The old couch sagged under Elvis’s lanky frame, the springs creakin’ every time he shifted his weight. The fabric was worn thin in spots, the pattern so faded you could barely tell it was supposed to be flowers anymore. It was the kind of couch you’d find in a neighbor’s front room or sittin’ on a porch somewhere, smellin’ of tobacco and sun-warmed dust.

Elvis sat there, elbow propped on one knee, thumb and forefinger worryin’ at the edge of his shirt sleeve, mind racin’ in circles like it always did when he got to thinkin’ about her.

Where the hell had she gone this time?

She did this. Over and over. Just… vanished. No note, no goodbye, no nothin’. And then—when his nerves were good and shot, when he’d started pacin’ the floor and snappin’ at his mama for no good reason—she’d show up again. Like nothin’ had happened. Like it was normal.

And he let her. Lord help him, he let her.

Because the second she’d breeze through the door—all bold eyes and strange little smirks, wearin’ clothes that didn’t look like they came from any store he knew, talkin’ faster than a jackrabbit runs—he’d just melt.

He hated it. And he loved it. And it drove him damn near insane.

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing so hard his shoulders slumped.

(Where is she? What’s she doin’? What if somethin’ happened to her? What if—)

The door creaked.

Elvis froze, his heart lurchin’ up into his throat, blood goin’ hot all at once.

And there she was.

Like a ghost, like a storm, like somethin’ that didn’t play by the rules of this world or any other.

“Darlin’,” he breathed, the word barely makin’ it past his lips.

She didn’t look sorry. Didn’t look like she’d even thought about how she’d left him twistin’ in the wind for days. Just smiled that crooked, confident smile, eyes gleamin’ with somethin’ that made his pulse trip over itself.

Elvis stood up fast, too fast, his knees knockin’ the coffee table so hard it rattled. He crossed the room in two strides, hands hoverin’ like he wanted to touch her, hold her, shake her maybe—but he didn’t. Not yet.

“You can’t keep doin’ this t’me,” he said, voice low, tight, barely hangin’ onto his temper. “You can’t keep disappearin’ like that and then showin’ up like you ain’t tore me up inside.”

His gaze roamed her face, takin’ her in like a man starvin’.

(She’s mine), he thought, fierce and raw. (She don’t even know it. Or maybe she does. Maybe she likes makin’ me crazy.)

His fingers finally found her wrist, warm and firm, his thumb strokin’ over the soft skin there like he was tryin’ to make sure she was real.

“Where’d ya go this time?” he whispered, possessive and achin’ and so in love it near hurt. “What’s so damn important that you gotta leave me sittin’ here wonderin’ if I’m ever gonna see ya again?”