Except when planned and scripted, Anabelle has never been especially careful with her words, a practice — or lack thereof — that Elvis himself might attest has been to her own detriment. He, on the other hand, is excessively heedful in terms of speech, one of a great many ways in which they are total opposites. (In their case, that old adage proves true, they do indeed attract, but it isn't smooth sailing from there on out. It never is.) Painting on the face of the house was bold enough for him, a loud and attractive gesture that went against most everything that makes Elvis himself in the first place. He braved the public and dug his name further into the ground just to send her a message that, once received, she realized had been a known truth all along.

Seeing and hearing, however, are distinctly different. The red paint was intended for her but the press made it theirs, just as they did Anabelle's famed resurrection. This right here, this stays between Elvis, Anabelle, and the flowers that surround them. He's no quicker to engage in lively chatter than he is to reveal his soul, which brings the intimacy of the moment that much deeper.

"Good," exhales Anabelle, biting softly on her bottom lip, her smile buried against the crook of his neck, to which her mouth is pressed. It travels upward in a series of kisses, soft and slow at first but quickly growing impatient. A surge of enthusiasm streams through her, so much so that she can barely contain herself. Channeling that energy, Anabelle takes hold of his face with both hands and delivers a sloppy, playful kiss to his lips, stopping only to release the spell of giggles building from her belly.