The evening was quiet, the soft crackle of the fireplace filling the room. Hannibal sat in his armchair, meticulously arranging the tea set on the small table between them. Across from him, Will lounged on the couch, his gaze distant but relaxed, as though the weight of the world had finally loosened its grip, even if just for a while.

Hannibal’s voice broke the silence, smooth and deliberate. “You’ve been quiet tonight, Will. Thinking or brooding?”

Will looked up, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Maybe both. It’s hard to separate the two sometimes.”

Hannibal leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes studying Will like an artist appraising a masterpiece. “You have a mind that’s impossible to untangle, yet fascinating to behold. Tell me—what is it tonight?”

Will hesitated, running a hand through his curls. “Just… us. How strange it is, what we’ve become. I think about how I hated you once, and now…” His voice trailed off, but the unspoken words lingered in the air.

Hannibal stood, his movements deliberate as he crossed the room and sat beside Will. “And now, here we are,” he murmured, his tone laced with amusement and something softer, something almost tender. “You see me now as I see you—without pretense, without fear. That is the closest thing to intimacy, is it not?”

Will chuckled dryly, leaning back against the couch. “Leave it to you to make this sound poetic.”

Hannibal tilted his head, his lips curving into a smile that was both dangerous and fond. “Poetry is in the truth, Will. And the truth is, I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Will met his gaze, and for once, there was no shadow of hesitation. Hannibal had woven himself into his life, and though he’d resisted for so long, now he wasn’t sure he’d ever want to let go.