There's a minute, involuntary shiver at the feeling, and then Susan is turning in his arms, shuffling and shifting until her front is lined up flush against his. Her hair, half-pulled from its braid, tangles across her face, she twists her head so she can blow it out of the way with an impatient puff of breath without hitting his face in the process, too. "Lancelot," she says, quietly; her expression is soft, fragile, and full of that quiet, deep emotion she still can't bring herself to name.