There is, Elvis thinks, an amusing sort of irony in the fact that, while meaning to tell her how beautiful she is, he's left breathless by that same beauty itself. Even before they spoke — before she was a corpse on his embalming table, even — he was aware that she had to be the most stunning creature he'd ever seen, part of what prompted him to kiss her that night; the difference now is that he knows how much deeper than that it goes. He misjudged her for a long time, he knows that now, and it's only added to what he already knew to be true. He's struck now by that as much as the physical, though the latter seems, for once, more noteworthy. Memory couldn't do her justice, not even when he never expected to see her again, let alone have her here like this, so close and looking at him with such intensity.

Rather than responding right away, he lifts his head slightly, eyes widening as he leans in. Her own proximity makes pretty clear that there isn't a problem, that they want the same thing, but he hasn't forgotten how he fucked this up, and he doesn't want to scare her off just after getting her back again. As such, there's a trace of hesitation as he closes the distance between them, pressing his lips to hers, free hand lifting to her cheek so he can angle her towards him. The kiss itself isn't much of anything, soft and lazy and languid, but to him, it's incredible in its familiarity, the ease with which such things come when he's with her. To this day, he doesn't know what she did to him, but there's no doubt in his mind that he wouldn't change it for anything.

"You," he says after the moment passes, the word barely above a whisper, his mouth still against hers, "Anabelle Leigh, could put these sunflowers to shame." If anything, it's an understatement.