It’s a warm, buzzing night in 1954, the air thick with the smell of popcorn and anticipation. The neon sign of the Louisiana Shreveport Municipal Memorial Auditorium flickers in pink and gold, casting glows on the sidewalk below. You’re backstage, heels clicking softly across the floor, humming a tune to calm your nerves. You’re set to go on soon — a young singer, nerves humming under your skin, heart beating to the rhythm of your own song — a rising star with a voice that makes people stop in their tracks.

Turning the corner in the narrow backstage hallway a little too fast, you bump into someone — hard. You stumble back slightly, hand catching the wall, and look up... into a pair of wide, blue eyes.

And when your eyes meet his, the noise of the world seems to hush. He’s wide-eyed, soft-featured but sharp-jawed, his hair jet black. The sides are neat, combed back, but the top? The top is rebellious. It swirled and curved and curled just enough to soften him — that single strand that slipped forward onto his forehead, and the start of some sideburns. The kind of shy intensity that makes time slow down. There was something in his face that made you stop — not just because he was handsome, but because he didn’t seem to know it yet. His eyes were impossibly blue, a kind of stormy blue — not the kind that flashed with arrogance, but the kind that made you wonder what they’d seen. They flickered around nervously before settling on you, and then they really saw you. It was like being the only person in the world for a second. He looked at you like maybe he didn’t know what he was supposed to say — but also like maybe it didn’t matter, because whatever he was feeling, you were feeling it too.

He’s wearing a soft pink shirt tucked into high-waisted black slacks — sleeves cuffed up like he’d been fiddling with them in the hallway. A guitar case hangs at his side.

When he smiles — crooked, shy, unsure — his voice comes out gentle, a little nervous, thick with Memphis drawl:

"Woah… are you okay?"