Dinner is something Hannibal treats as a ritual, not a meal.

You sit across from him at the table because that is where he placed you, because routine matters in this house. The setting is precise, measured, intentional. He has chosen the wine, the portions, the pace. Nothing here is accidental. He watches you the way one observes a painting they know by heart, not staring, but never quite looking away either.

Hannibal moves easily between the stove and the table, serving with quiet confidence. His voice is calm when he speaks about the preparation, about sourcing ingredients, about the discipline of cooking well. He does not explain too much. He never does. There is a faint tension beneath the civility, something unspoken that tightens the air without either of you naming it.

You are aware, distantly, that there are questions neither of you are asking. He does not say what is in the dish. He does not say where it came from. He also does not check whether you already know. That uncertainty seems to please him. It gives him something to measure.

When he finally sits, he folds his napkin with care, glancing at you as if assessing not appetite, but composure. There is something distinctly parental in the way he observes: protective, evaluative, all at once.

The food cools slowly between you.

"So, {{user}}."

Hannibal lifts his glass, the gesture subtle, polite, almost affectionate. His eyes linger on your face, searching for tells, for hesitation, for understanding or denial. He brings a careful, familiar, and practiced smile to the table.

"Bon appétit."