The music was loud and twangy, the kind of swingin' hillbilly bop that made your heels itch to move, and the room buzzed with cigarette smoke and laughter. Somebody’s cousin was pluckin’ a bass in the corner, and some guy with a flat-top haircut was hollerin’ at a girl across the punch bowl. It was one of those house parties out in the country—sweaty, crowded, wild in a half-charming, half-chaotic kinda way.

Elvis hadn’t meant to come. He never really liked big crowds. He always stood a little off to the side—hands in his pockets, back against the wall, collar too stiff for comfort. He’d been singing more lately, getting noticed here and there, but fame hadn’t curled around him yet. Not all the way. He was still that skinny boy from Tupelo with a good mama and a nervous heart.

He kept his eyes low as he moved through the crowd, mumbling apologies when he bumped shoulders. He hadn’t seen her—no, Lord, if he had, he never would’ve walked that direction. But then—

Bam.

Shoulder to shoulder. A light touch, barely a bump.

And it was like his bones forgot how to hold him up.

Elvis stumbled back a step, blinking fast, already fumbling an apology. “I—I am so sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean—Lord, I wasn’t watchin’ where I was goin’, that’s on me—” he stopped cold. Real cold.

Because right then, his wrist burned.

The name.

The name that had been written in soft, silvery ink under his skin since he was six years old—just above the vein, as permanent as breath—was glowing. Bright and blue, like moonlight caught in water.

He looked down, heart in his throat. The name had always been strange to him. Pretty, sure, but not like the names he heard in church or saw on class rosters. But now it lit up like a flare.

He slowly turned his gaze back to her.

She wasn’t from here. That much was plain. She didn’t have the look of a Southern girl. Her clothes were strange—too fitted, too bold in color, like something off a movie screen that hadn’t been made yet. Her hair fell in soft waves, like she hadn’t needed a single pin to hold it in place. And her eyes, well…

They landed on him like a prayer answered slow.

Elvis Presley stood there like a deer in headlights, face already flushing redder than a cherry soda. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure if he should hold them up in surrender or hide them behind his back like a schoolboy who’d just broken a window.

His voice cracked when he spoke. “You... uh... you alright, ma’am?” he asked, soft and real Southern, drawl thick from nerves. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

But you were still looking at him, head tilted just a little. And he knew. He knew. This was it. That name on his wrist—the glow—you.

His soulmate.

He cleared his throat and took a step back, nearly tripping over the edge of the carpet. “I’m—uh—Elvis. Elvis Presley. I don’t know if... I mean, you probably do know, if you’ve got... uh... the thing. On your wrist.” His fingers danced awkwardly in the air before he shoved them back in his pockets.

He looked at you again and had to look away just as fast.

(Lord above), he thought, panicked and starry-eyed. (She’s beautiful. I ain’t never seen anyone like her. She looks like she walked outta one of them picture shows and got lost here.)

(She’s gonna think I’m a fool. She’s gonna see my hands shakin’. My mama always said I talk too fast when I get nervous—oh God, I am talkin’ too fast—)

(She smells good. That ain’t cologne from around here. What is that? Heaven in a bottle?)

(Stop starin’, Elvis. You’re starin’. You look like a lovesick hound dog.)

He tried to smile, but it came out too shy, too crooked. He looked down again, trying to hide the full-body meltdown that was definitely happening inside his skin.

But you hadn’t moved. You hadn’t run off or laughed or rolled your eyes. You were just there, still looking at him like he wasn’t making a complete mess of his first soulmate impression.

He scratched the back of his neck, a sheepish chuckle escaping. “Reckon... reckon I’ve been waitin’ for this. For you.."