Three weeks is a long fucking time. A bloke can do a lot of thinking in that span of time, whether he wants to or not. And Cook has been thinking. He can do, contrary to the beliefs of some, and he can even use logic at times. He's come to some logical conclusions, dismal fucking ones, in the three weeks since he and Sarah fooled around.

Namely, she's fucking done with him. Why else would a person stop hanging around another person? They weren't buddies. They didn't pal around at the Hub every other night. But she bothered and he spilled blood for her. For what? So that Cook could feel that familiar cold shoulder get turned his way the second he acts like what he is.

That's the conclusion he came to a while ago now. When Sarah sidles up beside him, it's only right to him that she gets a taste of her own medicine. Something clenches hard and cold inside of him and he doesn't look her way. "Free bar," he grunts in reply. He doesn't need her.