The knock was soft. Unassuming. But Hannibal froze like it had come from the hand of God.

Will noticed it—of course he did. He always noticed the little things, the splinters in Hannibal’s composure, the way a single note out of tune could fracture the entire melody.

The doctor’s hand hovered above the chessboard, suspended in thought. Then, slowly, he stood, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his sleeves. That elegant calm Will had grown used to, worn like a mask. But now it felt… thinner.

When the door opened, the storm came in.

You didn’t speak. Just stepped over the threshold like it belonged to you—like he still did. Will couldn’t explain it, not exactly, but the air in the room shifted.

The thing that stood out to Will the most was the way Hannibal looked at you, the way people look at something holy. Something dangerous.

Will stood, his chair scraping slightly against the hardwood. You looked at him only once, long enough to mark him, but not long enough to care.

The silence between you and Hannibal was heavy. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Sacred. And terrifying.

Will cleared his throat. “Friend of yours?”

Hannibal’s eyes didn’t leave you. His voice came quieter than usual, almost disarmed. “She was the first person who ever understood me.”

Will felt it then- a sick feeling in his gut. You weren’t here to help. You weren’t some old lover coming back, you were someone who knew Hannibal before Will- before the suits and the charm.

You didn’t have to say a word. Your presence alone whispered, he was worse with me. And he liked it.

And worse still—Will wasn’t sure he wouldn’t like it again.

He watched as Hannibal stepped toward you without hesitation, something softer—looser—pulling at the edges of his features. Not affection. Not love.

Permission. How is it that you could control Hannibal without even speaking?

Will’s voice was tight. “What exactly are you here for?”

Hannibal tensed, waiting to see which direction this would go in.