Elvis, of course, has absolutely not the first idea what she's talking about, though having tried to say as much before (he can only imagine that that's the message to which she was referring), he can't quite bring himself to try to tell her again. There's no need, not yet. If nothing else, it sounds like him. More accurately, it sounds nothing like him at all, but it falls in line with the clarity he felt when he landed on his back after finally slipping the noose off over his head. A gesture like that would be the only way to tell her, like speaking her language after so long spent trying to resist. Now, he just wishes he were capable of something similar here, because this isn't how this should have gone. At least she did get to see it, even if he never did it.

"I do," he murmurs, his own lips brushing her cheek in what isn't quite a kiss. He can't show her, but at least he can finally, finally tell her, like he should have so long ago. "I love you." Those three words, so small but so heavy, feel strange to say, but less consequential than he'd have expected. The world hasn't changed, neither of them seem too altered; it's just natural, easy, like it was those days they were on the road together. He just wishes they could stay in that. It's become increasingly clear that she's only just arrived, and he doesn't relish the thought of trying to explain. As such, he says nothing else, delaying the inevitable while he still can, instead just leaning into her touch, breathing in deep and trying to take note of the way she feels against him.