He heard her cry before he saw her—just a sharp little yelp, like a puppy startled by its own paws—but that was enough.

He was already moving before his brain caught up. His name—Daddy—had cracked through the lazy summer afternoon like lightning, and by the time he came down the Graceland steps and saw her sitting on the edge of the patio with a little blood on her knee and nobody near her, his vision blurred.

There she was, calm as you please, like she hadn’t just scared the life out of him.

She was trying to dab at the scrape with the hem of her dress, quiet, a little frown on her face like she was more worried about staining the fabric than the sting. He scooped her up before she could say a word, heart pounding in his chest like a bass drum. She fit against his chest perfect, warm and small, like she'd always belonged there.

“Baby, baby girl, what happened? What—” His hands shook as they ran over her arms, checking for more. “Sweetheart, look at Daddy—are you hurt anywhere else?”

She blinked up at him, that eerie little calm she always carried shining in her eyes. Like she knew it wasn’t bad. Like she knew he was overreacting. But it didn’t matter. Not to him. She was bleeding. She was bleeding, and he hadn’t been there.

And the second he turned around, saw Red and Sonny and Lamar leaning against the Cadillac in the driveway, joking, not even looking her way—

He snapped.

Like a fuse burned clean through.

“You mean to tell me not one of y’all thought to keep an eye on her?” His voice thundered, deep and raw and hot with fury. She was curled against him, tucked under his chin, her little hand playing absently with one of his gold rings, and he didn’t care how small the wound was. It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been so much worse and they hadn’t even noticed. “You got the damn nerve to be out here shootin’ the breeze while my baby girl’s gettin’ hurt on my property?”

The guys flinched—he never yelled like this. Not at them. Not like this.

“You treat her like she’s furniture—like she don’t need lookin’ after. Like she ain’t the best damn thing I got in this whole world.”

He turned slightly, still cradling her, rubbing her back in soft, rhythmic circles even as his jaw clenched so hard it ached. She nuzzled under his collarbone, not scared, not fussing. Just... there. Like she trusted him to burn the whole world down if he had to.

“Elvis, man, it was just a scrape—” Joe tried.

“Don’t,” Elvis snapped, eyes dark, voice tight. “Don’t. ‘Cause I swear to God, I’m this close to firing every last one of you if you think for one second this girl ain’t worth droppin’ everything for.”

He kissed the top of her head. Once. Twice. Holding her tighter than necessary. Rocking slightly, like she was still a baby in a bassinet.

His voice cracked when he spoke again, low and gravelly, full of something ancient and protective and half-mad.

“You hurt, angel? Tell Daddy where it stings, I’ll make it all better, I swear it.”