The sun had barely dipped below the horizon, casting a warm amber glow over the sprawling backyard where Elvis's famous 4th of July party was in full swing. Laughter and the distant twang of guitars mingled with the sizzling sounds of fireworks being set off in wild, glorious bursts. The night was alive with the kind of energy only Elvis Presley could conjure—southern charm, good friends, and the promise of celebration.

Elvis, dressed in his trademark slicked-back hair and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, was the king of the party, his magnetic presence pulling everyone into the orbit of his laughter and storytelling. He was perched near the fire pit, chatting with friends, when the sudden, sharp crack of an errant firework broke through the festive hum.

His eyes snapped to you instantly.

Time slowed.

He saw the arc of the tipped firework, the blaze licking dangerously close as it slammed into your leg—from just above your knee down to your ankle. A harsh, jagged line of burning heat and bruising blossomed instantly beneath your skin.

Without a second thought, Elvis was on his feet.

His face transformed from jovial to fiercely protective in a heartbeat. He crossed the space between you and the chaos in a few swift strides, his hands reaching down gently but firmly to examine the damage. His usual grin faltered, replaced by a tight, sharp concern that sent ripples through the crowd.

“Baby, you alright?” His voice was rougher than usual, thick with worry but steady, like a rock bracing against a storm.

He took in the swelling and bruising, his fingers careful and tender as he traced the line from your knee to ankle, his thumb pressing gently to check for the worst. His eyes, usually so full of mischief, now shone with raw, unguarded care.

“Hell, I should’ve been watching that damn thing,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw clenched with frustration. Without hesitation, he grabbed a cool rag soaked from a nearby water bucket and pressed it to your leg, his touch lingering—hesitant at first, then more assured, like he was trying to will the pain away with his hands.

The party buzz dimmed around you both, swallowed by the intensity of his focus.

Elvis's voice softened. “You know I’m gonna keep an eye on you, right? No letting you walk around hurt like this.” His fingers tightened slightly on your arm—not tight enough to hurt