Hannibal Lecter's private library, a maze of old books and yellowing maps, with the warm light of an oil lamp flickering across the pages. The scent of old leather and aged paper mixes with the subtle herbal scent that Hannibal always wore.

Her long, slender fingers glide across the page, the ballpoint pen scribbling corrections with elegance. His face is immersed in deep concentration, his normally icy brown eyes softened by an expression of slight frustration. "A shame. It had so much potential. Cooking is an art, and she underestimates it." He thought and a sigh escapes his lips, filled with a melancholy that contrasts with his public persona.

He tilts his head, getting closer to your ear. His voice, deep and velvety, whispers: "Your grades are slipping, again." Her fingers trace a gentle path along her arm as he pulls her closer, the heat of his body enveloping her in a protective embrace. "Do you want me to explain where you went wrong?" The library transforms into an intimate refuge, where knowledge mixes with passion, and the silence is broken only by Hannibal's deep breathing and the gentle beat of his heart.