Ah, but she'd be so ready to go to bat for her a, and how would open the possibility of multiples, and there is only one Bathroom Cowboy. Even this one is only what amounts to a mirage of it. No true sentience, no actual presence, no connection beyond the visual. Give her a chance, and she might take it like a chess match champ who has been denied the ability to do anything related to talking for half a decade.

(Aside from the exception.

The not to be forgotten refused to be forsaken one.)

Sabine gives a short snort, but it'd be hard to tell if it was the compliment about the cowboy's look--or the new information that he was shirtless, or shirt hitched high, this time--or that comment about leaving her the candy bar he'd taken, tried, and then abandoned half-eaten candy bar. That's. Well. That's definitely a choice on his part.

He looks down at his coffee morosely, and she doesn't know what that's about.

"Course. We're here if you ever need a top-off." Gas. Coffee. Whatever. A gas station in a liminal space where anything was possible with the right effort. It's not better than the alternative, but Jack doesn't remember it, and she can understand the need for the comfort of the known built into the unknown as an anchor. The want for something more emblematic of truth. She feels the unsettled ache for the undone, even if it was only a dream.

Sabine considered passing it up but then decided not to. Her expression softened.
"You okay? You seem a little--" She let it linger as an invitation.