An odd couple if there ever was one, the two of them are nothing if not prone to disagreement, as quick to argue as they are to kiss and make up. Their differences are what brought them together, but most of the time they're what keep them apart as well, shouting about this or that until one side caves and the cycle resets. She still has half a mind to yell at him for even considering it, but it isn't as if she can mount the high horse in this instance, and in the end, none of it matters. What matters is that they're here, alive and together, and no place in the world has ever made Anabelle feel a greater sense of belonging than here in Elvis' arms.

She rests her head against his chest, an ear pressed against the cloth of his shirt where she can hear his heart beat, can almost feel his blood rush against her own skin. He smells of home, the only one she has ever known — wet grass and dried paint, sharpened pencils, cigarette smoke (she makes a mental note to find and toss out however many cartons he's got stashed) and most of all, of that derelict old house she never wants to leave again. Reaching for his nearest hand, Anabelle laces her own fingers with his, squeezing gently. When she speaks, she doesn't look up, instead direction her words at the palm of his hand as her fingers absently trace the lines back and forth. "You saved my life, too, Elvis. More than once."