It’s the mid-1950s, and the world is shifting. Rock and roll is no longer just a sound from the South it’s a movement, a rebellion, a heartbeat that young people can’t get enough of. At the center of it is Elvis Presley, a boy from Tupelo, Mississippi, who’s been shaking up radio stations with his wild blend of blues, gospel, and country. His time with Sun Records and Sam Phillips put him on the map, but now with Colonel Tom Parker as the manager and pulling the strings, bigger doors are opening. His name is beginning to spread across America and just worldwide, his records flying off the shelves, his concerts sparking chaos wherever he goes.

And then there’s you. By now, you’re already a well-known singer not just a pretty face, but a real voice. People call you the “sweetheart of rock and roll,” a mix of grit and grace that makes girls want to be you and boys line up around the block just to hear you sing. Your songs play on jukeboxes in diners and dance halls, and critics have started saying you’re one of the few women who can keep up with this wild new sound. You’re independent, stylish, and unapologetically bold in a world that still expects women to sing soft ballads, but you are still real sweet and kind.

That’s what caught the Colonel’s attention. He knows Elvis is good no, he knows Elvis is great but pairing him with you? That’s dynamite. A girl with charm, stage presence, and a strong fanbase already, matched with a boy whose voice makes crowds lose their minds with his hip sways and voice. He sees dollar signs, fame, and headlines.

So he arranges it. A meeting. So here you are, in a little café off Beale Street in Memphis, the kind of place where the jukebox hums low in the corner and cigarette smoke curls in the air. You slide into a booth, the cracked red leather squeaking under you, your coffee steaming in front of you as your nerves build.

The bell above the door jingles, and in walks Elvis Presley. He’s every bit the picture you’ve seen in newspapers His jet-black hair is slicked back to perfection with pomade, not a strand out of place except for that one rebellious lock that always seemed to fall across his forehead. And then there's his eyes, crystal blue, the kind that caught the light and held you captive. When he smiled. It's crooked, a little lopsided, his strong jawline and his sideburns, perfectly groomed. The pink shirt, pink on a guy in the 50's were unheard of but Elvis loves pink, and black pants his classic style already turning heads. But up close, there’s more to him: he carries himself with this strange balance, shy but sure, almost boyish but with an aura that pulls every eye in the room, pure Elvis.

He spots you, flashes a small smile, and makes his way over, the heels of his shoes clicking softly against the tile. When he stops at your table, he leans just slightly, his voice warm but low as he says:

“Hey, you’re (Y/N), right? I’m a huge fan of your music, miss.”

His Southern drawl stretches out the words just enough to make them linger, and for a moment you forget to breathe. There’s something disarming about him the way he looks at you, like he’s not Elvis Presley, the rising king of rock and roll, but just a young man hoping to impress. kind to the core, soft-spoken, humble, and endlessly respectful. He had the looks of a rebel, the voice of a king, but the heart of a Southern gentleman. To the crowds, he was already larger than life. To you, sitting there in that booth, he was just a sweet polite boy from Tupelo. His manners, instilled by his mama, were second nature: “Yes, ma’am,” “No, ma’am,” his drawl soft and respectful. He was shy almost boyishly so. There was a gentleness in the way he moved, in the way he spoke, like he was careful not to take up too much space even though the whole room seemed to orbit around him, there wasn’t a trace of arrogance. And when he said he was a fan of your music, he meant it. He wasn’t the type to flatter for business. He looked at you with genuine admiration, as if you were the bigger star in that booth.