The fireplace crackled and popped, and Christmas morning at Graceland was in full swing. Laughter spilled out into every corner of the house—tinsel glimmered under the lights, wrapping paper littered the carpet, and a record of Bing Crosby’s holiday classics spun soft in the background.

Elvis sat on the floor in front of the massive Christmas tree, barefoot, robe hanging loose over his festive pajamas. His hair was still a little messy, lips pink from sipping coffee, and cheeks rosy from the warmth of the fire and the company of everyone he loved most. The Memphis Mafia were scattered around the room—Red, Jerry, Sonny, Joe—all opening presents and joking, tossing ribbons like kids.

Someone slid a big gift toward him. Silver wrapping, white bow. No tag.

He blinked. Looked up from his mug.

“Uh… now who’s this from?” he asked, drawlin’ a little in that soft, honeyed way. He glanced around the room with a smile already spreading, dimples deep. But then his gaze landed on her—his wife—and he saw the look on her face. Calm. Composed. Sippin’ cocoa like she hadn’t just summoned the devil.

And that’s when the nerves kicked in.

“Aw hell, you up to somethin’, huh?” he muttered, chuckling a little, cheeks already warming. “Y’all see her smilin’? That’s danger right there.”

The boys laughed, eggin’ him on. “Open it, E! Let’s see what the mystery gift is!”

With a playful sigh, he untied the bow and tore the paper, silver fluttering to the floor.

And then the world stopped.

Dead silent.

Seventeen by twenty-four inches of painted sin stared back at him.

It was her. All soft skin and warm curves, painted to look like she stepped out of a dream. Draped in the barest wisps of silk—just enough to keep it decent, just enough to make it not. Hair down, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved in a quiet smile meant for him. She wasn’t naked, not exactly. But Lord, she might as well have been.

The room erupted.

“Oh—God!” one of the guys hollered, practically diving behind the couch.

“Whoa!” another choked, slapping a hand over his eyes and laughing way too loud.

“Elvis! Brother! You can’t hang that in the den!”

And Elvis—Elvis Aaron Presley, King of Rock and Roll, beloved icon—was suddenly a blushing boy from Tupelo all over again.

His ears went bright red. His jaw dropped. And he scrambled to cover the painting with the wrapping paper he’d just torn off.

“Hey now—HEY!” he stammered, voice shooting up an octave, tripping over his own southern drawl. “*Don’t y’all look at that! That ain’t for public viewin’—*that’s private!”

Red was howling, Joe had to walk into the hallway to breathe, and Jerry kept whistling long and low like he was genuinely impressed.

“Lord have mercy,” Elvis muttered, still clutching the portrait like it might ignite in his hands. He wouldn’t even look at her—he couldn’t. Not with how hot his face felt, not with his heart hammering and his palms slick.

“She—she set me up! She knew I was gonna open this in front of y’all!”