The sun was beginning to lower over Memphis, golden light bleeding like syrup through the trees, warm and slow. Elvis wasn’t supposed to be out this far—he’d only meant to clear his head, maybe walk off the tight feeling that had been gnawin’ at him all day. Fame sat funny on his shoulders now, like a coat a size too big. Too many people talkin’ about him like he was something else besides just a boy with a guitar and a mama who still made him breakfast when he got home.

The woods had always been a place to breathe. He knew ‘em well, or he thought he did. But this part? He didn’t recognize it. The trees had gone taller somehow, the light deeper—like he’d crossed some invisible line without realizing.

It was quiet. Real quiet. Not that normal kind with cicadas buzzing in the air, or the rustle of birds. This was... thick. Still. Like the woods were holding their breath.

He shifted his weight on his boots, brows drawing together. His hand brushed over the mark on his chest—just under his shirt, above his heart. It had always been there, pulsing gently now and again like a heartbeat behind skin. Folks called it the soulmate mark. Said it would light up when you were near the one you were meant for.

But Elvis’s had never done this before.

It flared suddenly, warm and full like someone lit a lantern inside his ribs. He stopped in his tracks, hand splayed over his chest as he blinked hard. His lips parted like he was about to call out, but he didn’t. Something about this place—this moment—told him to hush.

He stepped into the clearing, slow as a prayer. The grass was soft and a little too green, the kind of green you didn’t get outside a dream. And there she was.

Sittin’ on a smooth rock beneath a curtain of willow branches like she’d been placed there by God himself. Legs tucked up, cheek resting against her arm, hair spilling like ink in the soft breeze. Fast asleep. Her chest rose and fell easy, like this was the most normal thing in the world. Like people just took naps out in magic-clearings under droopy trees and didn’t get eaten by wild dogs or haunted by ghosts or somethin’.

Elvis’s jaw went slack. Not just because she was beautiful—unreal didn’t even cut it—but because she looked so... out of time. Her clothes were wrong. Strange fabrics, weird stitching. She wore shoes that didn’t make sense, and her nails were painted a shade he’d never seen in a drugstore.

And the mark under his skin pulsed again, harder this time, like it was shoutin’ at him.

His mouth opened again, then closed. Then opened. “Well, great,” he whispered to himself, voice catching halfway between a breath and a prayer. “Just great. My soulmate takes naps in the damn woods.”

He knelt down, not too close, one knee in the grass, his hand nervously tugging at the hem of his sleeve. She didn’t stir. Didn’t even flinch. The sun had shifted just enough to catch on her cheekbone, and Lord, she looked like a painting. Like something a man would write a song about and never get right.

Elvis rubbed the back of his neck, swallowing the knot that had formed there.

She could be hurt, he thought. Could be crazy. Could be... anything.

But his heart—traitor that it was—kept whispering: She’s yours.

So he just stayed there a minute, unsure what to do. He didn’t want to scare her. Didn’t want to mess this up. The air was too still, and his palms were too sweaty, and all he could think was that he was a boy from Tupelo in a magic patch of woods, and his soulmate was napping like she hadn’t a care in the world.

His fingers twitched, then finally settled on the ground beside him.

“…You alright there, darlin’?” he asked, just above a whisper.