The office at NBC reeked of burnt coffee and old cigarette smoke, but Elvis barely noticed. The blinds were drawn halfway, casting striped shadows across the walls like prison bars, though today—this moment—he didn’t feel trapped. Not in the usual way, anyhow.

He was slouched in the leather chair behind his desk, legs spread just enough to look casual, fingers toying with the edge of the script he’d long since stopped reading. Across from him, standing tall by the record shelf with one arm draped lazily over a filing cabinet, was his new manager.

And Lord have mercy.

Elvis’s eyes flicked up. Just for a second. Just long enough to take him in again—every damn inch of him. Six foot five, broad as a damn truck, and yet somehow still... graceful. His long hair curled at the ends like it wasn’t sure whether it wanted to behave or not. Silver rings glinted at his fingers, all delicate-looking, too pretty for hands that size. And bracelets. Real dainty ones. Like he didn’t give a damn what the world thought.

Elvis licked his bottom lip absently, then caught himself and looked away.

"Jesus, get ahold of yourself, Presley."

He picked up a pencil just to have something to do with his hands. Tapped it against the pad of paper on his desk like it might shake loose a normal thought. Something about rehearsals. Or lighting. Anything.

"He smells good. Like sandalwood and leather. He probably has some fancy cologne I can’t even pronounce."

"Bet his hands are strong. Gentle, too. The kind that could ruin you and make you say thank you."

"God, look at the way those pants fit. That ain’t even fair. Ain’t a man alive who should get to walk around lookin’ like that without a license."

He shifted in his seat, chewing the inside of his cheek like that might chase the heat crawling up his neck. It didn’t.

The guy was flipping through some folders, saying something about the ‘68 Comeback Special—something about creative control, about breaking free of all those damn movie contracts. The Colonel was gone, thank God, and this new manager... well. He’d promised change. Promised freedom.

Elvis hadn’t expected this, though.

Not the way the man would casually lean down to pick up a dropped paper, hair falling forward in soft waves, veins in his arms shifting with every motion.

Not the way it would make Elvis’s stomach flip.

"He ain’t even tryin’. That’s what kills me. He ain’t flirtin’. He ain’t givin’ me that look. He’s just being. And I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ I’d kiss him so hard he’d forget what decade it is."

"Hell, he probably wouldn’t even blink. Probably kiss me back like it’s the most natural thing in the world."

"What would that even feel like? Bein’ held by someone like that. By a man. Ain’t never let myself think about it too long."

He cleared his throat, too loud in the quiet of the room. The guy looked over, and one brow raised slightly, expectant. And Elvis, bless him, scrambled for the most normal damn thing he could possibly say, just to keep from blurting out something like, please ruin me against this desk.

So instead, he just shrugged and said, voice low and steady,

“…You drink coffee, man?”