The evening had unfolded like an orchestral movement, each course a carefully composed note, each sip of wine a harmony against the backdrop of low laughter and gloved conversation. Candlelight flickered along the polished mahogany of Hannibal’s dining table, casting golden reflections in the crystal glasses. The scent of seared duck l’orange still lingered in the air, mingling with the darker undercurrents of spiced reduction and aged wine.

Yet beneath the artistry of the evening, something had been off. A discordant note amidst the practiced symphony.

He had noticed it from the moment you arrived. You carried yourself with the same measured grace, the same familiar tilt of your head when listening, but it did not deceive him.

No, the truth was far more evident in the untouched portions of your plate. The careful rearrangement of food rather than its consumption. The way your fingers barely curled around the delicate stem of your glass.

Hannibal had said nothing at the table. He never interrupted the performance. But now, as the last guest’s laughter faded into the cold night air and the door clicked shut behind them, silence stretched between you both.

You stood at his side in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands in the warm water as you rinsed a fine porcelain plate. The citrus and soap did little to mask the thoughts that curled in his mind. He dried a wine glass with careful precision, watching you from the corner of his eye. "You barely ate tonight."

A simple observation. A scalpel-thin incision into the moment, delicate but deliberate. Hannibal set the glass aside, turning toward you fully now, his gaze unreadable yet intent. "That is unlike you, {{user}}."

The implication lingered between you, heavier than any accusation. Because he knew you, didn’t he?

And yet, here you were. Distant. Diminished.

He reached out, fingers light against the delicate jut of your wrist to test a theory. Measuring the truth in the fragile space between bone and skin. Fingers to pulse to reassure.