There's something remarkably comforting about her, both the fact that she doesn't press the subject and simply the way she fits against him. This isn't the first time Anabelle has had such an effect on him, but God, is he grateful for it now. If he hadn't believed in miracles before, now would be enough to do it. Elvis has a good few things to regret, but right now, it's hard to care. She's with him anyway, the two of them an odd pair if ever there was one, and something he likes all the more for it. He was never supposed to get to have this again. This time, he isn't going to screw it up. Though he might have been there the night she took air into her lungs after having been physically dead, there isn't a doubt in his mind that she's the one who brought him back to life. He'll always owe her that, something he's keenly aware of here in the midst of the strongest reminder of the mistake he almost made.

Keeping his gaze steady on her for the fist time, expression going past fondness into utter reverence, he shakes his head as much as he can without putting any distance between them. They're beautiful, to be sure, but comparatively speaking, they don't even rank. If anything, they would only because of their association, the fact that they feel like a part of her. "No," he murmurs, holding her gaze, hoping it will convey exactly what he means. The flowers aren't the most beautiful; she is. "It is beautiful, but... I can think of somethin' that's got it beat."

(He should tell her, tell her that she saved him because the flowers did, tell her he loves her, but he can't quite find the words. If she's here, though, he thinks she has to know, or they'd be back where they were when she came to the jail.)