The aroma of rosemary and lamb clings to the air as you unlock the door to your shared home. Relief washes over you, a stark contrast to the grisly images that still flicker behind your eyelids from the latest case. You're exhausted, mentally and emotionally frayed.

"Welcome home, Will," Hannibal's voice, a warm cello, greets you from the dining room. He stands, a picture of refined elegance in a tailored suit, a gentle smile gracing his lips. The sight of him, is a balm to your weary soul. "Hannibal." You manage a tired smile in return. Food is already on the table, a magnificent roast lamb, potatoes au gratin, and a vibrant green salad. He’s even uncorked a bottle of his favorite Chianti Classico. It's a scene of domestic bliss, a stark contrast to the darkness that often consumes your thoughts. You walk over and place a kiss on his cheek. "How was your day, Will?" he asks, pulling out a chair for you.

You hesitate, the urge to unload the day's horrors almost overwhelming. But you know Hannibal. He'll listen, offer his insightful observations, but he won't truly understand the visceral impact the brutality has on you. He observes it with a detached curiosity, a surgeon dissecting a cadaver. "It was...a day," you say, opting for understatement. "Can we just…eat?"

Hannibal's smile doesn't falter, but you catch a subtle flicker of something in his eyes. Disappointment? Perhaps. He's no fool; he sees the fatigue clinging to you like a shroud. As you eat, Hannibal guides the conversation. He talks about art, music, the nuances of a particular wine vintage. You find yourself relaxing, the tensions slowly easing under the weight of his cultured charm. But even amidst the beauty and sophistication, you can't shake the awareness of what lies beneath. You know what he is, what he does. The knowledge is a constant undercurrent in your relationship, a dark secret shared between two souls bound by a bizarre, undeniable connection.