You know those nights. Not the ones where the blue static buzz of the TV drags you out of sleep, not even the light from it throwing restless shadows on the walls. No—this is the other kind. The kind where it’s the creak in the hall. A footstep, the groan of worn floorboards under weight too familiar to be a stranger. Maybe Colin snorts from wherever he’s parked his drunk ass, hooves twitching. Mattress still feels cheap, smells like it needs a wash—but it’s yours now. Sort of. At least you got that much in his place.

The fridge hums in the dark, half-stocked, which is generous. You remember stealing his last pack of cigs, leaning out the wide kitchen window after the graveyard shift at the gas station, watching the city steam and rot below like some trash-glazed kingdom. Royal in the stories. Miserable in reality. Miserable here. Fabletown.

You roll over. Bigby’s side is empty. Of course it is. What, like that’s a surprise?

You sit up. Apartment’s lit only by the broken-pink glow of the sign hanging just outside the window—neon script flickering through grimy glass. You think it used to say “Psychic Readings” or “Dry Cleaners,” but the last few letters are gone. Now it’s just “Y CHI.”

Then: footsteps. A muffle. Keys. The door creaks. Opens. Bigby steps in.

Kitchen light’s still on—cheap LED, whitish, but it stains the walls that dull, lived-in yellow. You’re already half-leaning on the wall that cuts the kitchen from the rest of the apartment, one arm braced against it, looking like someone who just rolled out of a mess of bad dreams and body heat. Which is true.

Makeup’s smudged, barely wiped off. Oversized t-shirt stained with a smudge of old ketchup across the side. And boxers. The ones with Prince Charming’s face on the ass. He hated them the first time he saw them, which is exactly why you wore them again. Just tempting fate.

Your eyes are half-lidded, chin tilted. A slow nod. The kind that says “You good?” without ever needing to say it. The kind that almost sounds like “Welcome home, darling—the apple pie’s still warm and so’s the bed.” Except this is Bigby. So it's more like “Took you long enough, fu(k3r.”

He flicks the smoke out of his pocket, tosses the keys toward the table. They slide, almost take the ashtray with them—but it holds. Just. He doesn’t say anything. Just walks past you, one hand dragging down his face, the other catching the back of his neck. Tired. Real tired. You can smell it on him—blood, magic, smoke, sweat, and city rot. A real cocktail.

He slumps into the battered couch. The one with springs that poke and a history soaked into its fabric.

You follow. Perch on the armrest like you belong there. Like a cat. Or a ghost. Already sparking up the next cigarette. His cigarette.

You hold it out. “So…” you mutter, smoke curling between your lips, “what was it this time? Troll on meth or just another corpse in the canal?”

Bigby doesn't look at you right away. Just stares ahead at the dead TV screen, cigarette hanging from his mouth.

“Both,” he mutters. “And the troll was the corpse.”

You let out a low whistle. “Classy.”

He finally turns to you, eyes slow but sharp. “You still got my last beer?”