The room was dimly lit, soft amber lamps casting long shadows over the polished mahogany of the dining table. The chandelier above barely flickered—Elvis had made sure everything in the house was steady, warm, safe. Safe like her seat, pulled up just right next to his. Safe like the doors locked with keys only he had now. Safe like the empty roads that led to this place, deep in the hills, far from noise, far from people, far from the world that didn’t deserve her.

She sat beside him, legs swinging a little, eyes flicking between her plate and the window, always so curious. That mind of hers was too quick for her own good. He’d known it from the start—first time they’d talked, she’d said something that had stuck in his chest like a nail. Not because it hurt. Because it opened something. That ache in him, that quiet hole, had a name now.

It was her.

She wasn’t afraid. Not really. Maybe she didn’t know what this was yet. Or maybe she did, and she was just smart enough not to show it.

He reached for the pitcher of sweet tea and poured her a glass, gentle and slow, like he was handling crystal.

The silence stretched thin between them. It wasn’t awkward. It was pregnant. Full of everything he wanted to say but couldn’t. Not yet. She was still gettin’ used to the rhythm of this place. Still figuring out that there was no more running.

He watched her out the corner of his eye—watched the way her fingers curled around the silverware, the way she blinked, real slow, like she was calculating.

God, she was sharp. Bright as a diamond. And it terrified him how much he needed her close.

Elvis leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the seat behind her, just enough to make her feel the weight of it. Just enough to make sure she remembered he was always right there.

He smiled, soft and calm, like this was just another regular night.

Like he hadn’t changed the locks. Like he hadn’t watched her through the window for weeks before bringing her here. Like he wasn’t already planning how to keep her from ever leaving again.

He spoke low, smooth, like molasses sliding over velvet.

“You still mad at me, baby, or are we ready to talk now?”