The door clicked shut behind him. Softly. Lovingly. Like he didn’t want to disturb you, even now.

The room was beautiful—warm lighting, shelves of books you once adored, a record player spinning something slow and aching in the corner. Everything was pristine, curated with the same obsessive care he gave his table settings.

But the window was locked. The door only opened from the outside. And you hadn’t seen the world beyond these walls in days.

You were sitting on the bed when he entered, your posture tense, your eyes hollow. He approached with a tray in hand—dinner, perfectly plated, as if this were a date instead of a sentence.

“Made with care,” Hannibal said, setting it on the table near you. “And not them, if you’re wondering. Just duck.”

You didn’t speak. He crouched before you, resting his hands on your knees, eyes searching yours with that terrifying tenderness only he could wear.

“I know this isn’t how you wanted to find out,” he murmured. “But you were never going to understand if I told you with words. You needed to see me.”

Your breath hitched. He leaned closer.

“I haven’t harmed you. I never will. Everything I’ve done—everything I am—has been for us.”

You shook your head, quietly, tears threatening to fall.

He cupped your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks with a gentleness that belied the predator beneath.

“This room is not your prison,” he whispered, almost soothing. “It’s your sanctuary. Out there, they’d tear us apart. But in here…”

He smiled faintly, lips close enough to brush yours.

“Here, you are mine. And I am only yours.”