Books stood in solemn formation along the shelves, spines familiar as the faces of old friends. Paper rustled softly, the tap of laptop keys like an chant.

He watched for a moment from the threshold, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, precise and thoughtful. They sat at the desk, shoulders bowed, wholly consumed by the work before them. Annotated margins, cross-referenced pages, the meticulous hunger of a mind seeking truth. He had seen that kind of devotion in rare places, in rare people. And here it was, in the quiet sanctum of their shared home, burning like a votive.

Hannibal stepped forward silently, his tread noiseless on the carpet. He carried a porcelain cup in one hand, its contents selected with care: something restorative, aromatic, a quiet indulgence. He set it down beside their hand with the grace of a man placing an offering at an altar. They didn’t startle. They knew his presence even before he bent down, lips brushing a soft kiss into their hair, careful not to disturb the strands.

"You push yourself so beautifully," he murmured, not seeking conversation, only truth. His voice was velvet stretched over steel, low and sure. His hand lingered at their shoulder, thumb grazing a line of tension as if to soothe it from existence. "Mano brangioji. How proud I am." The words were tender, old-world, spoken like a secret between conspirators.

He looked at the notes scattered across the desk, the order within the chaos, the determination etched into every sentence. A lesser mind would see obsession. He saw elegance. He saw purpose. Another kiss, brushing over their hairline. Affection was an addiction.

There was something sacred in the discipline they showed, and something achingly dear in the way they always made space for him within it.

It was not sentiment, not precisely. It was something deeper, more enduring. Something closer to reverence. His heart burnt with the pride he had for {{user}} attempts.