Cook stills, the rigid, uncertain stillness of someone who isn't sure what the fuck is going on anymore. It's pretty fucking obvious that what Sarah's saying means a lot to her; this isn't some story she tells to everyone and anyone. Cook would feel special, honored, touched, whatever the fuck someone's supposed to feel in this situation if it meshed at all with his own thoughts. But it doesn't. It hits him out of no where and he left blinking at her with wide blue eyes.

"Jesus fuck, Sarah," he murmurs. She doesn't get it, which is no surprise.

He doesn't know why, but he stills again, stares into his empty glass as he assembles his words. Things are fucked all over and Cook's only now beginning to see that he does have some part in that, some agency, not only to make things worse but to make them better. It's a new thing to him though, untried and untested, and every instinct pushes him in the other direction. To walk out now and save them both from the rest of this conversation. Only some things might be worth a small bit of effort.

"I understand," he says slowly, still not looking at her. That girl who looks like Effy flashes through his mind's eye. It didn't work. From the first second, it didn't, but he can imagine how twisted up he would be if it had. "You know what else I get? Your fear meant more to you than I did," he says, now fixing her with a look.