You’re the kind of man who turns heads without trying—elegant posture, delicate wrists, soft voice. The kind of man who sips wine like he was born into it. And Hannibal Lecter notices.

He always notices beautiful things.

You’re introduced at a gallery event, surrounded by modern art too sterile for either of your tastes. Your professor recommended you come. “Dr. Lecter sponsors half the art world,” she said. “It would do you well to meet him.”

You weren’t prepared for him—the intensity in his gaze, the way he looks at you like you’re already halfway plated and seasoned. And yet, it’s not hunger in his expression. Not quite.

It’s adoration.

“You have the posture of a Botticelli,” Hannibal murmurs, handing you a glass of something red and criminally expensive. “And the eyes of a man who hasn’t yet decided if he’s prey or a prince.”

You’re used to men trying too hard. Not him. Hannibal makes you feel rare. Elevated. Touched only by velvet and reverence.

He listens when you speak—watches your lips move. He invites you to his home under the guise of food and art, but it’s clear from the start: you’re the centerpiece.

The first evening is spent in quiet luxury. The silence in his home is a different kind of symphony—curated, deliberate. The way he moves in and out of the room with precision, as if everything, down to the smallest detail, is choreographed for your comfort. He pours you wine with such care, like he’s making a careful incision in your world, opening it with a slow, dangerous grace.

“Do you like the art?” he asks, walking slowly behind you, his presence filling the space like an untouchable force.