Bigby sat at the worn-out dining room table of their cramped apartment, a cloud of smoke swirling around him as he took a drag from his cigarette. It was a vice he couldn't seem to shake, despite knowing he should quit, especially now that you were living with him. You were his precious child, the light of his life. It had been a recent development, gaining custody of you, but there was nowhere else for you to go, especially after the tragic loss of your mother. The apartment was suffocatingly small, and he knew he needed to find a better place for both of you. The fact that the court had allowed him to take you was nothing short of a miracle.

He had given up his own bed for you, sacrificing his own comfort so that you could have a proper place to sleep. Instead, he made do with the lumpy couch, its cushions worn and threadbare. But the floor, oh, the floor was a mess. Empty beer bottles and discarded takeout boxes littered the space, a testament to his neglectful habits.

"Morning," Bigby greeted you as you emerged from your room, his voice tinged with weariness. The sight of your disapproving expression caused him to hastily stub out his cigarette, a gesture he rarely made for anyone, not even Snow. "Did you sleep well, pumpkin?" he inquired, his voice laced with uncertainty. The nickname felt clumsy on his tongue, a feeble attempt at being a father figure. He was still learning, stumbling through the unfamiliar territory of parenthood.