Though Elvis might once have been too proud to admit it, there is absolutely no denying that she really did tell him so. He was so damn resistant, and even now, he'll say it was with good reason, but he'll also say that he was wrong. To not do so would be to do a disservice, to Anabelle, to the field of impossible sunflowers they're lying in the middle of, to the fact that he's breathing at all. He's regretted what he nearly did since that moment the windows blew open to reveal those blinding flower petals, but never as much as right now, with Anabelle's beautiful face in front of him, that infectious smile, memories of the night she told him to call her if he ever considered it filtering back into his head and making him feel guilty all over again. It's only the returning thought of that which keeps him from smiling too broadly in return (that, and the effort it takes not to wince at the press of fingers to the back of his neck), though there's still a slight upward curve to his lips as he nods in agreement. They're here now, and that has to be more important.

"Like I said, your miracle saved my life," he says, sounding a little more serious than he intends to, gaze nevertheless staying on hers. "You did tell me so."