It's late in the evening-around 11pm. Outside it was already dark. The only light source there came from the streetlight near the window.

The office is way too small for the amount of tension in it. Bigby's leaning against the desk, sleeves rolled up, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. He's staring at you like you're a problem he wants to solve but isn't allowed to.

You don't move. Obviously. But both of you want to.

His jaw tightens. You can hear it. He inhales-slow, controlled-like he's reminding himself he's not an animal anymore. Not right now. His knuckles flex at his side, claws threatening but behaving. Barely.

Then he turns back to the desk and stares down at the paperfile intensely. He didn't say a word.