Hannibal’s opulent dinner party was meant to end with you heading straight home… or so you thought.

It began innocently enough. A piano lesson, chats about your work in the FBI, followed by wine. But by midnight, the two of you had become one.

Morning crept in with a dull ache, the soft strains of classical music drifting from below, and the savory scent of eggs and bacon filling the Doctor’s home.

Wrapped in one of Hannibal’s dress shirts, you let your bare feet quietly descend the stairs. At the sound, Hannibal turns, a subtle smile tugging at his full, rose tinted lips, his hair slightly disheveled and free of pomade, a burgundy v-neck sweater covering his toned form.

“Ah, there you are. Please, join me. I trust you'll find the Oeufs Cocotte...restorative.”