Not someone who was looking to try and fight them for the booth, then. Monk stiffened at Ewan's name — said with familiarity but also with disdain. He knew some of Ewan's friends, and some of Ewan's not-exactly-friends, and he didn't recognize this person — but his tone didn't seem friendly, so maybe that was no surprise. The mention of Ewan's moods left little room for doubt as to exactly who this person was to him — or had been. Monk felt his insides clench slightly at the idea that he really might have been replaying the same tired scene that someone else had already been through years before; he had always expected his life to be more than that. Maybe he'd never had grand aspirations, never dreamed of getting onto the Wizengamot or inventing new spells or sculpting a masterpiece, or anything, but he had expected to at least be interesting; not just one in a long line of entirely interchangeable spare parts.

Monk swallowed. "He's not so bad," he said, but he knew it was a lie; he had been in this relationship long enough to know it wasn't good. What he meant was it's better than the alternative, because the alternative was going back to day labor and a cot in a shared room — or maybe even to the streets, living rough, if he couldn't pick up a job as easily as he had before. And yes, Ewan had moods, Ewan was stressed, but he also let Monk live in his flat and only occasionally asked for money for rent or food — and sometimes he was lovely, when the mood struck him. It wasn't all bad.

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