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oddinary4bts · 1 year

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The Forgotten Spaces | ch 9 (jjk)

☆summary: you've been dancing on the same dance crew since your teenage years, and you finally have an important role in it. It feels like life is taunting you when your rival comes back after disappearing for a year, ready to tease you every chance he gets. Will the teasing turn into more, or are you going to take him down with you?

☆pairing: photographer and dancer!Jungkook x dancer!female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, there is mature content in previous/later chapters)

☆genre: slow (SLOW) burn enemies to lovers, college!au, slice of life!au, angst (oop), smut and fluff

☆warnings: ending of that lil bit of miscommunication in ch 8, a very heartfelt conversation, probably some curses

☆word count: 7k

☆series masterpost here

☆a/n: Finallyyyyy, the angst is ending my friends. I hope you'll enjoy it <3 and also thank you to @moonleeai for her beta reading on this fic, I won't ever thank you enough, you're the best <3

☆Read What Was Hidden here, the fic that inspired this whole story, written by @daechwitatamic, one of my fav human beings on this app <3 It follows the story of Jo and Taehyung before The Forgotten Spaces

☆☆☆☆☆

For this meeting of our end of the world

It's with you that I want to sing

On the threshold of the memories the dead of today

Them that breathe for us

The forgotten spaces

Je t'écris - Gaston Miron (rough translation by me)

☆☆☆☆☆

Tuesday, September 25th

You wake up slowly at first. Like a feather, softly falling, unbothered by the weight of the universe. It’s calm, like a forest in the winter when it’s snowing. It’s peace personified, like the world never held any wars or pain.

Then you wake all at once, like you’re struck by lightning, energized by it, electricity coursing through your blood. You feel his presence before you see him, and you think you’d be mad at him for lying next to you.

But when your eyelids flutter open to the sight of his purple room, all that fills you is peace again.

It grows tenfold when you turn and see him lying next to you, on his belly, hand reaching towards you. His mouth is slightly open, and he’s lying on top of the covers.

Which means he never meant to fall asleep next to you.

You haven’t realized how long his hair has grown before. Because right now it’s falling in front of his eyes, and you want to brush it behind his ear. It’s a visceral need, and the peace grows once more.

It grows and grows, and you reach and push his hair back, softly. Fingertips grazing his cheek, staying there as if they’ve found a home. He closes his mouth in his sleep and sighs, but he doesn’t wake up. He returns to his soft snoring a second later, and you just run your fingers along his cheekbone, tracing the planes of his face ever so softly.

But tomorrow has come, or is coming soon. And the peace grows again, until it bursts.

Until it bursts and aches, choking you up. Your hand rests heavier on his cheek as tears blur your vision, and the explosion of peace crushes your heart, until a sob finds its way up.

You choke on the sob, and quickly sit to move away from Jungkook. In this moment, all you can think is that he’s hers. Your brain produces the words like a litany in your mind, and you think it’s making you crazy.

You were crazy to come here in the first place. To think you deserved a spot at Jungkook’s side.

You grab your phone, and see that it’s the middle of the night. You don’t care one bit, and you call Jisung. Not Jiho, because Jiho doesn’t know how to drive, and she also has a midterm tomorrow morning.

Jisung doesn’t pick up, and you choke on another sob as you call again. This time, the call goes on voicemail quicker than it’s supposed to, and you receive a text a second later.

[4:46 am] Sungie: you better have a good reason for waking me up in the middle of the night🙄 [4:46 am] Sungie: what’s up? [4:47 am] You: can u come pick me up? [4:47 am] Sungie: what’s wrong [4:48 am] You: it’s complicated. mom kicked me out, and i’m at jk’s place [4:48 am] Sungie: wtf? [4:48 am] Sungie: i don’t wanna go outside😭 and i’ll kill your mom, but what’s new. [4:49 am] Sungie: omw

You sigh a breath of relief, but it breaks on your lips and you cry out, as the tears and the pain win once again, as they’ve been winning all evening.

You get up, you take a few steps, you stumble on something and catch yourself on the wall. You feel like you’re going to be sick, you’re tired, exhausted, and you wish for your bed.

But you don’t have a home anymore, do you?

Jungkook says your name. He says your name like you’re a prayer, and you break some more, refusing to even turn to look at him. You just stumble to your bags, pick them up and try to reach for the door.

Jungkook stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist.

He repeats your name, and you refuse to look at him. This time, when he tries to pull you in, you resist. You don’t want him to touch you, you don’t want him to hold you when you know it’s all just a lie. When you know tomorrow will come and he’ll be gone.

He’s forgotten you. He’s forgotten you too, he’s forgotten the pain he brings. And you think, if the world was ending, would he stand on the threshold of your memories together with you? Because you think you got lost in the memories, you forgot memories come and go.

“Let me go,” you beg, weakly, because you’re weak. Like you’ve been sick, and you think you might be. Maybe your broken heart festered inside of you, releasing toxins into your bloodstream until it rendered you sick.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” he says in an equally weak voice, but he does let go of you.

You scoff, and you don’t say anything before turning the doorknob and opening the door.

“I’m sorry that I fell asleep next to you,” Jungkook says, and he sounds like he’s panicking. Like he doesn’t want you to slip through his fingers. But the tighter he holds you, the more you slip. You’re like sand: immortal in the way you’ll always slip through his fingers, like he’ll always slip through yours.

“It’s not that.” You drop one of the bags, because your wrist hurts almost equally as your heart. “Jungkook, you have a girlfriend, we shouldn’t be together.”

You eye your bag, deciding that it’s not worth trying to pick it up. You’ll ask Jo to bring it to you wherever you’ll find a home for the next few days. You’re walking away, striding away, running away.

You’re fleeing like he fled that night he told you about her. Part of you wishes you could rush to your mother’s side, could show her your broken heart and beg her for the love she is supposed to give you. Unfortunately, her maternal affection ran low far too long ago.

But Jisung is coming. That’s all that matters.

You’re at the top of the stairs when Jungkook speaks next. “I broke up with Laura.”

You still. As much as you were breaking a second ago, your heart just stops shattering. Just stops existing altogether for a moment.

“What?”

“I broke up with her Sunday morning.”

You turn to look at him. He’s barely visible in the purple light that escapes his room, and you can’t see his features. But you feel the weight of his gaze on you.

“What?”

“I’m not with her anymore. I wanted to talk to you about it tomorrow only, because I found you already vulnerable earlier.” He pauses. “That’s why I went to the studio in the first place.”

“Jungkook…”

You wonder if he’s breaking in time with you. You wonder if he too was vulnerable tonight, and if that’s the reason why he’s cried so much.

Did he care for her enough to ache from your presence?

“I didn’t want you to think I was taking advantage of you by telling you while you were vulnerable.”

You understand why he chose to do it that way. But you still hate him for it.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

“You’re a fucking idiot, Jeon Jungkook.”

You think he might be smiling. He does sound like he’s smiling when he speaks next. “Can I hug you?”

“I hate you.”

He laughs, and it breaks, and you only then realize that he wasn’t smiling. He’s crying, and he wipes a hand on his face.

“Don’t…” you trail off, and then you both startle as Jin appears in the doorframe to his room.

“Can you guys please shut the fuck up, it’s the middle of the night.”

You snort. It sounds like a pig, or maybe a hog or a boar. You actually have no idea what it sounds like, just that it’s hysteric, as is the laughter that erupts from you and Jungkook quite at the same time.

Jin just watches the both of you as if you’re crazy, and you are. You’ve suffered so much you’ve gone crazy, and you don’t even care.

You laugh longer than Jungkook, shedding tears that you dry mindlessly with your thumb. Tears heavy with emotions, different emotions than the ones that you’ve been feeling for weeks.

Indeed, hope has cracked some part of the pain, like a sunrise that shines through a veil of thick clouds, sunrays stubbornly refusing to be stopped by the bleariness.

You laugh for all the breaking that you did, and it’s no wonder Jungkook eventually moves to grab your hand and pull you back into his room. Only then do you stop laughing, and you say, “Jisung is coming to pick me up.”

That showers the both of you until you’ve calmed down, enough to be able to glance at Jin that’s still watching with the most disgusted expression on his features. When the two of you find him on his doorstep, Jin figures it’s better to dip, and he goes in, shutting the door softly behind him.

You think you see him winking at Jungkook before he disappears from view.

“Okay,” Jungkook lets out. “That’s okay, let me grab your bag.”

“You’re not angry?”

He shakes his head no in the faint light of the hallway, glancing at you as he grabs the bag you left near his door. “No. I understand that you need some space. And we’ll talk tomorrow, right?”

You nod. You nod because you’re done breaking. “I’ll call you first thing in the morning.” And then you feel infinitely stupid, because he’s blocked your number months ago.

Jungkook has probably thought about the same thing, because as he’s walking back towards you, he says, “I’m sorry I blocked you.”

You raise your hand, the one whose wrist is in a brace. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Just unblock me.”

“I…” he trails off. “I don’t know how to.”

You shut your eyes. “You’re annoying.”

“I’ll figure it out”, he promises. “I’ll figure it out and I’ll be the one calling you.”

You nod, and you look at him. “I… might be angry at you.”

“I deserve it.” He grabs the bag you’re holding, and then motions to the stairs. “You can punch me if you want, but we should go downstairs before Jin kills me.”

“Please do!”

You both laugh once again, and you think you hear a feminine voice scolding Jin.

You follow Jungkook downstairs, shining light with your phone so you don’t fall. Jungkook leads you right to the hall, and he puts your bags down by the door. He then leans down to massage his knee, and you wonder if pain has licked its fingers up his thigh the way it’s been licking its fingers up your arm.

But not in your heart. Your heart is done aching.

You glance outside, and you see that Jisung is already there. He must have been at Felix’s place. Jungkook notices too as he stretches, and you think you see disappointment on his features.

“Do you want me to carry the bags to the car?” he asks, gently.

You reach out between you, hand moving up until it’s cupped his cheek. He looks startled, eyes going round and looking between your two pupils a couple of times.

“I’m sorry I woke you up”, you say as you let your hand fall, because you have no idea why you did that in the first place.

“No, don’t be,” he reassures you. “I’m glad I woke up and could reassure you. I don’t like misunderstandings.”

You think he’s a little full of shit for saying so, because you wouldn’t have been in this position if he listened to you in July. But you refrain from telling him, because you’re going to talk to him tomorrow, and tomorrow only. When you’ll both be ready.

Tonight, you’re still going to cling to the fact that he cares.

He cares, and he hasn’t forgotten about you, or about the July night sky. No, he too still can see the stars that night.

And suddenly, you don’t fear tomorrow anymore.

*****

Felix’s apartment is cozy in the morning light. But the absence of curtains in the living room windows has made it hard to sleep. You’re lucky you don’t have a class today. You usually do, a three-hour long class at 8 am, but the professor gave you a week off before the midterm next week. He’s still available for office hours, but you’ve had him before in another class. You know he’s not a strict grader. So you’re not going to make it to office hours, and you’ll try to catch up on more sleep before Felix and Jisung wake up.

It’s hard to fall back asleep though. Indeed, your thoughts have been clouded with Jungkook. With the anxiety that you can finally talk to him now, that he’s not hers, but that you don’t even know if you have something to tell him.

He was soft yesterday. Willing to help, wearing his heart on his sleeve the way you reckon he did it that July weekend. It reminds you that Jungkook has a heart of gold. It took you years before you saw it, but now it’s blinding you.

Jungkook would go to the ends of the Earth to help the people he cares about. And he cares about you. You, with the flaws that make the mosaic of you. You, who’s never been able to love, and now you think maybe you’ve loved all along.

Because what was that hate for him, if not misguided love? Immature feelings, maybe. Though you wouldn’t call it love. You wouldn’t dare say you love Jungkook. But you do feel for him. You feel for him the way you feel for the early morning. It’s filled with possibilities, with calm and serene moments. It doesn’t ask for anything but offers all. And maybe that’s how you’ve been feeling for him all along.

You sigh, turning so your back is to the window, trying to block out the rising sun so you can sleep some more. It does nothing to how your heart’s been acting up, but you still force yourself to lie in silence, to enjoy the feeling of infinity today carries.

You’ve dozed off a little by the time movement is heard in the apartment, and your eyes flutter open to look at the ceiling, as you’ve turned on your back. You yawn, stretching a little, before glancing to the side.

You let out a high-pitched squeal at the sight of the shirtless man that’s standing there, and he startles just as much as you, letting out a sound that rivals with the one you just made.

He’s not Felix, and he’s not Jisung. In reality, you have no idea who he is. You didn’t even know Felix has a roommate.

“Who are you?” the guy asks, and the first thing you notice is his accent.

“Jisung’s friend,” you reply as you sit up.

The man seems to realize he’s half naked, and he folds his arms on his chest. It makes his biceps pop out, and you reckon he’s quite the sight to see so early in the morning.

You have the decency to blush at the thought, and you look down at the floor.

“He and Felix offered to let me sleep here,” you add, worrying at your bottom lip. “I’m not going to stay.”

The guy shrugs. “Hey, it’s okay. Just was startled.” He laughs a little, before glancing in the direction of what you assume is the kitchen. “Do you want some coffee?”

“Uh,” you let out. “Yeah, sure.”

Turns out the guy is called Chris. The accent you’ve heard at first is the unmistakable Australian accent, and he informs you that he’s moved here with Felix for college. You end up eating breakfast along with him, because he’s decided to make protein pancakes. You’re surprised at how good they are, and you’re idly chatting at the kitchen table when Jisung enters.

He looks between you and Chris once, before saying, “You’ve got explanations about how you ended up at Jungkook’s place last night.”

He’s got a firm authoritative tone to his voice, and you recognize him for the older brother he is to you. You let out a shy laugh, before shrugging your shoulders.

“I already told you mom kicked me out.”

Chris’s eyes go wide as saucers as he looks at you, before his gaze dips down to his pancakes and he focuses on eating them.

“Yes, but Jungkook?”

Felix appears behind Jisung, brushing sleep out of his eyes. “Leave her alone, Han.”

Jisung glares at his boyfriend, before shrugging his shoulders. “I just think it’s weird because he’s got a girlfriend.”

“They broke up”, you say in a defensive tone.

Because it’s Jungkook you’re talking about, and you’d always defend him.

Jisung looks so surprised you almost start laughing. And it’s weird that you’re in a laughing mood – you were kicked out yesterday for God’s sake. But at the same time, it feels like you’ve reached the limit of your breaking, and the morning holds the possibility of healing.

The morning, and Jungkook, you reckon. Because you know healing starts with Jungkook. Healing starts with figuring out where it all went wrong, it starts with the conversation you’re supposed to have later.

Some place you also can study, hopefully, because you’ve got a midterm on Thursday.

“You’re fucking shitting me,” Jisung lets out as Felix starts pouring coffee for himself.

You shrug, feeling shy as everyone’s gaze moves to you. “They broke up on Sunday.”

“And you were over yesterday? Boy’s not wasting time.”

You furrow your brows. “It’s actually a coincidence that I ended up at his place. And Jiji’s fault.”

“Jiji? She hates his guts,” Jisung points out, still not fully believing you.

“She told him to go to the studio, he found me crying about getting kicked out and he offered me to spend the night before I figure out what to do.”

“That’s fair enough”, Felix says, interrupting Jisung who clearly was about to say something vile about Jungkook.

Jisung frowns, but he sighs and lets the expression go. He fully walks into the kitchen, helping himself to some of the pancakes Chris made. “He hurts you again I’ll fucking punch him.”

“Sungie,” you whine. “You’re the one that wanted me to tell him how I felt.”

“That was ages ago,” he reminds you. “I also told you to move on.”

“We’re going to talk today,” you admit.

There’s a heavy silence that follows your words. Jisung looks at you like you’re stupid, Chris seems like he wants to disappear, and Felix scrolls away on his phone as if he hasn’t heard.

“You ask me to come pick you up from his place in the middle of the night and then you say you’ll talk today?” Jisung eventually says, voice low.

It makes you feel stupid, and it makes you realize that maybe, maybe talking to Jungkook will lead nowhere.

Maybe you’re just going to offer each other closure before you truly move on. But you think you still deserve the closure, you still deserve the moving on. No matter how you might feel for Jungkook, some things truly are just not meant to be.

And this morning you think maybe that’s okay.

“I didn’t know yet that they were broken up,” you admit. “He didn’t want to drop it on me while I was crying because of my mother.”

“Valid,” Felix lets out, offering you salvation from Jisung’s wrath.

“Please,” Jisung scoffs. He seems to realize Jungkook might have actually done it right, because he adds, “Whatever. As I said, if he hurts you, he’s dead.” He’s frowning again, shaking his head. “And I can’t fucking believe your mother. My parents will give you a room at home if you want.”

The pain comes back now, but it’s different. Dull, as if Jungkook took its edges and softened them last night.

“Thank you.” You sigh, looking down at your plate, and you know you won’t be able to finish eating. “I’m going to get an apartment.”

It changes the subject to apartment hunting, and Jisung does his best to not appear too pissed whenever you mention that Jungkook will be helping you. Because even if all you give each other today is closure, you know Jungkook will still help.

You think you might know him better than you know yourself after all.

You follow Felix out when he says he needs to leave for college. You reckon sharing a Lyft might be a good idea, because you’re still on the other side of town. Felix agrees, though he admits he usually takes public transport to go to college. You shrug your shoulders, saying you’ll pay, and it’s halfway to your college that you realize something.

You realize you need to stop spending and to start saving money, if you want to be able to afford an apartment. And it makes you feel strange inside, like you might still have more that can break.

You cling to the feeling this morning holds. But some part of you is growing weary, dreary, because you get to college before Jungkook texts, and he told you he’d text you first thing in the morning. You don’t know his schedule though. You can’t assume his morning starts at the same time as yours do, so you try to stay calm and not let panic rise in you.

Felix walks with you on campus, until you part ways because he has to get to class. You decide you’re going to squat in the library, with your damn duffel bag and school bag you’ve been carrying around since yesterday. You find a spot in a corner, and you get busy studying, figuring it’s a better way to pass the time instead of looking at your phone expecting Jungkook to call you, to give you a sign of life.

You like studying. As much as law is a hard subject, it makes you feel connected to your father, somehow, and you like it. You like the highlighters and the lo-fi medieval beats and the books filled with laws and ethics and everything in between. You like being in a library, looking like you’ve got your shit together. You think that, to outside eyes, you probably look like you do. You can invent a life to yourself here, one where you haven’t been kicked out. One where you’re the pride of your family, and where you go skiing in the Alps once a year, taking pictures that you hang over the fireplace.

Not that you’re a big skier, and not that you’d go to the Alps anyway. You’d rather backpack around the world, discovering cultures unheard of before.

But sometimes, you do wish your family would have worked. You do wish your father never left, your mother never cheated. And sometimes, you do wonder who’s your biological dad.

Not that it’s important, and not that you will know one day. Your mother says she doesn’t even remember his name, and he was just a back-up dancer in a foreign country. Not someone that you’d ever have a chance of running into.

You sigh, turning the page of the book you’ve been reading. It’s about international law, your favourite subject, and your hardest class this semester. Professor Wickham is a bitch, and she loves failing people. Loves the look of pure distress people throw at her during exams, because she insists on being there while her students take her exams.

She’s a bitch, but she’s also renowned in the field, and you’ve been trying to make a good impression on her forever. Even though she refused you last semester when you tried getting an internship with her. Even though your summer internship still ended being great.

You run a hand through your hair, and you reach towards the reusable water bottle you always carry with you. Your hand stops halfway when your phone lights up next to you, and you grab it, heart beating wildly in your chest.

To your dismay, it isn’t Jungkook, but Jimin texting you.

[10:17 am] park.jm: jk wants me to tell you he’s an idiot [10:17 am] park.jm: he’s not able to unblock u. But he wants to know where u are🫥

You can’t hold in the smile that decides to grow on your lips.

[10:17 am] You: my college’s library. he can unblock me on insta and dm here..🙄

This time, you laugh a little when you see the next message you’ve received.

[10:18 am] jkonthebeat: i’m fkg dumb [10:18 am] jkonthebeat: is there a cafe near ur library? [10:19 am] jkonthebeat: haven’t eaten yet and figured it’d be great to talk over a cup of coffee? [10:19 am] jkonthebeat: if u still wanna talk [10:19 am] jkonthebeat: like i’d understand if u’d rather not? plz don’t feel like you have to [10:19 am] You: Jungkook [10:20 am] jkonthebeat: …what? [10:20 am] You: yes i still want to talk. i’ll send u the location of a chill place [10:21 am] jkonthebeat: okay, yeah good. i’ll be there as quickly as i can [10:23 am] You: shared location [10:26 am] jkonthebeat: eta 35 min😌

You can almost imagine Jungkook panicking on his side of the screen, and it makes you laugh a little more. Some guy throws you a look from the table where he’s sitting, and you offer him a wry smile before looking down at your international law book again. You still have a few pages to read in the chapter, so you decide to do that before meeting up with Jungkook.

It’s really hard to focus when you know his starry gaze is waiting for you. You eventually make it through, though it takes you so long you have to jog to the café to make it on time. You’re out of breath when you get there, and maybe a little sweaty, which you reckon might be disgusting. But Jungkook arrives almost right in time with you, hands digging in the pockets of his sweater pants. He looks like he came in his PJs, and you offer him a small smile when his eyes meet yours.

It’s an embrace, the same way the sun embraces the Earth every morning. It feels like you’d feel lying down in the morning sun rays, letting them warm your cold skin from the lightless night. It feels like you’re safe, like you’ve journeyed around the world only to return to the same spot that you’ll always return to.

He’s cataclysmic, he really is. Like he created you that night in July, the same way you know you’ve created him. In truth, you reckon the cataclysm might be you two together. As if the stars wrote the story decades ago, as if the universe knew your fate from its birth.

You expect it to hurt, but it doesn’t. It’s peaceful. You reckon you deserve a little bit of peace.

“Hey,” he greets you, and you wonder if you’re imagining the pink tint on his cheeks.

“Good morning.” You glance over your shoulder, at the door to the café, before meeting his soft gaze once more. “Do you want to go in?”

He nods, laughing a little. “I got to admit I’m starving.”

“Well, let’s get some food for you,” you say, and you turn.

You’re about to open the door when he grabs the duffel bag from you. “Let me carry that.”

“Oh,” you let out. “I don’t mind, I’m getting used to it.”

He just offers you a no-bullshit look that leaves no room for arguing, so you chuckle before opening the door. He follows you inside, and you choose a table in a quiet corner before you go to order something. You settle on an almond croissant while Jungkook gets a coffee and a cinnamon bun, along with a muffin that ‘looks too good to be left there’. You roll your eyes at his comment, but he just offers you a wink.

It’s the wink you once thought was cocky. It’s not cocky at all anymore today, just teasing.

You’re back at the table and halfway through your croissant when Jungkook says, “Thank you for accepting to meet up.”

It makes you anxious, because the time has come. No matter how much you want this conversation to happen, you can’t help but dread it too.

“Of course.”

He worries at his piercing, big doe eyes watching you carefully. You feel as if he’s gazing right at your soul, and maybe he is.

Maybe he’s been gazing at it since the very first day.

“I’m going to start by saying I’m sorry,” he says, with a shy insecure voice you’ve never heard from him before. “Not that it changes anything. I can’t imagine how it must have felt for you all this time.”

Straight to the point. For some reason, you expected him to talk about your mother. But maybe he believes the subject to be over, or he’s been wanting to talk to you for too long about what’s been troubling his heart.

“It…” you start but you don’t know how to say it. You don’t know which adjective to employ, because all of them feel like you’re just trying to guilt him. And though you do want him to feel guilt, you know you don’t have to impose it on him.

He’s doing it to himself already.

“It’s been really hard,” you choose to simply say, because it’s the truth. “The way you did a one-eighty in just a few days? Like…” you trail off because you don’t know where to go, but Jungkook’s listening, waiting for you to continue patiently as he surveys you with those big eyes of his. “Like I felt horrible. The moment I told you we shouldn’t have…”

That’s what you wanted to tell him in July. Strange to think that the words are coming out now.

“I don’t think I believed it. Maybe I wanted to believe it, because it was scary, but I never believed it. And I’m sorry I said that.”

He’s still playing with his piercing, and it takes him a while to digest your words. “I knew, if that can make you feel any better. Not that I think it’ll feel better. But you have to understand that it really hurt me. Like…” It’s his turn to look for words, and you anxiously wait for what’s to follow. “I’m not a perfect person. I try to be, and I’ve tried even harder after the accident. But when you said that, I felt ashamed. Like I’m just someone disgusting. And I focused on it so hard the only thing I could think to do was push you away.”

And he did it. So easily, as if you were nothing but some weed he was taking out from his burgeoning flowers.

It hurts, that same pain you’ve grown accustomed to over the last few months. You want to flee, to disappear, but you know you have to face your feelings. Ignoring them brought you nowhere good, didn’t it?

“Did it help you feel better?” you ask.

A crease appears between his brows, and you wish to reach between you so you can flatten it away. Needless to say, you resist the impulse, and hate yourself for having it in the first place.

“It did?” he admits, though he sounds unsure. “I can’t lie and say I didn’t get scared too. It was terrifying. But I think I knew before you did.”

“What?”

“I think the night after I told you about the accident?” he says like a question, waiting for you to nod before he continues. “It changed something for me. I couldn’t see you the same way that I saw you before.”

You remember the day after he told you. You were angry at him, because he ignored the text you sent him when you woke up. Mostly because you were embarrassed that you acted like you cared, and you reckon you already did too. It feels like a lifetime ago, and for a mere moment you wish you could be back there and tell yourself to stop being blind. It’d save you a heartbreak.

“Oh,” is all you can think to say.

“So then it all culminated when you looked like you regretted so much,” he adds. You think you see him gulp. “Not going to lie, it actually really hurt. And when I hurt, I tend to turn into a very ugly person.” At that he can’t hold your gaze anymore, and he chuckles bitterly as he shakes his head. “Ask Tae.”

“You weren’t an ugly person”, you gently say after he’s stared at his half-eaten cinnamon bun for a while. “I hurt you, and you tried to move on. No?”

He looks at you again then. “Yeah. But I think some part of me wanted to hurt you too. And…” His gaze lines with silver, and his words die on his mouth. It makes you feel like there’s lava in your blood again, and you shiver. “And I did hurt you. I saw you wasting away all those weeks. You looked… so sad. And nobody cared.”

You don’t think it’s true that nobody cared. But you think you understand what he’s trying to say: nobody cared the way that he did, nobody can care the way that he does. Or so you like to tell yourself.

“It wasn’t just you, if that can reassure you,” you admit, eyes falling to his coffee cup as he picks it up. He doesn’t move to drink, just holds it, maybe because he needs to busy his hands. “There was my mom, and then Jiho growing distant, and all that shit. The internship was great, but it was rough too.”

All of it is true, though you know it wouldn’t have felt as gut-wrenching if you didn’t have to watch Jungkook loving someone else coincidentally.

“Thank you for saying so.” He clears his throat, tries a glance your way but decides to let his gaze drop again. He shifts in his chair a little, before saying, “I understand why you didn’t come to dance practice most of the time. And honestly, I didn’t like that you weren’t there. I know it makes me selfish, but I… I wanted to see you? Because…” He gulps, and you watch a tear as it rolls down his cheek. “Because then I could at least know that you were okay?”

You shut your eyes, nodding slowly. “It was just too hard to see you.”

“I know.”

There’s a pause in the conversation, while both of you fight the emotions that are choking you up. You expected you’d get angry at him, but all you’re able to feel is longing, the kind of longing that aches and burns and crushes your heart.

“I was a dick for not listening to you that night after practice,” he says, slowly. You open your eyes to look at him, catching his eyes on you before they flit back to the table. “I knew exactly what you were going to say, and I couldn’t hear it. I think if we had had this conversation then, I would have hated you.”

It’s your turn to gulp. “Why?”

“Because it was too soon. I was still neck deep in the embarrassment, and in the selfishness. But I wish I didn’t have to break your heart for the embarrassment to go away.”

“You think the ending would have been worse if I had told you that night?”

You sound like you don’t believe it. Maybe because for weeks you’ve kept telling yourself that it would have made things better. It’s hard to accept that it could have made things worse.

“Oh, trust me,” he says, scoffing. “I would have been very ugly. Remember all the fights we used to have? They wouldn’t have compared.” He pulls at his piercing, hard, and you think it probably hurts, but he doesn’t look like he cares. “I was ready to hurt you. That’s why I left.”

There’s an untold sentence there, but you hear it nonetheless.

I knew I was already going to hurt you anyway.

And that he sure did. But you find it hard to be angry at him today. You do let a silence linger for a time, only because you feel like cursing and crying at the same time, and you don’t want either to happen.

It passes, with your gaze diverting to the street outside. You watch a woman walking her dog until she’s disappeared from view, and then your eyes move up to the blue sky. It’s strange how sunny it is, when you feel like a tiny storm is brewing between you and Jungkook.

“Were you happy with her?” you ask, eyes still on the world outside.

It takes a while for Jungkook to reply. “I don’t know, honestly. I wasn’t sad by her side, I won’t lie to you, but I don’t think I was happy.” He chuckles sadly. “In all truth, I think I was punishing myself by being with her.”

It makes you look at him again, and this time your gazes connect like long lost lovers hugging after years apart.

“Punishing yourself for what?”

“For all the bad things I told you, all the times I tried to get on your nerves on purpose.” He shrugs. “For the way I purposefully decided to break your heart, and how I tried to ignore the consequences at first.” He speaks with conviction now, like that’s really what he’s been wanting to say all along. “I knew that being with her was hurting me, and I believed I deserved it.”

“But why?”

“Because… I feel like we’re going in circles, so I won’t repeat all that I just said. But because of all of that,” he says, and there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. “All in all, I just was a fucking idiot.”

You can’t agree more, so you purse your lips and nod once. “That you were.”

He doesn’t even fake offence, just chuckles a little before taking a sip of coffee.

“Do you really want to help me with the apartment?” you ask, thoughtfully, eyes glazing a little as your mind runs miles away from him, to the place of hurt that being homeless at the moment is bringing to you.

“Yes,” he answers softly. “Not even because I want to redeem myself or anything. Like I said yesterday, I do care about you. And I wouldn’t let you go through a situation like this alone.”

You inhale shakily, blinking away the sudden tears. You won’t cry again.

“Okay.”

There’s another silence, only interrupted by the regular café sounds. You only then notice that there’s some music playing, but it’s so low you can barely make-out the song. It sounds like some indie artist you’ve heard once before, but it’s hard to tell.

“Do you think…” he starts, but he doesn’t finish. Instead, he eats a bite of cinnamon bun, as if he’s giving himself time to collect his thoughts. “Do you think we could be friends? Like… I don’t think I deserve your friendship, after everything that’s happened, but I’d forever be thankful if you still gave it to me.”

You don’t even hesitate before you say, “Of course, Jungkook.” You’re choking on tears again. “Of course we’re friends.”

He’s crying too. “We can put it in the past?”

You bite at your lip to keep a sob in. “It might take some time, but yes, I think we can.”

“Fuck”, he curses, then he adds your name like it’s his favourite line from his favourite poem. He says it softly, carefully. “I am so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

He shakes his head, stubbornly blinking his tears away. “No, but like… this is all my fault. I think I’ve never fucked up so bad in my life.”

“Jungkook…”

“I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you.”

It sounds like a promise, with forever laced to it. And maybe that’s what you are to him, a forever he can’t bring himself to let go.

It’s what he is to you too. Because, for all that Jisung and your father said, you didn’t want to move on from Jungkook. Some part of you always believed you’d find your way back to him, and today, you know you weren’t wrong.

And you’d go through the pain all over again, for eternity, just to experience this moment with him right now. This new cataclysm, the one that creates instead of destroying. It creates a world between you, and you find yourself excited to explore it. Yes, the scars will stay, but scars make us who we are.

Scars mar Jungkook’s skin, mar your heart and his too. Scars are the reason why your heart started opening up in the first place, and scars are what makes you want to hold on to him today. They brought you to him, brought him to you, and the pain that they carry, like everything in life, doesn’t last.

No winter lasts forever, no night can stop the sun from shining when the morrow comes.

But you’re right. It’ll take a while before you’re able to fully forgive Jungkook. The look in his eyes tells you that he’ll be with you every step of the way. It tells you that he’d die for you, and maybe he already did. Maybe you both died for each other, and that’s what the scars truly tell. A story of a complicated love that destroys and creates.

The story of the cataclysm of you and him. The story of the forgotten spaces where you always met. Because Jungkook meets you, even in the darkest corners of your heart. He doesn’t balk from it, doesn’t fear the worst of you. And you’d meet him in the desert, in the dance your hearts share, the one his body can’t experience anymore, but his soul and yours know by heart.

Maybe he’s been your forgotten space all along, and you his.

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missmaywemeetagain · 4 months

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Broken Glass, Chapter 9 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

Eeee! I can't believe it's finally DONE! At nearly a whopping 14k, I truly hope this makes up for me not updating this story since September! 🎉 Many thanks to my darling @ab4eva for finally helping me knock this loose and reminding me I could indeed still write! 💗💋💗

If I'm honest, Broken Glass is one of my favorite stories I've worked on. I know it's quite the slow burn and not nearly as smutty as my other works (...yet), but it really does make my creative heart sing and I'm so in love with these two and their stark vulnerabilities. 🥹

I highly recommend rereading Chapter 8 to refresh your memory, but the TL;DR is we left a jealous, ailing Elvis having just found out Lori's big secret from Sinatra and Sinatra calling Elvis out on feelings he hasn't quite been able to admit to himself until now. 😬

This chapter puts us firmly back in Lori's (rather confused) perspective. Elvis is acting weird, and she is feeling the fear of her past nipping at her heels. She's trying to manage her own emotions and health while chasing after Elvis' moody ass, which is going just as well as you'd expect LOL. And of course we have Welcome Home Elvis with Frank Sinatra! You might want to watch the Elvis portions on the show to fully get in the mood--I hope I did them justice! 🥰

Things will really kick into high gear after this chapter, so this setup is pretty important to what's coming. I really hope you enjoy! You can catch up here using the Broken Glass Masterlist ❤️‍🩹

I can't wait to hear what you think!! 💗

Much Love,

Madi xoxoxoxo 💗💋

TW: references to SA/threats/abuse, Gianni, dissociation, emotional upheaval, nightmares/violence/blood, period-related misogyny, health issues (fainting, constipation, vomiting, etc.), Elvis being an asshole, Elvis being a damn snack, sooties 😏

Broken Glass Chapter 9

March 24th, 1960

Miami, Florida

“Just hang on, Elvis. Come on, open your eyes for me,” you say, patting his sallow cheek, the concrete biting at your knees where you’ve fallen ungracefully to the ground with him.

Your half a cigarette lies smoking and abandoned a foot away—a bad habit you picked up after needing an excuse to get outside after long, stressful shifts at the hospital. You haven’t smoked much since you left New York, not having much need for it when your current job is almost ornamental most days, except in those private, hidden moments away from the bustle of Elvis’ strange life.

But he’d pushed you to that Lucky Strike, what with his aloof behavior since Nashville and then his ridiculous jealousy over Frank Sinatra having the audacity to speak to you and you having the gall to laugh with him.

“You are. You’re jealous. Why? I’m not your girl, so why—”

“The hell you aren’t.”

Galloping in your chest, your heart betrays your tangled feelings about the way he’d acted, the way he’d said those words as if he thought for a moment you really were his girl. And before, how he’d kissed you so passionately…

The memory is interrupted by Elvis’ low groan, his long eyelashes fluttering open to reveal glassy but stormy ocean eyes, thrusting you back into the present emergency. You don’t particularly like the way he’s clutching his midsection or how wheezy and warm he is, but you can’t do much here, especially when people are starting to gather.

He starts, as if coming back into himself, and surprisingly tries to roll up and off you. “I’m fine,” he gasps, shrugging your hand off his shoulder in an uncharacteristic act of defiance.

You might be more annoyed if you weren’t so worried, but your feelings are beside the point right now. Treat him like any other patient, a voice in your head reminds you.

“You are not fine, and we’re going back to the hotel so I can get a look at you,” you whisper firmly in his ear.

He shoots you a petulant look.

“Unless you want to go to the hospital instead?” you throw at him, with a raised brow. That does the trick. His glare softens a bit and his eyes dart away as though he’s been scolded.

It doesn’t take more than a pointed look from you for Lamar and Joe to haul Elvis carefully to his feet. You may only be Elvis’ girlfriend in their eyes, but they do know you are a nurse with some expertise in these situations. And you can’t help but see concern on their faces.

Elvis clutches his midsection again with a gasping wince. The guys lead him to a bench outside the building.

“Joe, tell someone in charge Elvis isn’t feeling well. Lamar, go get the car, please. We’re leaving.”

Your tone leaves no room for questions, but the three men look at you with surprise. In truth, you are a little surprised yourself. Perhaps it’s your lack of outward panic, the calm surety of many a night on the emergency ward.

You can’t say the same for them, seeing the panic brewing in the eyes of Elvis’ friends. Along with that, none of them are used to taking orders from women, and certainly you haven’t shown much vocal backbone in these last few weeks, yet with hardly a pause, Lamar and Joe scurry off, leaving you with Elvis.

He doesn’t speak to you or try to joke his way out of the pain, which is unusual. Instead, he stares blankly at anywhere but you. A sliver of unease winds its way through your stomach, and while you don’t push him, it’s almost involuntary the way your hand falls on top of his.

There is no reaction at first. Is he trying to ignore you? Could he possibly still be mad about the Sinatra thing? Confusion washes over you at the slight, but then his eyes squint in pain and his hand finally grips yours.

You hold back the breath of relief at the response, and before you can spiral too much more into what ifs, Lamar pulls up with the car. With his help, you get Elvis into the backseat.

The drive to the hotel is mostly silent. Joe tries to crack a joke or two from the front seat, but Elvis’ lack of response beyond painful grimaces quiets the short man with the annoying laugh. Elvis continues to shut you out, his hands clasped around his middle now instead of your hand.

It shouldn’t bother you, but it does.

He’s just distracted by his pain, you reassure yourself.

You spend the ride pushing away questions about his behavior towards you and try to focus on diagnosis and treatment checklists, going through in your head what you have to do once you two are alone. It grounds you.

Once you all arrive, the boys help him out, but he stubbornly pushes them away once they reach the lobby.

“I can get to the elevator by my damn self!” Elvis grumbles, his eyes darting around the open space with concern. He’s nervous, you think, about being mobbed in this condition. You’ve gleaned enough in the past few weeks to understand he always attracts attention and it’s almost impossible for him to say no to his fans, even when he’s in so much pain he can barely stand upright. You are continually amazed by his generosity and selflessness in this regard. It’s one of the most endearing things about him.

Luckily, the lobby isn’t busy, and you make it to the privacy of the elevator avoiding interruption from outsiders. The humid air in the small space feels stifling and heavy with concern, but no one speaks as the elevator lurches upwards.

The relief is palpable when the doors open to the penthouse, and without ceremony you help deposit Elvis on the king-sized bed in the suite.

“Should we call a doctor?” Joe whispers to you as you try to shut him out of the room. The look in his eyes shows real worry for his friend.

“No,” you snap back, wanting to avoid any doctors not already familiar with the complexity of the situation. Joe is taken aback, so you continue more gently, “Not yet, at least. Let me see what I can do, and I’ll let you know.”

You can’t close the door fast enough, finally able to rush to Elvis’ aid in earnest, grabbing your medical bag out of the closet.

“Where does it hurt?” you ask, preparing the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope.

Elvis doesn’t respond, looking sullen. You can’t tell if it’s stubbornness or pain that’s keeping him this way though. But the dull hurt of your near-constant headache coupled with his strange mood has your temper feeling short.

“You smoke,” he says with distaste, avoiding your question.

“What?” Distracted, you count the seconds of his pulse using your watch.

“Girls of mine don’t smoke. I don’t like it,” he adds with a petulant glare.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“Okay, Elvis, I’ll stop smoking,” you placate, “but you need to tell me what’s going on with your body or I cannot help you.” The command is clear.

He looks up at you then, his eyes churning with pain and something else you don’t have time to piece through right now.

“I feel hot an’ short of breath,” he says quietly, almost clinically. “And…” He hesitates, looking down with embarrassment.

You urge him on with a nod as you squeeze the cuff. “And? What’s going on with your belly?”

He clears his throat with a grimace. “It hurts something fierce. It’s, uh, been awhile since…you know.”

You sigh. Logically, you understand how anyone—any man, especially one in his position—might feel embarrassed talking about their bodily functions with a young woman, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating that he hides these issues from you when it’s your job to know.

“How long?” you ask.

“I dunno,” he shrugs, his face going flush.

“Alright, then, lay back,” you sigh, popping a thermometer in his mouth. Thankfully, he obeys without a fuss, and you pull his shirt up. It doesn’t take much gentle prodding on his lower belly to determine the issue. In fact, you can see the distention on his normally lean frame. That coupled with his pained whimpers and wincing makes it clear that his chronic constipation is rearing its ugly head.

For a normal and otherwise heathy person, it might not cause the severity of issues you have to contend with now. But Elvis is neither normal nor healthy. His pressure and temp are too high, his asthma is acting up, either from the pain or exertion of singing, and you know he’s not going to like the solution. But if he wants to stay out of the hospital and out of the press, he’ll just have to deal with it.

Despite your headache and frustration with him for not communicating readily with you about anything he should, be it his feelings or his health, you urge him to the bathroom as gently as possible, gathering the materials needed from your bag. The caretaker in you pushes everything else away as you prepare the solution and guide him through the process of what must be done.

He goes from furious to ashamed to resigned rather quickly. You are a little surprised at how readily he becomes vulnerable to you, considering the circumstances. The treatment momentarily strips away whatever inexplicable ire he was holding onto. It feels so intimate the way you both quiet and with how carefully you tend to him, massaging his belly and rubbing his back as the treatment works its magic. And after the relief comes, you run a bath, washing him gently, watching as his handsome face finally relaxes. Never has a man looked so innocent yet so beautifully dangerous. He leans into your comfort, too, and as clinical as your brain wants to make this whole experience, you are a little frightened by the realization of your heart aching not just with him, but for him.

He falls asleep in the warmth of the tub. You don’t wake him, knowing how sleep comes for him so irregularly and infrequently, but you are loathe to leave him alone when he could easily slip under the water. Elvis Presley will not drown in a tub on your watch.

Or at least this is what you tell yourself as you take a moment to catalogue such peaceful and unencumbered beauty, knowing very few get to see him like this.

Your mind finally wanders then, back to the moment in Nashville you’ve tried desperately not to think about, when he sang directly to you in so intimate a way you thought you’d combust from the inside out with feelings and urges you barely understood. Fire and shivers cascade down your spine all at once at the memory of his eyes, heavy lidded and molten, as he sang to you about just how right it would feel to be in his arms. It was so seductive, so real, it felt like he put a spell on you. There were no secrets between you in that tiny studio—only want and need.

In those few minutes, he wanted everything from you, and you had wanted to give it to him.

That is his wonderful talent, though, isn’t it? you think. To make others believe in the words of a song. Perhaps he believed them too, in the moment. It sure felt like it.

But he became so incredibly distant after Nashville, just when you thought you’d gotten closer. It was confusing and exasperating, like he pulled the rug of logic and sense right out from under you. It hurt more than it should have to be shut out by him. He hadn’t been unkind, per say, just aloof and detached.

You purse your fingers over the bridge of your nose, wishing it would ease the dull throbbing in your head. Lack of sleep and routine has done a number on you these past few weeks, though you know it’s keeping up with the façade of a relationship challenging you the most. You’ve slowly been getting better at playing the part of the doting girlfriend, to be sure, but the switching from fake girlfriend to nursemaid and back again is altogether exhausting.

And no matter how much better you get, you aren’t an actress. You aren’t used to pretending to feel something but not actually feeling it. It’s getting harder and harder to decern if these complicated feelings you are starting to have for Elvis are just part of your new job or if they are…real.

You don’t want them to be. They can’t be. Not only would it be unethical, but it’s perilous to think—to hope—he might see you as more. You’re not the type of girl a man like Elvis Presley falls for. And even if you were, a smart, practical girl like you knows better than to get involved with a womanizer like him.

A smart, practical girl like you knows any man is dangerous.

Speaking of danger, as soon as you’d left the safety of Graceland, you’ve felt the creeping unease Gianni or your father could pop out at any moment to steal you away back to New York. They have to know by now who you are with, and you don’t hold any fantasy of them letting you get on with your life without a fight. No, they’ll come for you at some point, you just don’t know when or how, and the more you’re out in the world, the more exposed you feel. Your hypervigilance has you always on edge, and you make sure to stay by Elvis’ side as much as possible in the hope he and his entourage will protect you.

So, yes, you are exhausted. The litany of masks you’re wearing to stay functional are crushing you with their weight, and it is taking more of a toll on you than you are letting on. Perhaps that is why Elvis’ mercurial attitude towards you feels so barbed and painful because, by some strange twist of fate, he is the only one in this world who knows even a fraction of who you really are.

And with that thought, you try not to berate yourself too much for taking a stolen moment to gawk at the ethereal man, this god-like Apollo, naked and asleep in the tub. You are too tired to fight the searing memory of how he kissed you today in front of Frank, so possessive and visceral as he clutched you to him like he never wanted to let you go. The way his tongue, oh Madone, how his tongue had teased your lips to part and how you’d melted in his arms, unable and unwilling to resist his charms. He held you close and all you had wanted in that moment was to be consumed by him, embarrassingly so.

Maybe that was why you’d reacted fervently to his jealousy. It is whiplash, this pendulum of his attentions (or lack thereof), and it embarrasses you how easily you’d caved to his kiss, and in front of Frank Sinatra of all people. But then when you were alone, Elvis reminded you so clearly with his words that it was all a lie, while his body and actions screamed the opposite.

It all felt like too much, then, when he’d tried to put it on you, as if you were the one playing with his emotions. He is an infuriating, obstinate man, and it’s even more infuriating how everyone in his circle allows him to be so. It certainly isn’t fair he can also be so generous and kind and talented and handsome and vulnerable…God, it would be so much easier if he was always a spoiled brat and you could hate him for it.

But it’s not that easy.

He scares you. Not like your father or Gianni, no. Elvis scares you because he—

“You alright, Little Bird?” he croaks from the bath, eyes slits against the light.

It startles you, and you realize your head has been in your hands in lament as you spiral. You straighten, blinking away your lingering, dangerous thoughts.

“Yeah, yes, I’m fine. Just…tired.” It is not a lie, and you hope his own exhaustion keeps him from questioning you further.

“Well, we best get you to bed then, darlin’,” he groans, sitting up and stretching his long arms over his head. “Hand me that towel?”

“Of course,” you breathe, handing him the fuzzy, white towel, then you quickly turn away. You don’t want to leave because he may be unsteady on his feet, and it’s certainly not as though you haven’t seen him totally bare, but you feel your cheeks heat slightly anyway at his nakedness.

I’m only human.

Towel slung low on his narrow hips, you’re glad to follow him into the bedroom and not the other way around, worried the heat of his gaze might flay you open and reveal everything you are trying to hide from him. You don’t have the energy for masks right now.

It seems neither does he. He is docile and pliant as you help him into his silken pajamas and under the covers. You’ve noticed the pattern of him doing this after his episodes, putting himself completely in your capable hands.

As you head back to the bathroom to change and do your own nightly routine, you wonder if he’s ever been this way with anyone else, or if it’s just a special part of him set aside for you.

Stop thinking like that. I am his nurse and nothing more.

You keep a healthy distance between you and him when you climb into the sheets. It doesn’t take long, however, for your exhaustion to take the reins, and you quickly drift off, trying desperately not to think about the beautiful man—no, my patient—who sleeps so close by.

“Dolo-res, oh, Dolo-res!” The slithering sound of Gianni’s voice sing-songing your name in the dark sends your heart racing and your stomach dropping. His dress shoes click ominously on the wooden floor of your father’s house, slowly, taunting you. It’s as though he knows exactly where you are and is just biding his time. Finding pleasure in your fear.

You try to be as quiet as a mouse, but your breathing grows more ragged with each laborious step. The floor is working against you, like you are trying to run through water.

“Aye, aye, aye, Dolores,” Sinatra sings, the sound slow and distorted. Frank watches you struggle up the stairs, his head tilting and those famous blues giving you a knowing wink from the hallway beneath you.

“You can’t hide from me, Bella,” Gianni purrs from behind you, his footfalls heavy.

“What a break if I could make Dolores mine, oh, mine,” Frank continues the song as though your world isn’t collapsing in on itself, as if you weren’t running for your life. The lyrics feel all too threatening under the circumstances.

Clawing your way to the landing, a sob catches in your throat. He’s too close. You can smell his awful cologne. It makes your head pound and your stomach roll.

If you crawl your way to your room…you could lock the door. You could be safe.

“Aye, aye, aye, Dolores,” Frank croons from below.

Gianni’s hands are frigid when they clamp on your legs and turn you over.

“No, no, no, no!” you whimper.

“Did you get my gift, Bella?” Gianni smirks, feeling his way up your thighs, up under your skirt.

Looking down at your hand, the engagement ring he gave you shines menacingly, weighing your hand down so much you cannot lift it to defend yourself. You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

“I was made to serenade Dolores,” the song continues, but it’s no longer Frank’s voice from below. No, it’s deeper, and warm, like velvet. And oh, so familiar.

Elvis.

He’s on the landing behind you as he sings. You crane your neck and see him upside down, towering over you, only a few steps away.

“Elvis, please,” you cry. You aren’t sure if it’s a plea for help or one encouraging him to run. He looks down at you, almost absently, like he sees you but cannot be bothered. Perhaps he does not see you at all.

You aren’t sure what’s worse.

Gianni looks up and growls at Elvis, the whites of his eyes disappearing, turning all the way black. Dark, vicious claws form at the ends of his fingers. He looks like a demonic beast, ready to pounce on his prey.

“I would die to be with my Dolores,” Elvis sings, and you know then it’s over. You close your eyes, not wanting to see Gianni tear Elvis apart just for being near you. You feel the heat of Gianni leap over your prone form, feel Elvis being knocked to the ground with a thud. A roar. Screams. The sounds are sickening and the heat of blood spatters over your face.

“NO!” you sob, uncontrollably. Every breath is tainted with your agony.

It’s all your fault.

Then heavy silence.

Your chest heaves with the speed of your panicked breathing and you sense Gianni crawling back over you. You open your eyes, even though you don’t want to.

“What a break if I could make Dolores mine, oh, mine,” Gianni sings quietly, finishing the song, his face and hands stained crimson with Elvis’ blood. He smiles at you, a terrifying white gash amongst the red.

“Mine.”

Then he digs his claws deep into your belly.

You shudder awake, breathing hard enough to know it is another nightmare that wakes you. The sheen of sweat across your brow, the throbbing at your temples reminds you that you are alive, awake, and when you open your eyes, they meet the darkness of the hotel suite. Your cheeks are damp with tears and your hand flies to your abdomen to make sure Gianni’s claws are not deep inside you.

Much to your shock, there is a hand already there, large and splayed across your belly, but completely unthreatening. No, almost comforting. It knocks away the dream, this hand, as you try to puzzle through why it is there, who it belongs to, and why you aren’t afraid. You hold your breath.

A moment passes. You take stock of the rest of you: the queasiness of your stomach subsiding some, the solid warmth pressed against your back, your legs tucked but feet tangled amongst the sheets and another set of feet.

Elvis.

And you wonder if you are still dreaming because of the way his arms hold you tight. You wait for the panic to come as a result of the embrace, but it never does. Your heart skips then slows, beat by beat as you sink into calm, protected warmth, lulled by his slow breathing against your back.

I’m safe.

Sleep takes you with little fuss.

Your eyes flutter open. The room is dark, thanks to the heavy blackout curtains Elvis requested, but one look at the clock tells you it’s morning and past time to get up. A shiver rolls through you, which is strange despite the arctic levels he keeps any room he sleeps in because he usually a furnace next to you. But your body already knows what your eyes quickly confirm: Elvis is gone. Not in the bed, or the suite, or in the darkened bathroom.

Puzzled, you sit up and flip on the lamp. Your memory is hazy. Blinking, you vaguely remember a nightmare involving Gianni, but blissfully cannot remember specifics. There is something else you are missing, though, something important, just outside the reach of your memory. A comfort maybe? It doesn’t make any sense. Unease settles over you as you rise, your hand falling unconsciously over your abdomen.

Elvis’ absence bothers you, though you can’t put a finger on why. Perhaps it’s just the lingering dreams you can’t quite remember that have you anxious.

Or maybe it’s because in less than a month, your entire life has been upended and changed irrevocably.

Could be that.

After a glance at the time, you rise and hasten to get ready, knowing you are running late. Elvis will need to be at rehearsal soon. The rush is a good distraction from your muddled thoughts.

When you exit into the rest of the suite, ready to go, it’s much, much too quiet. Your skin prickles at the absence of Elvis and the usual boisterousness of the group of men you’ve become used to being around all the time and the relative safety they provide.

Something is wrong, and a tendril of fear of being alone and exposed winds up your spine.

Oh, Madone, something happened to Elvis.

Gianni.

It’s then that Cliff exits the kitchenette with a cup of coffee and you jump, startled, hand flying to your chest as you suck in a breath.

“Oh, hey, Lori,” he says. “You’re finally up.”

“Madre di Dio, you scared me!” you gasp, trying not to let the panic leech into your voice too much. “Where is everyone? Where’s Elvis?”

“Oh, they went ahead to the studio. I stayed back to drive you, if you still want to go.” He says it with pity, like you’re one of Elvis’ paramours that can just be dismissed on a whim, and frankly, he seems a little put out by this assignment.

“He did what?” Red lines your vision quite suddenly, anger washing away the worry you’d felt only a moment ago. Elvis is not supposed to be without you. It’s the reason you’re even here. He knows it.

And he just left you. Alone. Without a word.

Cliff backpedals instantly, sensing your indignation, looking very uncomfortable. “Oh, I…um…I think he just thought you were tired? And wanted to let you sleep?”

“Oh, I bet he did,” you mutter under your breath. Then you grab your purse and beeline for the door. “Let’s go, Cliff.”

He scrambles behind out you, following you to the elevator. At first, he nervously prattles on about the weather, trying to make small talk, but finally gives up once he realizes your piercing glare isn’t going anywhere.

You tell yourself you’re angry because Elvis has put himself in danger by not having you with him, but you are smart enough to know it’s more than that. He’s treated you like any other woman when you are not.

It’s downright disrespectful.

Furthermore, it put you at risk. Without the safety of Elvis’ protective and insular group, you are exposed. Gianni or your father would have no trouble at all disposing of Cliff and dragging you back to New York, before Elvis even knew what happened.

Because you haven’t told him, a small voice reminds you.

It makes you sick to think of. Your pounding headache is back, and you feel a bit carsick with the intense Florida sun beating down as Cliff drives you to the studio.

Your frustration and fear have you out of the car before he has barely parked. Heels click-clacking on the concrete and Cliff struggling to keep up, you show your special pass to the doorman. You hate the way the man examines your pass as though it were fake, giving you a once over. Cliff nods at the man before he finally lets you both through, and you huff at the slight.

This isn’t like you. Before Elvis, you would have meekly stepped to the side and let Cliff lead, content to fade into the woodwork. Happy, even. Maybe Elvis’ hotheadedness is rubbing off on you because the swell of rage you feel is like nothing you’ve felt before.

Fuming, you finally reach the studio and then stop short at what you see, sending Cliff almost running into you.

Elvis looks the picture of health, none of the pain or vulnerability you’d seen last night anywhere to be seen. In fact, he has a pretty girl on either side of him, both tittering and blushing as he smiles his famous quirky smile at them in turn. Flirting.

Your nails dig into your clutch and your body goes rigid. It shouldn’t, but it makes your blood boil with betrayal.

How dare he.

It’s a stupid thought, and one you try to shake off as soon as it comes. He’s not your boyfriend. God knows he’s flirted—and done much more—with other girls around you before, and it didn’t bother you then. Not really.

But maybe it’s because he laid into you so hard yesterday about Sinatra and your supposed flirtation and about keeping up appearances and his damned jealousy, and yet here he is, blatantly disregarding all of it. Because of double standards and whatever other petty reasons he has for acting so strange with you since Nashville.

Your eyes burn into him and with the little sixth sense of his, he notices. His eyes darken and hit yours intentionally, and there’s not even a hint of surprise or regret in them. Just an infuriating quirk of a brow before the girls steal his attention again.

Like he planned this.

You grind your teeth, forcing yourself to take a breath instead of doing something stupid like slapping that smile right off his pretty face. No, you’ve got to be professional about this. You seethe, trying to reel in all these senseless emotions suddenly swirling out of control in your mind.

For whatever reason, he’s trying to get under your skin. Maybe he thinks he’s teaching you a lesson about yesterday. About Frank. About the smoking. Who knows what else.

Well, two can play at that game.

You breathe in, out, in again, forcing your shoulders to relax, forcing yourself back into your clinical mode. God knows between the last few weeks, your upbringing, and your nurse’s training, you’ve learned how to deal with difficult people.

Elvis Presley has severely underestimated you if he thinks you’ll fold over this.

In another highly uncharacteristic move, you school your features into a relaxed smile as you walk towards him and the girls. You know he senses you even though he’s barely looking, but instead of confronting him or slinking into the shadows, you clip right past him and head towards the other famous men in the room.

His eyes are burning holes into your back as Frank and Sammy Davis Jr. notice your approach. You appreciate the fact that the two men smile so warmly at you, and not at all dismissively. It was a gamble, as you easily could’ve been rejected by them, too, but your gamble seems to have paid off.

“And who is this pretty young thing?” Sammy asks charmingly, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. You don’t even have to pretend to blush under the scrutiny of both titans.

“Oh, this is the delightful Miss Dolores,” Frank says, “Elvis’ girl.”

“Ah, I knew that kid had good taste,” Sammy smiles.

“We weren’t sure if you were joining us today,” Frank says, looking not so casually behind you.

Three, two, one, you count silently.

“Oh, well, I—” you start.

“There you are, darlin’! Wanted to let you sleep in after such a long day yesterday,” Elvis says, smoothly sidling in beside you and planting a kiss to your temple.

You hide your smile at your presumption coming true and at the suggestive nature of his comment. A dismissive “Mmhmm,” is all you give him back, though. You don’t even look at him.

“You know, my mother was a huge fan of you both,” you gush instead to the other men in front of you, ignoring Elvis. “She passed years ago, but any time I hear That Old Black Magic or Birth of the Blues, I can’t help but think of her.”

It’s not a lie, nor is the sudden swell of emotion you have at the thought of your mother listening and singing along to those tunes while she made supper. You sniffle and let out a little laugh.

Perhaps you imagine the gentle squeeze at your waist.

“Look at me, getting all flustered,” you say, waving away your tears.

Madone, why am I so emotional today?

“Oh, we’re just honored to be a part of your memories like that, honey,” Sammy says kindly, and you feel Elvis stiffen beside you at the endearment.

“Frank, Elvis, we’re ready for the Love Me Tender/Witchcraftrun-through,” George, the very serious production assistant, interrupts.

Elvis starts directing you away. “Okay, then, baby, why don’t you—”

“Oh, I’d love to hear more about your mother, if you want to share,” Sammy says to you. “Don’t worry, Elvis, she’ll be safe with me.” He winks, reaching for your hand.

“I’m sure she—” Elvis starts.

“Well, how could I refuse the great Sammy Davis Jr.?” you interrupt, a little coyly. Part of you wonders when you became so bold as to flirt so shamelessly with men like this.

You aren’t feeling much like your old self these days.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

Tension ripples off Elvis and you honestly couldn’t have planned it better.

You can tell Elvis doesn’t want to offend Sammy as he hems and haws a bit too long. “Sure, sure, of course. I’ll come find ya after,” he finally gets out, a tad flippantly, and you don’t miss the amusement in Frank’s sparkling blue eyes as he leads Elvis away.

If you thought that would be the end of it, you were sorely mistaken. Your pleasure at winning the battle distracts you momentarily, making you think you’ve taught the man a lesson by giving him a taste of his own medicine.

You were wrong.

Instead, Elvis has doubled down on his nonchalant dismissal of you, barely even acknowledging your presence. Suddenly, there are more girls around than before and all of them seemed more than happy to be on the arm of the all-too-handsome singer, even if only for a moment.

You realize fleetingly he’d been true to his word in keeping the girls away before now because of your perceived relationship. But not anymore.

His message seems clear, even though you still don’t understand the reason behind it: You are easily replaced.

If you were actually his girlfriend, maybe that would be true. For a second, you feel the sting of his rejection as if you were just some poor girl fawning over him.

But the reality is much more complicated. Much worse is the dread pooling in your stomach at the thought of being fired and having to fend for yourself against the wolves nipping at your heels. As much as you don’t trust the Colonel, you don’t imagine he’d cast you aside so easily considering everything you know and the pains it would take to bring another nurse into the fold. And Elvis is smart enough to know it. It is a bit of a salve to the fear churning in your belly.

No, what Elvis is doing seems like some sort of strange tantrum, like he’s hurt and sending you a message the only way he knows how. What it truly could be, you have no idea, but having a slew of younger brothers, you understand that sometimes boys just need to wear themselves out with their nonsense. Doesn’t make it any less frustrating or humiliating for you, but you’ve been through worse than an adult man being immature and unable to communicate his feelings.

You almost wish his health was struggling a bit more because it would force him to engage with you. As it stands, he is the picture of health right now and he is only listening to you out of the necessity of keeping up appearances or when you have the gall to talk to another man.

It stings more than you want it to. More than it should.

It’s easy to blame it on the ever-growing fatigue you can’t seem to shake and on the fact you have less experience dealing with these kinds of relationships than most girls your age. It’s not as if you have a lot to compare it to, or even any girlfriends or relatives you talk to in order to help you try and understand what is wrong with him.

A deep loneliness sinks down over you suddenly, threatening to drown you in the overwhelming realization that you truly have only yourself to keep you steady. The worst part is Elvis is the only one who has any understanding of you at all, and for whatever reason, he is shutting you out. You force back the tears trying to spring to your eyes, swallowing your grief and resignation.

Instead of giving him the satisfaction of seeing you mope as he entertains the girls the other guys have procured for the evening, you smile and keep up pleasantries for as long as you can before retiring to the bedroom to read. Not that you are able to, as the words keep swimming in your vision and you stay on the same page for much too long. Finally, you close your eyes against the emotional tide and your persistent headache, and it’s not until Elvis comes to bed that you stir again.

You don’t open your eyes, however, though you can feel him looking at you. His gaze burns through you, making your heart race. There’s a long moment of silence before he finally undresses, gets in the bed, and turns out the light.

March 26th, 1960

The studio is vibrating with energy. Not only are the people involved in the show bustling about, but the audience, packed full of young women, is tittering so much that you can feel it in your bones.

Surprisingly, Charlie came out and grabbed you after Elvis’ appearance in the opening. Elvis looked smart in the dress uniform he’d been so glad to be rid of those first days you’d met. While he’d been nicer to you today in general, you are unsure why he wants you backstage after the way he’d shooed you out before the show started. But there are thirty more minutes before his performance, and you are suddenly concerned he’s not doing as well as he made himself out to be.

You make your way back into the dressing room, trying to offset your own nerves. You slept terribly, thinking too much about your future, mulling over every worst-case scenario again and again in your head. But the moment you enter the dressing room, it all goes out the window.

Elvis turns around when the door opens, an absolute vision in a black tuxedo that does everything to show off his long frame. Everything.There’s no helping the sharp intake of breath you try to swallow and the way your feet stick to the floor as you take him in from top to bottom. He is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.

His dark hair is swooped back on the sides, but styled tall and soft in the front, adding the appearance of at least three inches to his height and highlighting his long, chiseled jaw. His artfully applied makeup is subtle and does everything to show off his deep blue bedroom eyes.

Eyes that just happen to be swallowing you whole. A wave of heat washes over your entire body. You feel suspended in time and know you are gawking, but despite having spent over three weeks solid with the man, enduring every quirk and his maddening mood swings, you hadn’t been prepared to see him at his best.

Oh, Madone.

He has you locked down with his gaze, and while every professional bone in your body screams at you to be normal, it’s impossible. Every reason you’d been furious with him for the past week is forgotten in the blink of an eye. It’s as if it is suddenly dawning on you why Elvis Presley is who he is and that you’ve been working for him all this time without really realizing it.

“A-alright, everybody out. I need to talk to my Little Bird alone,” he drawls, but the command is crystal clear, sending all the boys filing out behind you. His nickname for you has never sounded so utterly sinful coming out of his mouth before. Your heart thuds in your chest and you hope to God Elvis cannot hear it or see the flush on your cheeks.

The door clicks shut, and Elvis sighs audibly in what seems like relief, his shoulders sagging a bit, and as he deflates, it breaks whatever strange spell he had on you. He adjusts his cufflinks nervously, then shakes his hands at his sides, bouncing on his toes, like he’s trying to expel the nerves out his limbs.

“Are you okay?” you ask, finally able to speak again.

“O-oh, honey, I-I-I-I’m so damn scared, I feel like my heart’s ‘bout ready to fly right o-o-outta my chest,” he stutters, looking at you as though you can provide him some relief. “S’like I can’t breathe.”

This kicks you into gear, the need to make sure he is healthy enough to perform washing away the awe at the handsome figure he cuts.

“You’re okay, just take off your jacket and sit down,” you guide him gently. He doesn’t fight you at all, but you can see the way he trembles with anxiety. The change in him seems strange to you considering the easy ego he’s been coasting on for weeks.

Maybe he’s been such a jerk because he’s been nervous, you think suddenly. As quick as it comes, you push it back out again, wanting to focus on his care.

You don’t have all your things, but you take his pulse, which is noticeably racing, and his breathing seems fast but not wheezing.

“I-I-I’m not dying, am I? W-w-what i-if I-I go o-out there and p-pass out in front of—” He is stuttering so much, it’s hard to understand what he’s saying, but his fear is clear: he’s terrified he’s going to mess up this critical piece of his comeback in front of the world and some of the greatest performers out there.

“Elvis,” you say gently, grabbing his hands in yours and stilling them. Once his fearful, wide eyes find yours, you continue, “You’re going to be just fine. You aren’t going to die out there, I promise. Now, take a deep breath with me.” You inhale deeply, hold, and then exhale nice and long, then do it again until he’s matching you.

In, out, in, out, again and again.

The breathing has just as much effect on you as it does him. The energy in the room calms substantially, your fears and his dissipating a little more with each breath.

You’re not quite sure how long you sit there with him, his hands dwarfing yours, but when he opens his eyes and meets yours, you can all at once see every iteration of Elvis Presley coexisting in harmony: the playful boy, the charming but humble superstar, the fiery and moody young man. He is both the most human you’ve ever seen him, yet the most ethereal in the same breath. The vulnerability and complexity astound you speechless once again.

“You are magic, Little Bird,” he says softly, eyes tracking over your face. Your heart skips a beat, then two. You’re in freefall for a few seconds before you can tear your eyes away from him enough to regain your wits.

When you look back at him, his face is a handsome mask, giving little away. Perhaps it’s just him preparing to perform, locking some of himself away. But something tells you there is more to it than that.

His thumbs trace up and down, sweeping between your thumbs and pointer fingers in the same rhythm as your breath. Somehow it grounds you while still making you feel a bit dizzy. He says you are magic, but he is the one enchanting you and all at once you want to tell him everything. Every single thing weighing on your mind. All your fears. The feelings you are starting to have for him that terrify you. How you see him. How you’ve deceived him to protect him. To protect yourself. It’s not the right time, it never is, but it’s like he’s drawing it out of you with his caress. You can’t bear for him to go cold on you again, not when he’s your only glimmer of hope.

They say the truth will set you free.

The words start to tumble out of their own accord, “Elvis, I need to tell you—”

A sharp rap at the door interrupts your confession before it even starts, and your heart catches in your throat.

“Places, Mr. Presley!” George yells through the door.

“Thank you!” he yells back. His eyes shine with something hopeful behind them when he turns his attention back to you, almost expectant. “Save that thought, honey.”

It’s all you can do to nod, tamping down on the adrenaline pouring through your veins. He leaps up, releasing your hands, severing the connection you hadn’t realized until right now you needed so much. Pulling his jacket on, he adjusts, and you stop him, craving the sense of intimacy that is slipping through your fingers like a sieve. You step up to him, straightening and smoothing the velvet lapels of his jacket. Your hands linger a moment too long near the button and you look at them, unable to stop the heat on your cheeks or to look up into Elvis’ eyes.

“Wish me luck, baby?” he says playfully, but with an edge of need you force yourself to ignore. He squeezes your hands, encouraging you to raise your head. You school your features into something calmer than what you feel.

“You don’t need it. You’ll be amazing and they’ll love you. They already do,” you say. It comes out much more breathless than you’d like, and you look everywhere but in his eyes.

The air gets heavy, crushing all sensibility, and you can’t help your eyes darting up then. His full lips part the slightest bit, his body leaning forward enough to make your breath catch. Suddenly every one of your nerves is on fire, crawling under your skin, something new and forbidden winding its way into your belly.

He’s only ever kissed you in a performative way, playing to an audience, but this, this is different. The way those sapphire eyes drink you in is much too much. You’re drowning in them, wondering how different it will be if he kisses you and not pretend-girlfriend you. He is so close you can smell the now-familiar, delicious waft of his cologne and feel the heat of his breath on your face.

Oh, Madone, we can’t. The thought stabs through your head with a panic, straightening your spine like a ramrod, and Elvis is nothing if not observant. So expertly does he change course you doubt he had any other intention than to press his open mouth to your cheek. The soft feeling has you sighing, but you aren’t sure if it’s in relief or disappointment.

Not unlike the look on his face.

Stepping back breaks the tension in the air enough for you to recover what is left of your wits. You smooth the front of your dress. “Would you like me in the audience or backstage?” You hope it comes out more professional than you feel.

“Needja out front. Wanna be able to see your pretty face unable to take your eyes off me,” he jokes, oozing charm, but his twitching hands and serious eyes belie his nervousness.

“Oh, we’ll see.” You roll your eyes, playing into what he seems to need in this moment from you, though your heart is still galloping enough that you feel breathless. You barely register opening the door and walking back out to your seat in the audience, feeling the roll of anxiety in your stomach, both for his performance and for what you almost let happen in the dressing room.

Before you can spiral too far into beating yourself up, Frank is up introducing Elvis. The girls in the studio go so wild, they sound possessed, chants of “We want Elvis!” devolving into shrieking. You resist the urge to stick your fingers in your ears to protect your eardrums.

But then Elvis, in all his breathtaking beauty, is ambling downstage, managing to be cool, casual, and charming, but also bashful, like he didn’t expect this reaction. And it’s not a put on.

He didn’t think they’d still love him, you realize.

The way he bites his lip, then runs his tongue over his teeth before erupting into an almost embarrassed grin makes your heart flutter at its sweetness because you know just how scared he is. His skill, however, is that no one else does.

He turns to signal the band and the first bars of Fame and Fortune come in. The man who turns around to sing is someone much different than the bashful boy of just a second ago. The sultry look he throws the audience takes your breath away, but as he waits to come in, he can’t totally hold the pose, that lip of his curling up and his tongue trying to banish it in the name of being serious. The girls scream in response, eating it up, and you can’t say you blame them. He looks up to the sky, perhaps saying a silent prayer, to regain his composure before he opens his mouth to sing.

Now, in the last few weeks, you’ve become well acquainted with his gifted voice, but it is not until this very moment you understand the scope of his talent. The spell that he casts over the room feels nearly as intimate as the one he had with you in the dressing room just minutes ago. The nervousness you know is there is so artfully maneuvered that it opens him to the audience rather than pushing them away. Few other stars would get away with smiling and laughing at the reaction of their audience in the middle of their ballad but when he does it, you feel it down to your toes.

Or maybe it’s the how his voice is like silk in your ears, a contradiction of impressively light but warm and rich. The honeyed timbre winds its way down your spine, right into the core of you. It’s not just in your body but your soul, too. The hair on your arms stands straight up, a visceral reaction proving his effect on you isn’t in your imagination.

A woman could fall in love with that voice alone.

Despite the way you want to fight the hold of his performance and its battle in your mind with the man you’re getting to know, it is quite impossible. You get utterly sucked into the tide of Elvis Presley.

He is stunning.

You can’t help the way your mouth drops open and your palms begin to sweat. There is brilliance in every move and sound he makes, and you’re amazed at his ability to include everyone in the room, from the camera, the band and backup singers, to how those bedroom eyes scan the entirety of the audience in one breath. You feel like you’ve been struck by lightning every time they catch yours.

If you weren’t so dumbstruck, you might chastise yourself for feeling so carried away, but it’s hard not to feel like he’s sharing something important with you right now—an essential part of his soul, this thing he was obviously born to do. It brings tears to your eyes.

As the song winds down, you and the rest of the audience mourn its end. But in the split second he bows his head and bites his lip, you see the utter relief that fills him at the realization that he’s still got it. Then the upbeat lilt of Stuck on You comes in and he’s immediately reinvigorated.

He knows he has you all now, and it’s as if suddenly his body remembers everything that made him a star. Sure, it’s toned down some for his new adult image, but those unique movements are still there. He’s playful and energized in a way you’ve never seen him before. It’s not just in his long limbs (which you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from) but also in his voice. Flirtatious and silly, he wraps you all around his snapping fingers.

The girls are going crazy and rightly so: you find yourself having to bite down on your lip to keep from squealing with them. A bead of sweat runs down your spine and you cross and uncross your legs to try and stave off the total, uncontrolled insanity you are feeling trying to reconcile this Elvis with the one you sleep in the same bed with, the one you care for when he’s so ill he can barely function.

Nothing about this is remotely helping the feelings for him you know are brewing under the surface. It’s like being dragged under by a riptide—you can’t fight it, not now, and you just have to give yourself over to the current.

But one thing is for certain: there is nothing sane about any of this.

You can see even Frank is off kilter because when he comes out for the duet, this cool-as-a-cucumber, wildly talented star in his own right is stumbling over his lines. The man is struggling to maintain his dominance as the host and the elder, more refined performer. Sensing what you think is his competitive edge, you watch Frank rebound for control as best he can, but even he has got to know Elvis is in a class of his own. He’s upstaging Frank without even trying.

Part of you knows you are witnessing history in the making. You can hardly believe it. A month ago, you were living an entirely different life. You certainly didn’t care much for Elvis in the beginning, and now you want nothing more than to stay in his orbit. It’s strange to feel so starstruck around him.

The whole thing is madness.

You are still buzzing and a bit dazed when Charlie pulls you backstage. The prideful, overly logical part of your brain wants you to calm yourself before you see Elvis, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a big head around you, but the giddy girl in you doesn’t care. That silly little girl eats up the grin spreading across Elvis’ face and falls straight into his open arms. He hugs you tight, like he means it. It feels real and not for the benefit of all those around you thinking you’re the adoring girlfriend congratulating him on his triumph. The way he squeezes you and presses his lips to your temple feels special and just for you.

“What didja think, Little Bird?” he whispers in your ear.

“Oh, well, the guys did great, and Nancy was lovely,” you hear yourself teasing.

The playful, possessive little growl he makes and the way his fingers press into your ribcage has you fighting unsuccessfully to suppress the shudder of excitement running through you. You curl your toes in your heels trying to absorb the heady feeling it leaves you with to get yourself right enough to speak again.

“Well, I’m a bit loathe to admit it, but you were wonderful,” you finally say, looking up at him and placing your hand on his chest. His heart thumps wildly under your palm and under any other circumstance you might be concerned, but you let it be. This is his moment.

“Better than Ricky Nelson?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow at you.

“Hmm, marginally,” you tut, trying to keep a straight face.

“’Marginally’, huh? I’ll show you marginal!” he laughs. And then he buries his head in your neck, his hot breath and soft lips pebbling your skin and setting your body aflame. You don’t recognize the gasping giggles erupting from you like a schoolgirl.

It’s all for show it’s all for show it’s all for show…a voice in your head viciously reminds you.

“Okay, okay!” you laugh breathlessly, trying to still his ministrations. “I will concede that you, Elvis Presley, are a very talented man.”

“Oooh, am I now?” He wiggles his brows suggestively, sending another wash of heat over your body.

Your mouth pops open, but before you can think to respond, someone cuts in. “Hey, Presley, quit making googly eyes at your girl and get over here!”

Elvis responds by doing the silly little thing he does with his eyes that makes all the girls scream and you can’t help but laugh.

The moment he walks away, taking his warm essence with him, you find yourself deflate a little. It sobers you quickly and the letdown of the entire experience has you unexpectedly emotional. Without his warmth and light, you feel cold and unprotected and alone.

Sneaking away to the restroom, you lock yourself in with shaking hands. Oh, God, what is wrong with me? you think as the tears well and then escape in rivulets down your cheeks. You swipe at them, fighting what you fear is happening but cannot quite admit to yourself.

You refuse to be like every other woman, falling over your own feet for Elvis. Desperate for any sliver of attention, living for his small touches and knowing gazes. Blinded by his talent and fame.

You are not that girl. Breathing in and out, trying to calm yourself, you remember he is just a flesh-and-blood man, and you cannot give another man the power to hurt you again. He is your employer, your patient, and nothing more.

Liar.

Pushing those treacherous thoughts away, you switch tacks. You need to protect him from the storm you know is coming but your survival instincts are doing everything possible to keep you safe, and Elvis might be the only person who can do that. Telling him about Gianni and your background risks his rejection. Your heart aches at the idea of him letting you go, and not just because of your safety. There’s no way you can tell him the truth about you now, not when he’s flying so high, not when for the first time in weeks you finally feel connected with him again.

Maybe too connected.

No, you’ll just have to wait until the right time. You can’t spoil this for him. Talk of Gianni and your father would destroy this goodness, and you can’t let them destroy anything else.

Forcing yourself to put it on the back burner, you paste on a smile and play the devoted girlfriend for the rest of the evening. Every little touch is like tinder catching flame under your skin—his hand around your waist, thumb grazing so near your breast, his fingers interlocking with yours—and the sparkle in his eyes makes your heart dance against your ribcage. It’s easy to believe he truly cares and that he’s yours.

He's a better actor than they give him credit for.

For once, you let yourself lean into it, pretending he wants you. You are swept up into his joy and relief and affection. It’s an addictive and glorious drug. By the time you both stumble exhausted into the bedroom of the suite, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

Your body hums a little from the glass of champagne you allowed yourself, mind buzzing with the excitement of the day and from your proximity to the man of the hour. Elvis seems to be much in the same boat, riding high and energized as he takes off his jacket, throwing it over the chair in the corner. The tiny tie was lost long ago when he unbuttoned his top buttons at the studio and sweat glistens in the divot between his collarbones as he begins rolling up his sleeves. You were unaware until this very moment how attractive forearms could be.

Suddenly your mouth feels very dry. You lick your lips, watching his every movement.

Elvis looks up quickly, catching your undivided attention, and his lip quirks in a slow smirk that is both sinful and self-conscious. His eyes flash with a heat that makes your toes curl into the soles your shoes and your pulse flutter wildly.

Oh, no. No. I will not get flustered by Elvis.

Cheeks heating, you look away and focus every ounce of attention you have on undoing the straps on your heels.

Elvis starts to hum a song you don’t immediately recognize, the sound vibrating and warm and sultry. Like a siren’s song, it threatens to hypnotize you. It distracts you enough that you fumble with the stubborn clasp on your heel, unable to wrench the leather free of the buckle. You let out a huff.

“Here. Lemme help, baby,” he says, more a soft command than an offer, the sound wrapping around you like velvet. He kneels before you, placing your foot on his knee, his long, nimble fingers working the strap free. If you hadn’t already been holding your breath, the way he gently massages the crease the strap left on your ankle through your stockings might have caused you to gasp.

“How’d I never notice these pretty lil’ sooties?” he coos, rubbing his thumb into the sore arch of your foot.

You bite back the moan threatening to slip free due to the sensation, but it escapes anyway, as a tiny whimper instead. Perhaps you imagine the way the apples of his cheeks go pink at the sound. Either way, you feel like you are about to come apart at the seams.

He makes slow work of massaging your foot and then placing it back down. You suck in a breath, just as he grabs the other and repeats the action of freeing then massaging it.

“Elvis,” you gasp much too breathlessly. You want to melt into the sensation, but the rest of your body feels like it’s on fire, a molten pit growing in your belly that you can’t seem to stop. You should push him away, you know you should, because this is too much, too intimate, but you can’t seem to will yourself to do so.

“Hmm?” he replies innocently, as if he truly has no idea what he has reduced you to. His hand squeezes down your foot until he reaches your toes. “Oh, honey, why ain’t these perfect lil’ piggies painted?” he asks, near scandalized.

The question throws you. “I…I’ve never seen the need,” you stutter out. “It’s not as though anyone would see them and being on my feet all day in the ward would just ruin them…”

His brows furrow. “Not even with your girlfriends? Or for a day at the beach?” he asks, genuinely confused as to why a young lady would never paint her toenails.

Your heart aches acutely all the sudden. The words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them: “I didn’t have many friends like that. Or time to spend with them. I was busy raising my brothers and then I left for nursing school….”

“Oh.” He says it so softly and full of compassion you nearly want to cry. Then, his demeanor shifts. “Well, all that changes now, Little Bird.” He gives your feet one last pat and then smoothly lifts himself off his knees, going towards the door.

“What?” you ask, confused. This man has your head spinning.

He flings the door open. “Hey, Charlie! Charlie!” he yells into the penthouse.

“Yeah?” you hear Charlie call back.

“I need you to get some nail polish. Pink is best, but red’ll do.”

You hear a long pause, then a shuffle. “Ummm, where am I gonna find polish in the middle of the night, EP?”

Elvis sighs. “Use yer brain, buddy. You tellin’ me none of those girls out there has any polish on ‘em? I have faith you can figure it out.” Then he shuts the door with a grin.

Dumbfounded, you gape at him. “You can’t be serious, Elvis. It’s late and we need to get some rest…I don’t particularly want to paint my toenails right now. And truth be told, I’m not very good at it,” you say, feeling panicked by the whole idea. The idea of him watching you trying and failing to paint your toes makes you squirm.

He just grins. “Good thing I ain’t tired, then, baby! You can relax and I’ll take care of it. Go get in your jammies.”

Your brain feels broken. He can’t possibly be suggesting what you think he is. Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“Close that purty mouth—you look like a big ol’ guppy over ‘dere,” he laughs, his accent seeming stronger than usual. “Now, go on—get ready for bed,” he orders, pulling you off the bed.

“Elvis—”

“Nope, don’ wanna hear it, honey! Go!”

Which is how you find yourself in the bathroom, changing into the modest but silky, white, button up pajamas Elvis bought for you on your shopping spree a few weeks ago and doing your nightly routine with a flock of very baffled butterflies in your stomach. You are also a little afraid for the state of your toes by the time this is all said and done.

And yet, Elvis manages to surprise you again, not only with the fact that Charlie was indeed able to get his hands on pearly pink nail polish at this hour, but with his ability to paint nails. It’s more than adorable the way he concentrates on getting it right, tongue caught between his teeth, even sticking cotton between your toes to keep them apart. Usually, you would hate having someone touch your feet, but he’s so gentle about it and you are so distracted by how unbelievable the situation is and how a dark lock of hair falls imperfectly over his forehead as he bends over your toes that you can’t bring yourself to tell him no.

As always, time seems to warp with him, and it’s so late it’s early. You find yourself yawning, wiggling your freshly pink toenails in a state of strangely pleased disbelief.

“You like ‘em, Little Bird?” he asks, eyes shining with an unexpected need of approval.

“Yes, they are lovely. If this singing thing doesn’t work out, you could open a salon. The girls would go crazy,” you joke.

He bows his head with a bashful smile, then looks up at you through those long lashes and you feel like the bed has dropped out from under you.

“Naw, this is only for the special lil’ nurses who hafta put up with me every day. No one else.” His eyes twinkle, lighting your body with electricity.

Why does he have to be so charming?

Part of you wants to scream at him to stop being so nice to you. If he knew what trouble you were, what you’ve brought to his doorstep, he’d never be looking at you like this or treating you with such care.

No one since your mother has treated you with such care.

Tears threaten to spring to your eyes, and you push your feelings as far away as you can, as fast as you can.

“Speaking of,” you say, clearing your throat, “I should take your vitals before you sleep.”

Elvis looks confused and maybe a little hurt at your abrupt subject change but recovers quickly enough. “Aww, come on, Little Bird, not tonight. I feel fine, I swear it.”

But you need your armor, and your job gives you that. It gives you space from these stupidly complicated feelings you are having. “Grab my bag and we can prove it.”

Elvis sighs, but does what you say, quiet as you take his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse. When you finish, surprise fills you.

Elvis looks concerned. “What is it? Everythin’ okay? I’m tired, sure, but I feel—”

“No, I know,” you interrupt, “your numbers are good. Apparently a wildly successful comeback performance coupled with giving a late-night pedicure was just the right medicine.” You can’t help but smile at him.

He looks at you wide eyed, then gives you a blinding smile. “Or maybe you’re just that good for me, darlin’.”

Your heart flips in your chest, beating in your throat, but you refuse to let it show on your face. “Sure, mister. Quit your flirting and get in the bed,” you say firmly, only realizing your mistake when he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“To sleep! Go to sleep, Elvis!” you say, rolling your eyes. You cover the blush on your face by turning over to flip off the lamp on your nightstand.

His hiccupping laugh makes you smile in the dark when he slides into the bed next to you. You are acutely aware of the heat of him, and though he doesn’t touch you, you can’t help but sense that he wants to as his chuckles die down to silence.

After a pregnant pause, he speaks again, quiet but direct.

“Was there something you wanted to tell me, honey? From earlier when we got interrupted?”

Your heart trips, then races with both surprise and fear. Thank God he can’t see your face because you are battling the onslaught of thoughts spiraling in your mind.

He won’t understand. He’ll kick you out on the street.

No, don’t keep lying to him. He deserves the truth.

Not now, later.

Protect him, protect him, protect him…

It’s the vision of Gianni ripping out Elvis’ throat that makes the decision for you.

“No, it was nothing,” you whisper shakily, clutching the sheets in your hands.

“Oh,” he says, almost blankly, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he sounded upset.

But that wouldn’t make sense.

“Goodnight, Elvis,” you say quietly.

“Goodnight, Lori.”

Your stomach drops at how he uses your actual name, all the warmth from earlier gone from his voice. As tired as you are, shame and regret churn in your stomach—a stew of nausea that won’t seem to abate, even after you eventually drift off to sleep.

Three more days you spend in Florida, each one bringing even more maddening behavior from Elvis. Somehow, when you weren’t looking, a switch flipped yet again. He’s rapidly vacillating between moody and sullen to downright cold and cutting.

He keeps you close, to be sure, while going water skiing and taking long drives and cavorting with his friends, but the sweet, compassionate closeness from the night of filming the special is nowhere to be found. You feel like an accessory he strapped to his wrist, desperately trying to make sure he doesn’t run himself ragged with all the “fun” he is having. He doesn’t even attempt to hide the flirting and the inappropriate jokes and jabs not fit for mixed company. No, he does it with you at his side, like he’s trying to make a point.

Even the Colonel is distressed, confronting Elvis about spending too much and making the return trip to Memphis one by bus instead of train as some sort of power move to wrangle the star. Elvis just laughs it off, and in what seems to be true Elvis fashion, he seems to spend more rather than less just to stick it to the Colonel. All of it put together reminds you of the adolescent behavior of your younger brothers.

It’s exhausting, running after this moody man-child who acts like you hung the moon one minute and in the next ignores you. You remind him until you are blue in the face that he must rest and have some semblance of a normal routine when he can, instead of running himself into the ground by overindulging in nearly every sense of the word. The man seems to have no concept of the word “moderation” and as annoyed as you are, you are more worried this will lead to another, more serious episode.

It's easy to blame him for the near-constant headaches and exhaustion ailing you. Having to pretend to go along with his antics as his girlfriend while also having to babysit him as his nurse is continuing to run you ragged. Not to mention the emotional upheaval of trying to piece out your own feelings for him and manage your lingering fear about Gianni at the same time.

The worst, however, is the lack of playfulness Elvis had with you coupled with the brooding silence he shoves between you in your very few moments alone. Nothing reminds you more you are just his nurse. The rest, whatever it was, seems a folly concocted by your addled imagination.

You can’t shake the feeling of being punished for some unknown offense. Maybe it is just your guilt brewing under the surface, trying to make sense of this man. It’s hard to break the habit of feeling like no matter what you do and how good you are at your job, you are somehow still a burden to the men in your life.

But it isn’t just that. Every stunning smile or touch he gives another woman fees barbed and has your blood boiling, even though it shouldn’t. Every sly remark about being “tied down” he makes to the guys makes your skin crawl. Worse yet, he starts poking fun at you any chance he gets, edging more into mean spirited with each jab, and even his friends shoot you apologetic looks by the end of the trip.

And yet another full day with them all, coupled with Elvis’ ire, all the stupid jokes, and the rampant gas that all the men seem to have, this time trapped on a smelly chartered bus, has you feeling claustrophobic and ready to throw yourself out the window. It’s unusual for you to feel so bothered by such things—you grew up in a houseful of men after all. You learned early on to keep your feelings to yourself, especially to keep off your father’s radar. Patience for rowdy men has historically been one of your greatest virtues, but Elvis has you digging your nails into your knees and biting your tongue more than once as the bus slowly ambles towards Memphis.

He's just an unruly patient—don’t take it personally, you chant to yourself all the way home. You try, you do, but your stomach ties in more knots with each passing mile and with the memory of feeling cared for by him contradicting everything he’s lobbing at you.

By the time you arrive back at Graceland, you are ruing all your life decisions. Despite reminding yourself of how, logically, you are safer and more secure here than you’ve ever been in your life, you’ve reached your limit of patience with Elvis and his entourage for the day. Maybe the week. Or the month.

Oh, Madone, how am I supposed to do this for the unforeseen future if I can’t make it a month with this man?

At least here you can safely put some space between you. You fly off the bus as soon as the door opens.

“Hey! Hey, where do you think you’re goin’?” he yells from behind you.

Why do you care? is what you want to say, but you swallow the urge instead.

You keep walking down the driveway, away from the house, pretending you don’t hear him. Nothing good can come from you answering him right now, not when you are feeling so on edge. Besides that, it’s hard to think with the throbbing behind your eyes and the slight carsickness rolling in your stomach from being on the bus all day.

“Lori, stop! Goddammit, Dolores, where. Are. You. Goin’?” he shouts, punctuating each word, your name rolling off his tongue like an admonishment. You stop in your tracks. It infuriates you he deems to use your given name like you’re the one who has done something wrong, like it’s your behavior that’s been so poor.

“Away from you!” you shout back at him, unable to keep your frustration locked in any longer.

Your heart sinks, immediately knowing you’ve overstepped but annoyed enough not to quit while you’re ahead. You start walking again, hurrying away as if you can still escape this whole situation.

The chorus of men chuckling and “oooh”ing at Elvis as they amble off the bus does not help matters.

“What the hell did you just say?” he growls low, his large strides hard on the pavement as they try to catch up with your smaller ones. “Hey, don’t walk away from me when I’m talkin’ to ya!”

“Leave me alone, Elvis! It’s obvious you’ve wanted me out of your hair for weeks, so go! Do whatever it is you need to do to get whatever this is out of your system,” you snap, still stomping forward, pulling your coat tight around your middle as you try to reacclimate to the early spring chill in the air. “Go…get laid or something,” you mutter, surprised at your own crassness.

“Hey! Stop bein’ such a b-bitch and stop walkin’ away from me!” he roars, grabbing your upper arm to pull you around.

You gasp as his rough touch lances through you, sending a lightning bolt of fear down to your toes. “Get your hands off me!” you hiss, violently yanking away from his grasp. Your heart knocks unpleasantly in your chest, faster and faster as your breath heaves. Part of you wants to run away as fast as you can, but you are frozen in place.

He’s not Gianni, a soft voice whispers. He won’t hurt you.

You want to believe it, you really do, but the fact is you barely know this man. You’ve wanted to believe so badly he is warm and caring, you’ve wanted to trust him because there is no one else you can, but your hopes don’t make it true.

Seeing your distress, something besides anger flashes in Elvis’ eyes and he quickly drops his arm from you.

All your pent-up fury washes over you then and you lash out uncharacteristically. “And don’t you dare call me a bitch when you’ve been acting the way you have,” you spit back at him.

He shutters his look of shock at your outburst so quickly you barely see it before flames darken his eyes again. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You’re just crazy.” It’s cutting but it’s obvious you struck a nerve.

Blood rushes in your ears, your heart pounding and your head throbbing with a hundred emotions threatening to tear you apart.

You’ve never felt so bold or off the rails before, but the words fly out of you with little thought of the consequences as you point your finger at him. “Listen to me, Elvis Presley: I’m not Anita or one of your sycophantic girlfriends you can play your silly little hot-and-cold mind games with. I’m not crazy. I’m here to do a job. And instead of letting me, you are making it hard every step of the way. For days you’ve been sulking around like a child who hasn’t gotten his way instead of communicating like an adult what is wrong!”

Elvis’ eyes go wide as he reels back like you’ve slapped him in the face. Then his brow furrows, eyes blazing before locking you out once more.

“Oh, you’d know all about mind games, wouldn’t ya, honey?” he says coldly, advancing on you. “Why communicate w-w-when y-you can just pretend it’s not happenin’ and run away? I’m sure your fee-an-cè and his mafia buddies would have a lot to say about that, now, huh?”

Your heart screeches to a stop.

Dio mio…he knows.

“Elvis…” you breathe out, and then you can’t seem to breathe in again. Your shock is eclipsed by the fact somehow Elvis knows your secret. Everything else is forgotten. All your panicked mind can think of is how Gianni or your father somehow got to Elvis and they must be here, now, to take you back to New York.

An involuntary shudder overtakes you as you whisper, “How?”

“Oh, your good friend Sinatra told me the w-w-whole damn East Coast of mobsters is pissed o-off. Called you some mafia princess Helen of Troy and told me to cut you loose, if I-I-I knew w-what w-was good for me,” Elvis barrels on, his handsome face dark and storming with anger.

“What?” It’s so breathless, you aren’t sure you said it aloud. Frank knew? Of course.

Oh, God, everyone knows.

They are coming for me.

The acid in your stomach bubbles, and if it weren’t empty, the contents would be spilled over Elvis’ expensive shoes.

“I-It w-was humiliatin’, not knowin’ what the hell he was talkin’ about! But you wanna know the worst of it, Lori? That I gave you every chance to tell me and you still didn’t. You lied. I thought…” Elvis keeps speaking, his low voice angry and hurt, but suddenly it sounds like he’s in a wind tunnel. All your focus turns inward, though you are vaguely aware that you are shaking like a leaf.

Elvis is going to send me back.

And he has every right. He’s got to protect himself. You were selfish and brought this to his doorstep and didn’t even have the courtesy to warn him. Then he had to go and hear it from Frank of all people.

It was no wonder he’s been acting so strange.

He’s been preparing to let me go.

Your chest constricts and your heart aches. It feels like betrayal, though you know it’s not. You are the one who betrayed him, not the other way around. You’d thought maybe Elvis was different, he’d shown you such compassion at your worst moments, but that was before he knew what you’d dragged him into. And you are a horrible for doing it. Maybe you deserve the hell you know Gianni will put you through.

There is no stopping the tears from pouring down your cheeks.

“I-I’m so, so sorry,” you sob, now a hiccupping, shivering mess.

Gianni’s obsidian eyes and horrific smile when he sees you again flash in your mind. “Hello, Bella…”

Oh, Madone, I can’t go back, I can’t. He’ll kill me. Or worse…

The air in your lungs seems to evaporate, leaving you gasping and dizzy. That weightless space, the one you go to when you can’t bear to feel anymore, awaits you, but you can’t seem to reach it because Elvis is grabbing your shoulders, the anger gone from his eyes and replaced with concern. But he is tethering you to reality when all you want to do is disappear. And you can’t help but feel like you’ve damned him.

Your stomach churns once more and you lose the battle, heaving bile off to the side and onto the pavement. It steals what little strength and air you have left, and the edges of your vision bleed black, like the shadow of Gianni is finally here to take you away.

I’m sorry, is the only thought left when your knees buckle and your body crumbles into Elvis’ arms.

Then there is just dark, blissful silence.

Thank you for reading and supporting my work!! As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated if you enjoyed what you read! 💗

Taglist Pt 1

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@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

#broken glass #broken glass ch 9 #elvis presley #elvis #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #elvis fanfic #elvis fanfiction #if you’re looking for trouble #you came to the right place #elvis smut #elvis x oc #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis x dolores #elvis presley x oc #elvis 1960 #frank sinatra #italian mafia #1960

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