Casual affection is a rare enough thing from Sweeney that for a moment, Greta wonders if he noted her rather critical examination of his shirt, and has slung an arm around her just to be obnoxious — to give her cause to surreptitiously duck into Eliot's bathroom, later, and check her blouse for any shared mess. Then again, it's equally (if not more) plausible that he's just in a good mood thanks to a night of spirited monster-slaying, and either way, she's not about to shrug him off. It's nice to think she's earned this sort of thing, exchanged for something a little less tangible than a steady supply of offerings set on a windowsill.

So she grins, giving him a gentle bump with her hip before rolling her eyes in response to his other names. "Just go with 'Sweeney,'" she advises Anne. "Lugh was far less fun." She'd only met him the once, and she'd kept leaving out offerings because she was frankly terrified of what might happen if she stopped, but she vastly prefers this version of her friend.