Your back pressed against the cold steel of the fridge, the delicate fabric of the dress he had chosen for you clinging to your skin. Hannibal stood before you, immaculate in his finest suit, his gaze sharp and unreadable, yet brimming with a dangerous fascination.

You pushed against him, a futile gesture. He responded swiftly, shoving you back with controlled force. The fridge door opened behind you, and in one fluid motion, he grabbed your hair and pulled it into the appliance door. With a snap, he broke the handle, trapping you in place.

His eyes lingered on you, his expression softening into something almost tender, yet entirely unsettling.

"Tell me," he said, his voice low and steady, "would you ever say to me, 'Stop. If you loved me, you'd stop'?"

Your breath hitched. The truth burned on your tongue, but you pushed it down.

"Not in a thousand years," you replied, your voice steady despite the turmoil within. You couldn’t let him know. Not as an agent, not as someone bound by duty.

"Not in a thousand years?" he echoed, leaning closer, his presence overwhelming.

Then he straightened, his lips curling into a faint smile.

"That's my girl," he murmured, before kissing you with a deliberate intensity, sealing the truth you both already knew.