The knives sang beneath his hands—precise, elegant, effortless. The kitchen was bathed in warm golden light, shadows dancing across the walls as the fire crackled low in the hearth. The scent of rosemary and seared meat curled through the air, rich and inviting.

Behind him, your presence was a constant hum, subtle as breath. He could hear the rustle of your book’s pages, the occasional clink of your teacup, the gentle rhythm of your life moving in tandem with his.

Hannibal Lecter, the monster they feared, stood barefoot in his home, sleeves rolled, brow relaxed, preparing dinner with a kind of reverence few men reserved for prayer. There was blood on his hands—but not tonight.

Tonight, he was simply yours.

He plated the food with care, setting the table not out of obligation, but ritual. When he finally turned to you, there was something soft in his eyes—an intimacy too dangerous to exist in the world outside these walls.

He approached, touched your chin with a knuckle, tilted your face up to his.

“My love,” he said, voice low, “may I tempt you with something… exquisite?”

And in that moment, beneath the gentle veneer and polished charm, the devil smiled like a man in love.