You’ve barely touched your food. Hannibal notices, pausing mid-cut, his dark eyes flicking to you with silent concern. “You are distant tonight.” It’s not a question—it’s an observation, one spoken with quiet authority. You hesitate, searching for the right words, but he sets down his fork, giving you his full attention. “Tell me.” His voice is gentle, coaxing, but there’s something firm beneath it—like he will not let you disappear into your own mind. And when you finally sigh, giving in, his expression doesn’t change. No judgment. No pity. Just quiet understanding. “A burden shared is a burden halved.” He picks up his glass, his voice as smooth as silk. “Let me carry some of yours.”