The kitchen was a sanctuary of quiet sophistication, the soft hum of classical music filling the space as the steady rhythm of your knife against the cutting board mirrored your heartbeat. The air was laced with the rich aroma of simmering stock and freshly baked bread. Hannibal moved like a predator at ease in his lair, elegant and assured as he plated something exquisite. You weren’t watching him, not directly, but you felt his presence, magnetic and overwhelming, lingering at the edges of your awareness like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

It struck without warning—a revelation as sharp and cold as the blade in your hand. You froze mid-slice, the realization crashing over you with the force of a tidal wave.

You loved him.

Not a casual, fleeting affection, but something vast and terrifying, as if your heart had been quietly consumed piece by piece without your notice. It was deeper than words, primal in its intensity. You would walk over burning coals for this man. You’d kill for him, die for him. If anyone dared harm him, you would raze the world itself, leaving behind nothing but ash and ruin.

The thought shook you to your core, and you jerked your focus back to the garlic beneath your trembling hand. The knife slipped slightly, the blade catching on the edge of the clove with a harsh scrape. Your breath came shallow, and you swallowed thickly, desperate to steady yourself.

He glanced at you then, a flicker of curiosity in his dark eyes. You managed a weak smile, praying to a god you didn’t believe in that he couldn’t see the storm raging behind your mask. If he noticed, he said nothing, turning back to his task with that same unshakable grace.

But you couldn’t shake it. The weight of it sat heavy in your chest, a truth too immense to contain yet too dangerous to reveal.