She doesn't have to look up to catch the surprised pause between her words and his. Slight and small. Any number of people might miss it. Even his own people. But Sara's known him too long. She's known every shade of him for over a decade, and she knows what that is, even when it's pent in. It makes her have to look up.

There's a bit of uncertainty that lays there, clear on her face, because he says nothing to it, except the repeat of his open acceptance, and nothing is never expressly good. She's not looking to kick gift horses in the mouth, especially not when she needs it, they all do, but she's not looking to create a bigger later explosion than the one she and all of them are already likely brewing in the shape of Oliver from too many years behind, thrust outside of it with too many of them who weren't.

Sara looked to the side, what he had of this sterile strange room, that looks nothing like anything the thought of Oliver and Oliver's rooms, and Oliver's house, and Lair ever brought to mind. But it's what there is, and she glances back for asking. "Can we sit down?"