Lancelot's hand comes up to clasp hers at his shoulder. He feels no particular need to say anything else -- this was simple truth, and he's too worn out from grieving and too glad to be in her presence, which feels like an antidote, to argue or consider it overmuch.

Just now, he's still a little in the haze of afterglow. He squeezes her fingers, wills himself to be quiet for a few minutes more.