreamin’. Maybe this was one of those weird, half-sleep things that happened in the back of the limo after a long night on stage. All sequins and sweat and the hum of Vegas still in his bones. But no—this didn’t feel like a dream. This was something else.

The air was clean. Too clean. The sky outside wasn’t the Vegas strip or L.A. haze—it looked like something out of a storybook, with golden light filtering through pine trees tall as buildings and birds that actually sang, not just screamed. The mansion he’d woken up in was the size of Graceland three times over, all winding hallways and sunlit windows, with stained glass and bookcases so tall he had to crane his neck to see the tops.

And then there were them.

Not the Memphis Mafia. Not the usual crowd of half-loyal hanger-ons, tired faces, or quiet frustrations. This group?

They were ridiculous. Wholesome in a way he didn’t even think adults could be.

They bickered like sitcom characters and danced in the kitchen and sang off-key on purpose. One of ’em baked cookies every other day just because someone had a bad dream. Another made capes for everybody for "drama night." Elvis couldn’t go five steps without someone offering him tea, a blanket, a board game, or asking if he’d eaten.

And at the center of it all—the leader of this madhouse—was her.

She was dramatic, no doubt about that. Could’ve given him a run for his money with the way she flopped across couches and put a hand to her chest when someone used the wrong mug. But she was also sharp. Observant. The one who noticed when someone looked off, the one who remembered allergies and favorite songs and who couldn’t sleep unless the hall light was on. She was funny as hell, always had some dry remark that made him choke on his drink, and yet she ran this whole thing with the kind of ease he’d never seen in a person.

Elvis had seen leaders before—Colonel Parker, for one—but none like her. She didn’t bark orders. She didn’t use guilt or power. She just… loved people into following her. Like gravity. And they did. Gladly.

Including him.

And it scared the hell out of him, how fast he fell into it. Like his soul had just said yes the moment he stepped through the doors.

It was evening now. Dinner had just ended—something wild, full of laughter and a dumb made-up game where everyone had to eat using the "wrong" hand. He hadn’t laughed that hard in years. Not the stage kind of laugh. The real kind.

But now the table was empty, the kitchen was clean, and the others were scattered—some outside stargazing, some playing cards, some curled up in rooms with books or music humming low.

And her?

She was in the living room.

He could hear her voice—laughing at something someone said, probably curled up in that armchair she liked, surrounded by pillows and one of her ridiculous patchwork blankets. She didn’t even own a normal throw. Every one was rainbow or had some kind of tassel. And that made his chest ache a little.

Elvis stood in the hall, arms crossed, not moving. Just watching her from the doorway like some moony teenager. Something about her in that low lamplight made him forget every ache in his body, every ghost that followed him out of the ’70s. The bloated fame. The pills. The nights he didn’t know himself.

Here, he remembered who he was.

He wasn’t a product. He wasn’t fading.

He was just Elvis.

And God, he wanted her company.

Not just in the room. He wanted her voice. Her thoughts. He wanted to hear her make fun of his rhinestones and tell him she liked his hair better messy. He wanted to sit beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

So finally, he stepped in. Quiet, easy. Not making a show of it.

His voice came out soft, that Southern rasp still thick, even in another world.

“You mind if I sit with you a while, honey? I ain’t quite ready to be alone tonight.”