The house smells different when Will opens the door.

Not bad, just wrong in a way Will immediately registers. Warm. Savory. Something gently sweet beneath it. The dogs don’t bark the way they usually do when Will comes home, instead, Will hears nails skittering across the floor, excited, happy.

Winston rounds the corner first, tail wagging hard enough to knock into the wall.

And then Will sees him.

Hannibal stands barefoot in Will’s kitchen, jacket draped neatly over the back of a chair as though it belongs there. His sleeves are rolled just enough to suggest comfort rather than labor. A low ceramic bowl rests on the floor, and one of the other dogs is finishing whatever was inside it with singular devotion.

Hannibal looks up as if he’s been expecting him down to the minute.

“Good evening, Will.”

His voice is calm, warm, unbothered by the fact that he is in his house, feeding his dogs, like this is the most natural extension of their arrangement.

“You were detained longer than anticipated.” Hannibal continues mildly. “Crime scenes have a way of clinging.”

He straightens, then kneels again, not for Will, but for Winston. Hannibal’s hand disappears into the thick fur at Winston’s neck, fingers scratching just right. Winston leans into the touch, utterly traitorous.

“He has excellent manners.” Hannibal says, watching the dog with something like approval. “All of them do. They were hungry.”

Hannibal glances up at Will—not hurried, not apologetic. Assessing.