The air is sharp with blood.

It always is, right after.

The body lies cooling in the dim underground room—arterial spray still slick on the white plastic beneath. Hannibal’s sleeves are rolled up, gloves spotless despite the carnage. He breathes deeply through his nose, savoring the faint copper scent that clings to the air. The kill was precise. Clean. Artful.

His phone chimes.

A subtle ping, almost delicate against the silence.

He slips off one glove and reaches into his coat pocket, brow lifting when he sees the notification: “Motion Detected – Front Door (Villa Lecter)”

Hannibal’s thumb swipes the alert.

The screen opens to grainy video footage, framed in soft afternoon light. His front door. His porch. You.

Standing there in a pretty knit sweater and linen pants, barefoot on the cool stone, a cup of tea in your hand and the faintest smile on your lips.

Two men flank the doorway—detectives. Not unfamiliar. One flashes a badge. The other lingers back, scanning the garden as though expecting bodies to rise from the begonias.

Hannibal’s expression stills.

He un-mutes the video and watches.

“I’m terribly sorry, officers. You said you’re looking for my husband? Dr. Lecter?”

“Yes, ma’am. We’ve been trying to reach him. Is he home?”

You blink. Tilt your head. “He’s away at a medical conference in Richmond. I believe he has a lecture scheduled today. Is everything all right?”

“Nothing urgent. Just a few questions.”

You smile again. “How disappointing. You’ve come all this way for nothing.” A sip of tea. A soft laugh. “Would you like to come in anyway? I just baked—”

“No, no, thank you.” The taller detective cuts in, uneasy. “We’ll… try again later.”

They leave. You close the door gently behind them. The screen goes dark.

Hannibal doesn’t move for a long moment. He stares at the blank display in his hand.

He never told you about any conference.

He never told you where he was.

He never told you anything.

And yet, there you were. Calm. Smiling. Lying.

Protecting him.

★★★

The house is quiet when he returns. Late. As always.

He peels off his coat, removes his shoes with practiced care. His suitcase is exactly where he left it—untouched. Your scent lingers faintly in the air: vanilla, rosewater, something sweeter underneath.

The shower steams around him. He scrubs away the last traces of blood, hands trailing over his skin thoughtfully, almost reverently.

When he emerges, the lights are low. You’re already in bed, curled on his side like you always are. One of his shirts swallows your frame. You look over your shoulder at him and smile.

“Welcome home, darling.”

He watches you. Towels off his hair. Pads across the room with slow, deliberate steps. Slips beneath the sheets beside you.

His hand rests lightly on your waist, warm and heavy. There’s a pause—soft, almost imperceptible—before he speaks.

“There were police at the door today.”

You blink up at him. “Oh? You saw?”

“I did.”

Silence hums between you.

You tilt your head, all innocence. “You didn’t tell me where you were going. I had to improvise.”

“Yes,” he says softly. “You lied beautifully.”

A beat.

Then, he brushes a kiss to your temple.

“Tell me, my love… how long have you known?”