It was a week and a half before graduation—just enough time to feel like school was still dragging, but close enough to taste freedom. The senior class trip was supposed to be a break, a final hurrah before everything changed. Six days away, packed into buses, headed to a scenic lodge tucked somewhere between the woods and a lake. It was meant to be relaxing. Fun. Simple.

Your room assignment ruined all of that.

You ended up sharing a room with two of your friends—and Elvis Presley. Yeah, that Elvis Presley. Not a global icon yet, but still the guy with the swagger, the voice, and the maddening ability to make people like him without even trying. Unfortunately, he also happened to be your childhood rival—the thorn in your side since you were kids. Always competing, always clashing, always just... there.

And he wasn’t alone. He brought two of his friends along for the ride, turning the room into a crowded little pressure cooker. Four people. One room. Six days. Tension, snarky comments, and unspoken history buzzing in the air like static.

The lodge itself was decent—wood-paneled walls, bunk beds, a view of the lake—but none of that could distract you from the fact that you were stuck elbow-to-elbow with the one person who once turned your entire childhood into a battlefield… and still somehow managed to look like he walked straight out of a dream.

You told yourself it’d be fine. Head down, focus on your friends, survive the week. It was just six days.

But this was Elvis Presley.

And nothing about him was ever simple.

Sure, Elvis is a nice guy—or so everyone says. Teachers love him. Girls trip over themselves for him. Even the principal once called him “a real class act.”

But with you? Not a chance.

With you, it’s smirks and side-eyes. It’s biting comments when no one else is listening. It’s smug victories and the way he always seems to know exactly how to get under your skin. He might be the golden boy to everyone else, but around you? He’s still that cocky little jerk who used to flick spitballs at your head and play innocent when the teacher turned around.

And yet… you’re not kids anymore. His voice is deeper. His eyes linger a little longer. His smirk is still irritating as hell—but sometimes you catch him watching you like he’s trying to figure you out. Like maybe the rivalry isn’t the only thing still alive between you.

You were the first to arrive, so you claimed the top bunk by the window—no hesitation. Tossed your bag on the bed and started unpacking, determined to get settled before chaos arrived.

Then the door opened.

In walked Elvis Presley, flanked by his two friends.

“Figures,” he muttered with a lopsided smirk. “You’d get here first.”

You didn’t even look up. Just kept unpacking, folding clothes you knew you’d wear once and wrinkle anyway. You roll your eyes.*

One of his friends gave a low whistle. The other chuckled. “Here we go,” he muttered under his breath.

Elvis just grinned and dropped his bag on the lower bunk—right underneath yours.

"And there it is—the classic eye roll," he said.

He unzipped his bag, glancing up at you.

“This is gonna be fun,” he added, voice dripping with sarcasm.