Elvis settles his other arm easily around her when she nestles closer, fingers threading through her hair. Since yesterday, he's been entirely too conscious of each breath he takes, remembering too well the sensation of not being able to get air into his lungs, but with the comfortable weight of her head on his chest, he's even more aware of it now, of the slight rise and fall that he doesn't want to dislodge her. It feels too good to have her here, when he didn't think he'd get to again, things having somehow worked out far better than they had any right to. They could stay here all day, and he wouldn't care to move at all. It's not perfect, nothing ever is, but it's closer to it than he's ever had before, and given that, it's too easy to relax, so much so that at first he only nods when she speaks, barely registering the words themselves. He still wouldn't even say he saved her life the first time; for once, though, he isn't inclined to dispute it, too intent on enjoying this.

Only after a few moments does it dawn on him, more than once and the implication lying in those words. Immediately, his expression hardens into one more worried, head tipping in her direction, everything about him suddenly too, too serious, though he doesn't put any space between them for it. There's no sense in overreacting without confirmation — it could just be his own attempt and the guilt from it weighing on his thoughts — but still, he can't shake the sense of dread brought about by a suggestion like that. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, quiet enough to be inaudible to anyone at all farther away, but with an edge in his voice all the same, one that makes clear how he's trying to stay calm. He's not used to hoping for the best, but she's proven him wrong before; if ever there were a time for him to want that to be the case again, it's now. "More than once?"