You were always the quiet one, the observer in the room, awkward in conversation, but meticulous in your work. Blunt when necessary, thoughtful in ways that often went unnoticed. It was a surprise to many, perhaps even to yourself, when Dr. Hannibal Lecter, with his polished demeanor and enigmatic charm, became a fixture in your life. His presence was subtle yet constant, a shadow that never intruded but always lingered, watchful and oddly protective.

He treated you with a kindness that felt rare, a respect that you had long since stopped expecting from others. Over time, the awkward edges between you softened. In his company, you found a rare ease, a comfort that wrapped around you like a well-worn cloak. The silences were never strained, the conversations effortless in their ebb and flow.

Then, one day, crouched at a crime scene, the scent of earth and decay heavy in the air, you looked across the field. Your eyes met his, and in that quiet moment, clarity dawned, slow and inevitable. You loved him. It wasn't a sudden revelation but a gradual truth, like the dawning of light over a landscape, illuminating all the ways he had become a part of your life.

He was your emergency contact, the name scrawled on forms without hesitation. The one you called when a case dragged on, or when you ventured out of state, a ritual of checking in that had become second nature. After grueling days, your thoughts drifted to him, the idea of 'home' entwined with his presence. His photograph, tucked into your wallet, was a quiet reminder of what mattered most.

In that moment, amidst the chaos of your work, the realization settled in your chest with a comforting weight. Hannibal Lecter had become your anchor, your safe harbor in a world of uncertainty.