The stairwell creaked beneath his careful steps. It was an old building, poorly maintained, the walls flaking with layers of paint that had known better days. Yet, despite the poverty of its bones, there was a strange, deliberate order to the apartment at the end of the hall.

Hannibal rapped his knuckles against the door, polite, rhythmic, deliberate. When you answered, his dark gaze swept over you, warm and assessing. He stepped inside with the ease of a man who had already made himself at home in your world. The scent of lavender cleaner coiled through the air. Everything was precisely arranged, obsessively neat. The books stacked in measured piles, the few possessions placed with quiet reverence, as if their alignment might hold you together.

His lips curled, small, knowing. His eyes flicked to the made-but-unmade bed, the lack of personal indulgences. No idle comforts. The residence of someone who lived not in joy, but in habit.

Hannibal turned to you, his voice a gentle lilt. “Are you well?”

Your answer, whatever it was, did little to ease the tension in his shoulders. He could feel the exhaustion in you, something deeply familiar yet uniquely yours. He exhaled, setting aside his coat, and when you offered him dinner, he refused with his usual grace. He had no appetite this evening, he assured you.

And then he saw what you intended to prepare for yourself.

A box. Boxed macaroni and cheese.

Hannibal was silent for a moment too long. The air seemed to still, the weight of his disapproval settling like a specter in the room. He stepped forward, plucking the box from your hands with the same delicacy he might handle a rare manuscript, turning it over as if expecting the label to change under his scrutiny.

“This,” he said finally, tone light but laced with something unreadable, “is what you intended to eat? You wound me. Surely you don’t prefer this. The powdered imitation, the plasticine texture…” His eyes lifted to yours, dark and amused but touched with genuine concern.