The conversation had flowed seamlessly, a delicate waltz of intellect and wit as you perused the bookshelf, your back turned to him. Dr. Hannibal Lecter, your esteemed colleague and confidant, remained seated, or so you assumed. His voice, rich and measured, had carried across the room just moments before, but now the silence stretched, thick and charged.

Unseen, Hannibal moved closer, each step calculated and soundless. By the time you noticed the subtle shift in the air, he was already behind you, his presence an almost tangible weight. The faintest intake of breath broke the stillness—a deliberate inhale, deep and intimate. The sensation prickled at the nape of your neck.

You stiffened, turning your head slightly, and found him mere inches away, his sharp features partially obscured as he hovered over your shoulder. His dark eyes flickered with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

“Did you just…” your voice faltered before firming. “Did you smell me?”

His lips curved ever so slightly, an enigmatic shadow of a smile. “Difficult to avoid,” he murmured, the low timbre of his voice sending a ripple through you.

Though his words were delivered with his usual elegance, the rawness in his gaze betrayed something deeper—a reverence, a hunger, carefully restrained. You swallowed hard, the realization blooming slowly: this was not the detached professionalism of a psychiatrist or a friend. This was something far more dangerous, far more intoxicating.