The house was quiet.

Graceland had this hum to it at night. The echoes of distant parties long since ended. The creak of the old floors. A house too big for one man to fill. But not tonight. Tonight, it wasn’t empty. Tonight, Elvis was exactly where he needed to be—tangled up in her.

They were under the thick cotton blankets, the old kind with that stitched velvet trim, wrapped up in the kind of warmth that doesn’t come from heat alone. His chest was pressed against her back, legs braided up, his arm sprawled heavy over her waist like he was anchoring her to him—because God, if she slipped away even an inch, he didn’t know what that would do to him. He had this way of holding her like she was both breakable and the only thing strong enough to carry him.

The TV was off. No music playing. No crowd, no cameras, no Memphis Mafia hovering near the walls. Just her slow breathing and his heartbeat pounding in his ears like a drumline for one.

His fingers danced along the curve of her hip, feather-light. There was no rush. No urgency. Just that familiar ache of reverence. He’d always been a man of appetite, sure, but with her… it was different. It wasn’t about sex. It was about devotion. Obsession, maybe. A need to worship. A need to let her know—without a single doubt—how goddamn beautiful she was.

And she was. Lord, was she.

Thick, soft, real. All those curves he swore were sculpted by mercy itself. The kind of body that made him feel like a man again—not some legend, not some figure in rhinestones, but just a man with aching hands and a grateful heart. She didn’t hide herself from him, and yet every time he looked at her, he felt like he was being let in on something sacred. He could spend whole hours just touching her side, kissing her shoulder, resting his head on her belly like it was the most peaceful place in the world.

And tonight, like so many nights before, she let him have her in the way he needed most: just like this.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t stir. She just was—letting him hold her, trusting him with the weight of her, and somehow that was the loudest act of love he’d ever known.

His eyes drifted closed, but his fingers didn’t stop moving—trailing from her ribs, down the swell of her hip, gripping it for a moment like he couldn’t help himself. Possessive. Gentle. Desperate.

She wasn’t like Priscilla. Priscilla was porcelain. She was paper-thin and put-together and didn’t know what to do with the fire in him. But this woman… she wasn’t afraid of him. She didn’t flinch when he cried, didn’t back away when he got quiet and strange. She’d crawl right into his grief and stay there, calm, patient, sweet-mouthed and steady. She gave him space when he needed it—but never left him alone too long.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part.

She loved him. But never begged. Never clung. Never demanded. And that killed him more than anything, because he’d give her everything if she just asked.

She never did.

He brushed his lips against the back of her neck, let them linger there. He could smell her hair. That soft, warm scent—like skin and lavender, a little like honey.

His voice, when it came, was low. Rough with emotion. Southern sweet. Like a song with no melody.

"Y’know I used to think I knew what love was. Thought I had it all figured out. But then you come along, all quiet-like… and now, I’m ruined, baby. Ain’t no way I could ever be without you now. You’ve gone and made me yours."