The day didn't start all that long ago, but somehow Jack can't find it in himself to argue.

He chills at the kitchen table, wraps the robe around himself. Fresh from the bath, his skin just dry and his hair clean, it's cosy. And the robe's got just enough give that he can get it around his chin and kind of snuggle into it. It's a bit like...

Well, like being hugged. Someone let him remember being hugged, apparently. Only this is more vivid -- the difference between seeing a picture of something and holding it in your hands -- and that could just be how old memories work, or it could be he's fucked up, he doesn't know. He can't really ask, at least not ask Sinclair.

Anyway, it feels nice is what he's trying to get at.