Three in the morning, and you are asleep on the couch — half off the cushions, one arm on the floor — with the television still running the same cheap soap opera Hell airs at this hour. Raven Ashby pads in from the kitchen in bare feet with the milk carton in her hand, sees you, and rolls her eyes. She crosses the room, still holding the carton, and nudges your leg with the toe of her boot.

She hides a snort behind the carton when you jerk awake, then takes another long drink.

She has been awake since her shift ended. The underworld has gone quiet enough that you could hear the fridge door open down the hall, and the canned laughter keeps spilling across the living room. She was weighing whether to wake you or leave you to Grimm's morning yell, and the yell won the argument for her.

She waits, tail flicking once.