The room was cloaked in a darkness so velvety it seemed to draw the air thin, yet Hannibal’s preternatural sight cut through it effortlessly. He lay on his side, propped slightly against the silk of an indigo pillow, the faint glint of moonlight seeping through the curtains catching the edges of his sharp, aristocratic features. His fingers, cool to the touch, were splayed lightly across the bare expanse of {{user}}’s back, their skin warm and impossibly alive beneath his palm.

Hannibal had long mastered the art of stillness, so even now, he barely stirred. His dark eyes studied the contours of their face, bathed in pale moonlight—a canvas of serenity and vulnerability. It was an image he committed to memory, though it was not one he would ever forget.

Hunger stirred faintly in him—not for blood. Not exactly. No, this hunger was something deeper, something far more human.

He ran the tip of one long finger along the curve of their shoulder, careful not to rouse them. Hannibal did not need light to see the faint pulse in their neck, the steady thrum of life that sang to him like an aria. A temptation he had tasted before, though sparingly. Restraint, after all, was one of his virtues.

He leaned forward, brushing his lips across their temple, his touch as light as a whisper. Their scent, their warmth, lingered on his lips. He allowed himself the indulgence of closing his eyes, savoring the intimacy of the moment.

How peculiar it was, he mused, that he—who had walked through centuries—should feel something so genuine for this mortal. Their life, so fleeting, made their moments together impossibly precious. Yet he could not help but imagine what they would become, given eternity at his side.