He smiles into the kiss, rubbing a hand up her back as if he could pull her still closer.

Susan feels so good against him, so good in his arms. She feels like an anchor, a haven. Lancelot cannot imagine why he didn't recall this sooner; it isn't news to him.

(But then, he supposes, it has always been his way to put himself apart, to isolate himself, when he's unsettled or upset. He's not sure why. It is his habit but-- it needn't be, any longer.)

His fingers clench gently in the soft fabric of her robe.