Somehow, the fact of it alone, the idea of Anabelle loving him, isn't that surprising. It's just how she is, so warm and open, diving into things headfirst, without hesitation. If she tried, Elvis has no doubt that she could find the good in just about anything, their own strange situation included. What gets to him is that certainty, the truth of it, the way it sounded to hear the words from her mouth, half-muffled against his skin, something that hits him a moment later than it should, apparently having needed clarity before it could really sink in. Regardless of what may have been suggested before, things are different now, the two of them not quite what they were when they met, when they first became something more than just acquaintances. He didn't think she would ever speak to him again at all. This might be the one thing that's even better.

Letting out a faint laugh of his own, Elvis leans in even after she starts giggling, kissing her jaw, the very corner of her mouth, anything to keep going, to drag this out, to stay on this side of things rather than straying back to the turn of conversation from minutes ago. Whatever he almost did — whatever she almost did, still difficult to think about — it can wait, it doesn't matter as much, not now, when it's like two of her goddamn miracles for the price of one. She's here, and these flowers that saved him, and he can't disregard that. There will be time for everything else.

"So glad you're here," he murmurs when he draws back, half-dazed, leaning his forehead against hers. His own isn't nearly as broad as her own, but that smile is infectious, her laugh too charming for him to even wrap his head around. It shouldn't even be possible for her to do this to him, but here they are, and he's long past trying to resist it.