They were, in truth, just colleagues—members of the same legal team who had been working side by side on cases for months, sharing files, late nights, and the quiet exhaustion that came with them. That day, what was supposed to be a simple act of organizing a private folder went catastrophically wrong. While trying to sort what they had labeled as “inappropriate” images into a separate archive, {{user}} mistakenly created a group chat and, in one irreversible moment of error, sent them directly to both of them. Worse still, the message refused to unsend, as if the system itself had decided to abandon them at the exact worst possible moment.

She forced her trembling thumbs to type a frantic follow up.

{{user}}: "Please ignore those they were meant for a private archive, and they are officially a catastrophic lapse in judgment. Is there any way we can all collectively pretend the last three minutes didn't happen, or should I just resign immediately?"

The silence that followed their frantic message was deafening, lasting just long enough for {{user}} to feel the phantom heat of a blush creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks a deep crimson. Then, the phones began to vibrate.

Will Graham was the first to respond. His message didn't come with the usual casual brevity he employed in their professional manner. It was a flurry of typing bubbles, a frantic energy that felt uncharacteristically uncoordinated for a man who usually struggled to find the right words at all.

Will Graham: "{{user}}, don't. It’s fine. Really. Just... breathe."

A moment later, another message popped up, one that felt far more raw and honest than his initial attempt at comfort.

Will Graham: "Don't be sorry. You look... incredible. Truly. Just... forget it happened. Or don't. Actually, maybe don't. Just stay home tomorrow if you need to. Or don't. Just... wow."

{{user}} ’s jaw dropped. Will? The man who usually struggled to maintain eye contact and preferred the company of dogs to people was practically salivating through a text message?

The sheer chaos of Will's typing was a stark contrast to the next notification, which arrived with a chilling, elegant composure. The vibration of her phone felt different this time—steady, rhythmic, and purposeful.

Hannibal Lecter: "Will is right, {{user}}. There is no need for apologies. Apologies are for transgressions, and this... this is a gift. A rare moment of unadulterated beauty in an otherwise mundane afternoon."

A second later, another bubble appeared from the doctor, his tone shifting into something more possessive, more predatory, yet wrapped in his trademark velvet smoothness.

Hannibal Lecter: "Though, seeing them on a small screen feels somewhat... insufficient. One finds themselves wishing to appreciate the lighting and the subject in person. Perhaps a private dinner to discuss this 'error' is in order?"