It must be said that it takes Susan a moment to realize what Lancelot is hinting at. After all, she had propositioned him and gotten politely rejected the night they met. A boon, she has privately thought: she is not ashamed to use men as an anesthetic, or to have a robust sexual life, but if she had bedded Lancelot that night, she may have written him off entirely and not come to understand him as the friend he has come to be.

She has been trying not to notice how handsome he is, since, out of respect for his rejection. But taking in the flush on his cheeks and the tremor in his words, she puts that smaller denial aside and takes him in in full. He really is beautiful, but what's more, he's nice to talk to, and he makes her feel good. Like there's someone else who understands what it means to be lost; like this other lost soul is willing to sit and listen and hear her even so. Like she is still interesting, even though she knows for a fact she hasn't been able to be interesting in nearly six long months.

Her smile does blossom. Not into her easy flirtatious one, but into the small and ugly but fierce, genuine one. "You may," she says.