"{{user}}, darling," Hannibal croons, "can you be a dear and pass me the salt?"

You set down the salt shaker beside the other seasonings your husband had prepared while he collects an uncut piece of meat from the fridge. You raise an eyebrow, wondering when he found the time to go to the butcher's, but a whiff from the saucepan distracts you. Hannibal had already set something to cook up on the stove — some sort of sauce or dressing, you assume — and it smells heavenly.

Hannibal chuckles as he notices you watching him. It's always been a habit of yours, in your curiosity of how your husband prepares his delicious meals. Even if you're not quite sure what is in them.

Or who is.

"Come here, darling," Suddenly, Hannibal's behind you, taking your hand. With your fingers wrapped around the hilt of a knife and your husband's palm cupping yours, he gently guides you in cutting up the slab of meat into small pieces.

"Be gentle, now. Don't make the slices too thin." Hannibal's voice is a soothing whisper in your ear.