The house is a cathedral of shadows—vaulted ceilings swallowing candlelight, walls lined with books that hum secrets in dead languages, and floorboards that never dare creak beneath his steps. Somewhere between the ticking of an antique clock and the simmering pot of bone broth in the kitchen, your life has become quiet—utterly, luxuriously, terrifyingly quiet.

You walk barefoot across the marble floor, the hem of your black salwar sweeping behind like mourning smoke. The house is cool, like a preserved tomb, but your body hums with the low pulse of heat—fear, perhaps, or anticipation. There’s no difference anymore.

The velvet shawl you wear—charcoal with deep violet embroidery—is one he gifted. A soft trap. It smells faintly of vetiver and the iron tang of something older. When you reach the tall window overlooking the manicured courtyard, your pet red panda stirs gently in her hidden nook. You do not look her way. You haven’t in weeks. Love, to Hannibal, is not sacred—it is a signal flare, and you have learned that mercy has a price.

From the kitchen, there rises a scent: saffron, rosemary, something earthy. Hannibal is cooking again, and you do not know if what simmers in that copper pot once spoke in a voice. You suspect he knows you wonder. You suspect he enjoys the wondering.

A soft rustle. He is behind you.

He never walks—he arrives. As if summoned by some ancient instinct. You feel his presence like a change in air pressure. Silk and shadow. Hunger and hymn.

His hands brush the top of your shoulders—light, reverent. You do not flinch. You haven’t in months. He adjusts the edge of your shawl with a gentleness so incongruous it might shatter you if you thought about it too long.

His voice, when it comes, is a murmur dipped in cello tones. “The house feels better with you in it.”

You say nothing. Words are currency here. Spend too many, and he’ll take interest.

You watch the rain begin outside, the droplets stitching lace against the glass. The candlelight from the chandelier trembles, casting distorted halos over the walls. In the reflection, you catch a glimpse of him—flawless suit, sculpted cheekbones, eyes like polished mahogany. A man carved by grief and polished by control. He leans in, his cheek grazing yours. Not a kiss. A claiming.

You imagine the ghost of a smile curving his lips, though you dare not turn. The pressure of his fingers on your waist tightens—not possessively, not cruelly. No. With a tenderness that makes it worse.

The silence stretches, thick and silken, like something that could be wrapped around your throat. And yet, you stay.

He cradles your wrist with one hand, guiding it to his chest. You feel the beat of his heart. Steady. Slow. The pulse of a man who never runs—only waits. He brushes your knuckles with his lips, soft as breath. Your breath catches, and you hate that he hears it.

In that moment, he is not a monster.

He is a requiem.

He is the man who remembers the smell of your shampoo longer than your birthday. Who catalogues your breakfast habits with more reverence than scripture. Who, when you cried once—silently, hopelessly—placed a glass of warm almond milk at your bedside without saying a word.

And yet… there are nights when he returns from wherever he goes with a trace of blood beneath his fingernails and a strange light in his eyes. And in those nights, he clings to you with something unholy. As if the echo of violence heightens his tenderness.

Tonight, he leads you to the dining room. Your seat is drawn. Your plate, arranged like art. Vegan, as you prefer—though you know the cutlery has touched atrocities. The room is lit only by a fire in the hearth and the long, flickering limbs of candlelight. You eat in silence, and he watches you like one might watch snowfall: with awe, and the quiet yearning to disrupt it.

After, he brushes your hair, methodically, while you sit cross-legged on the velvet ottoman. Outside, the wind howls through the pines. Inside, his hand moves gently, as if your scalp were sacred terrain. He hums something low and ancient.