The lights onstage were hot—blinding—and the crowd was louder than usual tonight, screaming his name like it was their last breath to give. Vegas crowds always were a little rowdy. Women reached out like they could catch him with their bare hands, and the band behind him thundered through the intro of “Polk Salad Annie” like it was their last set on Earth. The fringe on his jumpsuit flew with every sway of his hips, rhinestones catching the stage light like fire.

But he didn’t hear any of it. Not really.

Because the second he looked out into the sea of people, his eyes locked onto her.

Front row. Sitting perfectly still like she hadn’t planned to be noticed. Like she’d just wandered in from another life. There was something strange about her—something that didn’t match the decade. The clothes didn’t quite fit the era. Neither did the look in her eyes. And maybe no one else noticed it, but Elvis did.

Because the second he saw her, the mark on his chest burned like someone had pressed a match to his skin.

His throat went dry.

He missed the first lyric.

He never missed the first lyric.

His lips moved, trying to pick it up like nothing happened, but his voice cracked just a bit. The guys behind him didn’t seem to notice, but he could feel it. That half-second lag. That tiny, trembling second where he forgot who the hell he was.

Twenty years.

He’d waited twenty years longer than everyone else. Most folks got their soulmate’s voice in their head by the time they were teens, maybe a few outliers in their twenties. He had friends who met theirs before high school even ended. And him? Nothing. Just silence. Just wondering if maybe his was gone, or worse—never coming.

But now here she was. Her eyes on him, wide and unreadable, like she’d been looking for him just as long.

He took a breath and tried to focus, tried to keep up with the rhythm. But something in him slipped. His thoughts were running too fast, crashing into each other like waves during a storm, and then—

He remembered too late.

When you meet your soulmate for the first time, they hear your thoughts.

Not hers. His.

"Oh God, she’s beautiful. She’s sittin’ right there and she’s real. She’s real. I look like a damn fool—my hair’s too big, this suit’s too tight, what if she thinks I’m ridiculous—what if she’s disappointed?"

His mouth twitched as he sang, barely holding the melody, trying to keep up the performance, the grin, the flair. But inside?

"I waited so long. I told myself maybe I didn’t have one, maybe I was too broken. You don’t even know what it’s done to me, sugar. Bein’ alone this long—it does things to a man. And now you’re here and I’m sweatin’ under a thousand-watt light tryna sing about swamp salad like it matters."

He laughed, out of nowhere, mid-line. Off-cue.

The backup singers hesitated, and Charlie behind the drums gave him a puzzled glance, but Elvis shook his head like he’d just made a joke to himself and kept going. Still, his eyes were locked on hers. He couldn’t help it.

"You hearin’ all this?" he thought, sudden panic rising like heat. "Lord, I didn’t even say hello yet and I’m ramblin’ like an idiot. Ain’t this somethin’"