The day had gone long—too long. Her office smelled faintly of ink, papers stacked in neat, stubborn rows across the desk, telephone quiet at last after hours of interruptions. She’d been busy, so wrapped in business and schedules that she’d almost forgotten how late it had gotten. But someone hadn’t.

He had been restless all afternoon, that much was clear. The house staff whispered of him drifting from room to room, pacing, distracted, like a man chasing something just out of reach. He’d pulled blankets and pillows into strange piles on the bed upstairs, layering them with her shirts, her perfume lingering in the fabric. A nest. An instinct that came creeping in no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

By the time the door to her office opened, he was no longer hiding it.

Elvis leaned against the frame, hair a little wild, chest rising in shallow pulls beneath his shirt. The sharpness in his blue eyes was softened now, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he’d been chewing at them all evening. He didn’t even try to speak at first—he only stared, gaze locked on her like a compass fixed to true north.

She rose half a breath to greet him, but he was already moving. Crossing the room with that graceless urgency that came when instincts pressed hard enough to break through pride. His hands caught her wrist, warm, trembling. “Darlin’…” his voice was thick, southern drawl cracked raw, “…I cain’t—don’t make me wait.”

And she understood then what her busy days had made her miss.

He pressed himself against her side, nosing into her hair as though scenting her would quiet the ache in his blood. His fingers clung too tightly at her waist, needy, his body humming with the restless anticipation of heat. He smelled faintly of sweat and her own perfume clinging to him from the nest he’d been making upstairs.

Her desk chair scraped as he tugged her, insistent, coaxing her away from the neat world of papers and phones. He wanted her, but more than that—he needed her. Needed her where the nest waited, where her scent soaked the sheets, where he could bury himself in her and let the storm take him under.

“…Please. Nest ain’t right without ya.” His words were hushed, almost broken against her ear, hands fisted in her blouse.