A part of Sabine is tempted for a heartbeat to prompt the woman to finish her question in words rather than drifting implication, perhaps, for better and worse, given the soft noise Yennefer had made. But it's gone before it even fully lands in Sabine's thoughts, and she tips her head barely. "Jack is unique."

( ... something that is and shouldn't be ... )
That is a fact in so many more ways than the woman before her can know because no one here does, and Jack doesn't let himself keep most of the puzzle pieces of it that he works out in front of that thick, obscuring wall in his mind and memories. With a bit of panache of a smile and a shrug of shoulders, Sabine adds with ease: "He's also my boyfriend."

He's more than that, too; loving Jack superseded her duty to Jack a long time ago, long before the six years of her coma, even if so much of the last weeks before this was about making sure to put her duty before her heart where it came to him.

A small sacrifice to make sure he—and through him humanity, the world—survived.
And then, somehow, she'd woken up here. With him. Something like human again.