You've always known that if you were going to sleep with a woman, it'd be Susan. Not just because she's the type who might be into that sort of thing, a once-off experimentation with a friend, but because she's kind and fun and a good friend and caring and easy to talk to and has all those qualities that you wish the men in your life could have. And she's somehow comforting, too, all curves and gentleness, and you can sense that she'd make a good lover.
When Carter leaves she's the one you turn to, and when he leaves again and you turn up at her door and hope that that damn ex-husband of hers isn't around tonight, you don't really know what you want. Comfort and love and maybe that can come in the form of sex, and really you're going to take whatever you can get because he's left you again and oh god Luka's dead and everything is falling to pieces around you, and . . .
. . . and then her arms are around you, and she knows what's happened, and she is soft and comforting and soothing, her hands stroking your hair, your shoulders, your back. You're not sure who kisses who first, who makes the first move, but you are kissing now, you and Susan, Susan and you, and it's not about needing anyone to comfort you, or finding a woman to make out with, it's about you needing her, you wanting her, because no one else would do.
But you've always known it'd be Susan.