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There's a part of Elvis that's surprised to wake up where he does, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar hut, acquired mostly because there was no way in hell he was going to spend the night with a bunch of strangers. Of all the things he's learned since showing up here — too many to really try to process — the one that's made an impression is this apparent notion of a blank slate, the idea that the past doesn't matter here. What he takes from that is that no one here will know about the stories reporting him to be a necrophiliac, and that anyone who did wouldn't be able to hold it against him; he doesn't care. He's still no more inclined to be around people he doesn't know, especially not when it's still so clear what he tried to do before landing on a stranger's floor, the signs of it evident in bruises around his neck. Talking isn't as bad as he thought it might be, but it still hurts like a bitch.

He dreams about it, too, wakes up gasping for breath, still half-convinced he's being strangled, but that initial panic subsides quickly. (He's been assured that he's alive, and he believes it. That's all he needs.) Even so, he thinks it probably adds to the feeling of being disoriented that sets in right away, leaves him looking around the small room like he's never seen it before. He'll have to get used to it eventually, not about to put any stock in the prospect of being taken back home agin any time soon, but he's too far away from that now and doesn't really care enough to try.

It's just that the light's different. Which is a strange sort of thing to notice, he knows, but the way this looks, it almost doesn't seem natural, a brilliant yellow-gold that streams in from the windows, illuminating the whole place, too bright for the hour of morning he imagines it to be. Rubbing at his eyes, he squints against it, hauling himself out of bed mostly because it seems useless to try to get back to sleep with all of this.

In retrospect, looking out the window, he probably should have seen it coming.

The first time Elvis saw a field of sunflowers that didn't belong, they saved his life. This time, the second time, they're no less a miracle, seeds for them probably not even having been planted in island dirt, but it's a lot harder to see it that way. The hope they're representative of is a world away from him now, the life he decided not to leave no longer his own. He lived, and he's damn glad that he did, but being here, it may as well have not been the case at all. He's farther away from all of it than he would have been even if he'd gone through with the mistake he so very nearly made. Now, he can't tell if the flowers following him here is meant to be another sign of hope or a taunt, a reminder of the chance he never got to take, and probably never will.

Still, they did save his life, and for that, he can't help being grateful for the way they've apparently sprung up out of nowhere yet again, barely able to look away. There's an allure in the flowers that's reminiscent of Anabelle herself, like they're a part of her, like she's the one who planted them here. Now, it's the closest to her that he'll ever get. At least it's something.

Leaving the hut and walking out into the field isn't exactly a conscious decision, but rather an instinct, a magnetic pull drawing him into the middle of them. The light off the vivid yellow petals is almost blinding now that he's surrounded by the flowers, but he doesn't care, dropping to lie down on his back amidst them, fingers laced behind his head. They're here for him, of that he has no doubt; he might as well spend a little time in them.

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She wants nothing more than to reflect on the bright and good, but miracles the likes of which she has been blessed with are still only starting points, the rest of the work up to her. The field around them is the perfect example, and she wishes that she could stop to appreciate its' beauty, if only for a moment, but it isn't time. Instead, Anabelle tries to piece the puzzle together with what few clues she has been given; he changed his mind, the chair broke, he's still here. Anabelle wonders whether this came before or after the message, whether he was saying hello or goodbye. She leans toward the former, but whether that's some kind of intuition or just blind hope, she can't say. The two, she's found, are not mutually exclusive.

Slowly, Anabelle leans in closer, her hand now resting against his shoulder, each an attempt at reminding him that she is here. Her own side needs to be told, too, and she doubts he'll be happy to hear it, but first things first. "What changed your mind? Before, you said it was your dad."

Elvis stills at the mention of his father, unable to help it. That wound, the loss of him, feels a hell of a lot fresher than the bruises at his throat or knuckles rubbed raw, and he'd wonder why Anabelle is mentioning it at all until it occurs to him that she might not know. There's nothing in her words to indicate either way. While it would probably be most sensible to clear the air and get everything out in the open right away, it isn't a subject he can bring himself to breach just yet. Even talking about his suicide attempt, or near one, is more comfortable than telling her that part of what drove him to stand on a chair with a rope around his neck in the first damn place was returning home to find his dad's dead body. He hadn't even been there, never got to say goodbye.

"These did," he says, catching her gaze for just a moment before he gestures up to where sunlight is streaming through the flower petals, everything still tinted golden from it. Even here, mayne especially here, they really are miraculous, almost as much as the warmth of Anabelle's body so near his own is. "Shutters blew open right when I was about to do it, and then all I could see..." He turns to look at her, almost (not quite) apologetic. "You were right."

Anabelle finally lies back allows herself to sink into him, then, her curves — though sharp and jagged round the bone — taking purchase against the contours of his body. Lately, a fear once small has been building in her gut, ever growing which each passing thought. Miracles are rare and fleeting, and she's afraid she may have used all of her up already, but the proof to the contrary lies all around them. The air is impossibly damp for mid-Texas, and somehow, it smells faintly of saltwater. She closes her eyes for a moment, just to imagine them back on that beach, and she can hear the rush of the waves drowning out every other sound.

"Ain't it just the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?" She asks, staring up herself, transfixed by the deep blue playing background to the vivid, stark yellow lines of flower petals. It doesn't take much to note that there's a tension between them still, and uneasiness that doesn't fade as quickly as she would like, but it's an obstacle they've overcome before, they can do it again. At present, all that matters are the words from his lips, hints that at long last he's beginning to believe.

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.)

"Like what?" She drawls lazily, edging upward so that when he breaths she can feel it hot against her cheek. The implication is clear, she knows, but she has always had trouble believing it, especially when it most mattered. It was never easy, thinking herself beautiful while surrounding by some of the most gorgeous girls Texas had to offer, always struggling to make herself prettier, more charming, light as a feather. None of it was ever enough.

Until now.

Somehow, the fact that Elvis is blinded by love doesn't lessen it at all, in fact, it makes those honeyed words of his that much more significant. He tells her she's beautiful and suddenly she can't imagine ever having reason to doubt. Through his eyes, she sees the very best in herself. She wonders if the same is true for him, and just in case, does her best to channel the swelling of her heart into a single, steady glance.

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.

Like sunflower seeds sprouting out through shitty dirt in the blistering heat of Texas day, Anabelle's smile blossoms against his lips. The arm formerly against his jaw finds a new home wrapped around the back of his neck, the light weight just enough to pull him in even closer. She can't remember anything that came before this, and that's just as well, she wouldn't really want to. There's things that need sorting out — there always are — but those thoughts are edged away fiercely, not permitted to impose upon their moment. There's a world of people out thee just waiting to judge them — there always has been — but it doesn't matter. It took some time to realize, and her mother has yet to arrive at the same conclusion, but Anabelle now knows that it never did. It's her life, their life, and no one else's.

When she leans up, neck craned just so to whisper into his ear, the unearthly beauty of the flowers make her breath catch yet again. "Y'know," she says, softly, "I think I owe you a big fat I-told-you-so."

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."

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."

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?"

She knows how it feels from her end, to even consider the implication of the bruising around his neck. It hurts, a stabbing pain like nothing she has felt before. She can see it in her mind, the scene so vivid and detailed it makes her feel physically ill, sick right down to her stomach. A part of her wants nothing more than to slap him silly for his stupidity, but she is just as aware that she herself is not guiltless in this, that they both came dangerously close to slipping away. It's a wonder they're here together at all.

A miracle.

In the moment, she has trouble seeing it as such, even if she believes it now more than ever. This miracle, unlike the rest, presents itself as a double-edged sword. What comes next won't be remotely easy, but it is inevitable, and she owes it to him.

Sitting up slowly — he deserves more than a murmured confession muffled into his own shirt — it takes Anabelle a moment, maybe longer, to finally turn and face him. His expression makes her breath catch, her throat swell, and more than anything, she hates that they got this far at all, that it took nearly taking her own life to realize she had something to live for all along. When she does speak, her voice barely rises above a whisper, "I almost — I made a mistake, but then I saw your message and I realized... I don't know, I, I realized there's actually someplace in this world I belong."

It isn't unexpected, but Elvis feels his stomach drop upon hearing it anyway, and he looks at her as if trying to make it untrue through force of will alone. Maybe he's misunderstood. He tends to do that with her, and anyway, he doesn't know what the hell message she's talking about. Her face gives it away, though, and the quiet sound of her voice, and before he can even stop to consider it, Elvis is sitting up to pull her to him, an arm wrapped around her slender frame, its fragility deceptive. Whatever she was going to do, she's anything but fragile.

(He closes his eyes, for no more than a second, and sees his mother's body floating down the river; then her dark hair turns golden and he knows without needing to see her face that it's Anabelle. It only makes him hold her a little closer, as if proximity alone could be enough to keep her from trying again.)

"Shit," he says through his teeth, under his breath, shaking his head all but imperceptibly before he draws back to catch her gaze again, hand going to her jaw, thumb brushing against her cheekbone, in a way that's utterly incongruous with the almost pleading intensity still in his eyes. He wants to get angry, to ask her what the hell she was thinking, why she would go and consider a thing like that, but given what he's so recently told her, what's more than apparent just to look at him, it isn't really his place to. He's not that much of a hypocrite. Besides, though he knows he can't really blame himself for it any more than he can blame her for what he so nearly did, he's unable to help feeling somewhat responsible for it anyway. If he'd been there, it wouldn't have come to that. Now, he has no intention of letting it to do again. "Just — don't, okay? You do have someplace. I'm here now, and you're here, and... I don't know what message you're talkin' about, but if it saved your life, then I'm glad for it."

In the worst moments, it is difficult to recall — let alone appreciate — any of the good. The dark has a way of overshadowing all the rest, and try though it might, light so rarely manages to penetrate the darkness in time. The cruel and harsh imbalance is that good never seems to strike with the force that dark does, Anabelle would know; she has always done her best to spread joy where she can, but it isn't easy, not as easy as it is to succumb to suffering. But as with all things, there are exceptions, and most often she experiences those bright and powerful bursts of happiness in the arms of one Elvis Moreau. Despite the reason for it, she revels in his embrace, her own arms shaking around to pull him closer, hold him tighter. "I won't," she reassures him, shaking her head against the crook of his neck. "I won't," she repeats, promises, her voice soft but steady. Distracted enough that she fails to process the last of his words and the implications therein, she instead takes this opportunity to respond to that message, bewildered that it has taken her so long. "I love you too, you know."

It is, perhaps, even more relieving to have her in his arms like this than it was to see her standing over him and smiling. This close, Elvis can feel the beat of her pulse, each breath she draws in, and the reminders that she's alive mean the world to him. Right now, they seem even more miraculous than the moment she came back to life on his table. To lose her by showing up here would have been one thing, but to lose her like that -- it's more than he can imagine, and yet he can't stop imagining it at all, visions of her floating lifeless in water or lying motionless to be embalmed again without any chance of waking up this time filling his head. It makes him want to hold her closer, to not let go for a second, and he'd be legitimately tempted if it weren't for what she says next.

It's like she changes on a dime. Elvis should probably know to expect such things from Anabelle by now, but having been caught off-guard as it is, and still trying to process what she's just told him, the response leaves him feeling a little like he has whiplash, unsure which direction he ought to go in. What he does know, though, is how good this fees after all they've been through, after what they both almost did. What he also knows is that he does love her, more than he really even knows what to do with. It's just a matter of saying so, and on the heels of something like that, any weight his doing so might have had is lessened, enough to make him want to keep stalling.

"You love me too," he repeats, almost a question, tone just barely teasing, before he presses a kiss to her temple. "You're predictin' what I'm gonna say, now?"

Her response comes in the form of a smile, small but knowing, and she leans close to press the tip of her nose to his. In direct contrast to Elvis, Anabelle has never been sparse with words, rarely hesitant to say that which is on her mind, but as with anything, there are exceptions. Some things she would rather not talk about, other she simply can't, and then there are those she would like to, if only she could get the words right. Ultimately, she's trailed down that road most traveled, allowing the words to tumble from her lips as they will, come what may as a result. Never has she stood to lose more than with Elvis, but he let her know in one grand, sweeping gesture she would have undoubtedly appreciated all the more were it not for the circumstances.

What strikes as odd and forms the crease in Anabelle's brow is that in this moment it does not feel like a gesture returned. If she didn't know better, she would think that she caught him off guard, completely surprised him, but that would be senseless. After all, why else would she have come? Convincing herself that she is only being paranoid, she says, "That's right, you haven't said it! Don't think just 'cause you painted it on the side of your house you're off the hook, now."

Elvis, of course, has absolutely not the first idea what she's talking about, though having tried to say as much before (he can only imagine that that's the message to which she was referring), he can't quite bring himself to try to tell her again. There's no need, not yet. If nothing else, it sounds like him. More accurately, it sounds nothing like him at all, but it falls in line with the clarity he felt when he landed on his back after finally slipping the noose off over his head. A gesture like that would be the only way to tell her, like speaking her language after so long spent trying to resist. Now, he just wishes he were capable of something similar here, because this isn't how this should have gone. At least she did get to see it, even if he never did it.

"I do," he murmurs, his own lips brushing her cheek in what isn't quite a kiss. He can't show her, but at least he can finally, finally tell her, like he should have so long ago. "I love you." Those three words, so small but so heavy, feel strange to say, but less consequential than he'd have expected. The world hasn't changed, neither of them seem too altered; it's just natural, easy, like it was those days they were on the road together. He just wishes they could stay in that. It's become increasingly clear that she's only just arrived, and he doesn't relish the thought of trying to explain. As such, he says nothing else, delaying the inevitable while he still can, instead just leaning into her touch, breathing in deep and trying to take note of the way she feels against him.

Except when planned and scripted, Anabelle has never been especially careful with her words, a practice — or lack thereof — that Elvis himself might attest has been to her own detriment. He, on the other hand, is excessively heedful in terms of speech, one of a great many ways in which they are total opposites. (In their case, that old adage proves true, they do indeed attract, but it isn't smooth sailing from there on out. It never is.) Painting on the face of the house was bold enough for him, a loud and attractive gesture that went against most everything that makes Elvis himself in the first place. He braved the public and dug his name further into the ground just to send her a message that, once received, she realized had been a known truth all along.

Seeing and hearing, however, are distinctly different. The red paint was intended for her but the press made it theirs, just as they did Anabelle's famed resurrection. This right here, this stays between Elvis, Anabelle, and the flowers that surround them. He's no quicker to engage in lively chatter than he is to reveal his soul, which brings the intimacy of the moment that much deeper.

"Good," exhales Anabelle, biting softly on her bottom lip, her smile buried against the crook of his neck, to which her mouth is pressed. It travels upward in a series of kisses, soft and slow at first but quickly growing impatient. A surge of enthusiasm streams through her, so much so that she can barely contain herself. Channeling that energy, Anabelle takes hold of his face with both hands and delivers a sloppy, playful kiss to his lips, stopping only to release the spell of giggles building from her belly.

Somehow, the fact of it alone, the idea of Anabelle loving him, isn't that surprising. It's just how she is, so warm and open, diving into things headfirst, without hesitation. If she tried, Elvis has no doubt that she could find the good in just about anything, their own strange situation included. What gets to him is that certainty, the truth of it, the way it sounded to hear the words from her mouth, half-muffled against his skin, something that hits him a moment later than it should, apparently having needed clarity before it could really sink in. Regardless of what may have been suggested before, things are different now, the two of them not quite what they were when they met, when they first became something more than just acquaintances. He didn't think she would ever speak to him again at all. This might be the one thing that's even better.

Letting out a faint laugh of his own, Elvis leans in even after she starts giggling, kissing her jaw, the very corner of her mouth, anything to keep going, to drag this out, to stay on this side of things rather than straying back to the turn of conversation from minutes ago. Whatever he almost did — whatever she almost did, still difficult to think about — it can wait, it doesn't matter as much, not now, when it's like two of her goddamn miracles for the price of one. She's here, and these flowers that saved him, and he can't disregard that. There will be time for everything else.

"So glad you're here," he murmurs when he draws back, half-dazed, leaning his forehead against hers. His own isn't nearly as broad as her own, but that smile is infectious, her laugh too charming for him to even wrap his head around. It shouldn't even be possible for her to do this to him, but here they are, and he's long past trying to resist it.

The idle life is not for her, and in that sense, Geneva was right in assuming that Anabelle would want more, but she got carried away (as mothers do) and failed to realize that pageantry was never her daughter's ideal for happiness. Perhaps it was when she was still too young to know better, but the years took their toll and eventually, it was striving for beauty and perfection that nearly killed her. That isn't something she will soon forget; she may still be here, she's up to two near-death experiences now and the only constant is Elvis. Twice, now, he's been the one to save her, however indirectly, and she isn't so stubborn as to overlook the signs right before her eyes.

Patience is not her strong suit, but in this moment, Anabelle wants nothing more than to stay put, to lie in his arms and keep kissing until both their lips are too chapped to go on. "I never wanna leave again," she tells him. If her purpose in life is to find what makes her happy and never let it go, she's succeeded in the former and intent on the latter. They'll spruce up the house some more and Elvis will write his books while she learns to play the guitar and sing songs she actually likes. They'll hole up in bed on the weekends and surface only at Charlie's behest, and someday soon he'll finally score under seventy. They can be themselves, together, and let the rest of the world just fuck right off. Nothing's ever sounded so good.

Anything else being a possibility is just not something that Elvis is prepared to consider. He's been here long enough to know that it doesn't always work that way, that people don't get a say in whether they stay or go, but she is, quite truthfully, melodramatic though it sounds, the only thing he's got. To lose her again, after what he did when he lost her before (though she was far from the only contributing factor, his reputation ruined and his dad gone, too), he doesn't even want to try to handle it. Of course, the truth in that means it would be just his luck, that he should try to prepare himself for the probable inevitability of it, but it's so soon. They have this, they have now, they have each other. For her sake, he can try to adopt her mindset and focus on that, instead.

"Better not," he says anyway, voice low and rough, though no louder than before. His hands lift, resting over the place where her jaw meets her neck, holding her close so he can keep his gaze steady on hers. He doesn't need her, he refuses to put it like that, but maybe, this once, he can let himself lean on someone else. "I don't intend to let you go."

Given the way that her life has panned out until recently, Anabelle never had good reason to believe in much of anything, least of all romanticism. Like miracles, romance was the stuff of films and fairy tales, beautiful notions that were nice to entertain but which never seemed to present themselves in reality. Those eighteen years of proof to the contrary were what made it so easy, then, to be convinced of Elvis' betrayal. But inherently, she always wanted to believe the best in others, in the world itself, and having now been presented with incontrovertible proof has never been happier.

Still, it feels surreal to be lying here with Elvis, to see herself through his eyes and know that he must feel about her just as strongly as she does for him. When she woke up on that table, her life became a story the likes of which she never could have imagined, and it's almost as frightening as the alternative to know that she now has something to lose. Both arms snaking around Elvis once more, she pulls him in closer, tighter, with no intention of letting him go herself. "I'm glad we agree on that," she murmurs, biting her lower lip just as a small smile blossoms across.

He should tell her, he should tell her; it becomes like a mantra in Elvis' head, low-level but persistent, and yet still overshadowed it is just by how damn nice it is to be near her. It's probably stupid to keep coming back to the unexpectedness of hearing her say things like that when he really thought he lost her — she's here now, after all — but considering what happened, how utterly empty everything had seemed after she left and he got home to find his dad's body, he doesn't think he could be blamed for it. Of course he'd come back to that. He almost made the biggest mistake of his life; he almost ended his life. She's everything the opposite of how he felt that afternoon, though. His hand curls gently in the fabric over her waist, nose brushing against her cheek when he leans in, and there are ways this could be better, surely, but not many.

"You could stay with me," he says, "you know, if you want." He should be more concerned, maybe, with the fact that they're eighteen and stuck on a magic island that's unpredictable at best, but it's difficult to concern himself with much other than the fact that she's here, that he gets a second chance same as she did. And anyway, who knows? Maybe they'll get another miracle. "Plenty of room."

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