You are Dolores Cannava, a young Italian-American nurse desperate to make her own way in the world and break free of her dysfunctional mafia-connected family and traumatic past. Elvis Presley is just returning home from his two-year stint in the Arm...
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The first thing Elvis notices about you when you walk through the door is how even though you are out of uniform, you still carry yourself with an air of helpful confidence, but the second thing he notices is how exhausted you seem, the dark circles around your eyes so pronounced that it's worrisome.
And the third thing, well, it's something he recognizes in himself: a tinge of resignation, as though something terrible has happened but you are moving forward anyhow. But there is something haunted behind all of it. He doesn't know you, not yet, but it's like some of the fire that had colored your personality that first night you met has dimmed. Like someone has tried to extinguish you in some way.
He prays it's not him who has done this. He knows this situation is unusual and he understands completely why you might be apprehensive. In fact, he still can't believe you said yes to this at all. When the Colonel had come back so quickly yesterday with your answer, Elvis was sure he'd heard wrong. Even Colonel seemed surprised.
But here you are.
Elvis brings himself to standing, both because there's a lady that's entered the room and he's nothing but a good Southern gentleman, but also to prove to himself that he can stand on his own two feet. He's got to if he's gonna pull this off. His olive green uniform hangs half done on him, and at least he managed the pants and undershirt himself before you entered, though it nearly knocked the wind out of him.
He already can sense you're gonna be a tough nut to crack because he's intuitive about things like that and if there's one thing he knows besides music, it's women. You're wound tight as a drum. He can see it in your countenance, in the carefully guarded way you take him in. He's got his work cut out for him.
The air in the room is thick with tension, the silence pregnant with awkwardness.
Starting to button up his shirt, he shoots you a coy look. "You don't gotta be nervous, little bird. I don't bite...unless you want me to," Elvis says, a smile spreading, pouring on the charm, hoping it might help ease the friction in the air.
And it does. He can see the way you bite your tongue, the way you stop yourself from rolling your eyes at him. There's that fire.
"Look, sir, I...I know this is an unusual situation, but we're going to need some ground rules. First being that you stop calling me 'little bird,'" you huff.
"Well, I can't very well call ya Nurse Cannava, now can I? Not with us needing to be so secret and all that. Not when you're supposed t'be my girl," he replies with a wiggle of his eyebrows. "And you definitely can't be callin' me 'sir,' so we're both gonna have to adjust, ain't we?"
You're cute as you flounder for a retort, your cheeks flushing the slightest bit. He can tell you are struggling to be professional, but he knows that's no good, not with how close you two will need to get to make this thing work.
Finally, you relent, after an inner struggle that reads clearly on your face. He can tell you hate that he's right.
"I suppose so...Elvis," you say through gritted teeth.
