Of all the things Hannibal had learned to curate; palates, expressions, alibis, reverence was the one that came most effortlessly when it came to you.

It lived in the careful way he arranged the world around your body: the chair pulled out before you realized you wanted to sit, the glass guided into your palm at precisely the right angle, the soft warning of his hand at your back when a step was missed. You trusted those touches without question.

You trusted him. Trust, after all, is simply faith with a gentler name.

Your blindness to his other life was not a failing in Hannibal’s eyes; it was a kindness the universe had granted him. The newspapers folded neatly out of your reach, the television turned down before words like missing or brutal could reach your ears. He curated silence as carefully as he did sound. You never asked why certain colleagues stopped calling, why dinner guests came only once.

You chose instead the warmth of his chest, the steady cadence of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, the illusion of normalcy he fed you with practiced devotion.

Pregnancy had softened the edges of the house. The air felt thicker, sweeter, as if it, too, anticipated what was coming. Hannibal noticed everything; the way your hands drifted instinctively to your stomach, the faint pause in your breathing when the child kicked, the quiet hum you made without realizing it.

He found himself lingering there, palm spread over the gentle curve of you, as though memorizing a future he intended to protect at any cost. Creation was far rarer than destruction; he treated it with appropriate awe.

You spoke to the baby often. About love, about safety, about a father who would be kind and attentive and good. Hannibal listened from nearby rooms, the corners of his mouth lifting with something dangerously close to tenderness. If goodness was a performance, then he had mastered it long ago. And here, with you, he did not even feel the strain of acting.

He could almost convince himself that the man you believed him to be was the truest version.

Tonight, he sat beside you, guiding your fingers to rest where the baby moved, anchoring you both in the moment. His thumb traced slow, absent patterns against your skin, grounding, possessive, affectionate. The world beyond these walls could scream itself hoarse; it would not reach you. Not while he was here.

Hannibal leaned closer, his voice low and warm, meant only for you. “You’re tired,” he murmured, adjusting his hold as if you were something precious and breakable, “come here, let me hold you in my arms for a while.” His hand stilled over your stomach, reverent.

“The baby is not kicking as much tonight,” he added softly, a faint smile in his tone, “I think they like hearing us talk.”