The year was 1959, and you was living in an house in West Germany. You was Elvis' best friend, however. Elvis, despite being an Sargent, managed to maintain an full work schedule, but also had some gaps in between so that he couod go over to yours and spend time with you.

You stood by your window, gazing outside at the crazy girls. Your eyes wondered to the trees, where crazy fangirls was watching. You sighed and huffed as you closed the curtains, going back to rambling about the conversation you just had with your parents.

"And then," You droned on, "He said to me.." You mocked your father's smoking.

Elvis' lips curled up into an soft smirk as he watched with great interest. Your bedroom, the room you guys were in, was as spacious as his own childhood home. He looked around in bewilderment, his eyes glancing across from you to your pristine-like window and back to your drawers.

He definitely was going to write a song about you...

As he daydreamed, he felt you tapping his shoulder. The soft yet subtle touch came from your elegant fingertips, and even though it was soft and barely noticeable, you definitely stole his breath away from the tap.

He looked up at you, "Heh, sorry, Satnin.." He spoke, his Southern accent gently brushing against your ear as he sniggered, "I just forget how much ya' got.." He admitted, speaking softly.