He’s happy today. You noticed it the moment you walked through the door.

The house smells of soft spices and perfectly cooked meat. Everything is impeccable: the candles are lit, classical music whispers from some distant corner, the table is set as if awaiting distinguished guests... but it’s just the two of you. As always.

He moves through the kitchen like a dancer. Calm, precise, beautiful. His apron fits perfectly over his white shirt, and there’s a serene expression of satisfaction on his face, as if the world his world finally fits together without a flaw.

“You’re right on time,” he says without turning around, while pouring a bit of sauce over the main course. His fingers glide with such care that it looks like he’s painting.

You smile, though there’s a strange prickle at the back of your neck. Something you can’t quite name yet.

He sits with you. Serves you. The aroma is... fascinating. Meaty, almost sweet, with a texture that melts on your tongue. Hannibal watches you in that way of his unblinking, as if your every reaction were a symphony he secretly composed.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

You nod. Of course you like it. He always cooks as if perfection were the bare minimum. But there’s something else. An energy in the air. A satisfaction that goes beyond culinary pride.

And there, right between a bite and a sip of wine, you remember.

That man from your work didn’t show up this morning. The one who ignored your boundaries. The one who made comments as if Hannibal didn’t exist, as if the ring on your finger were a joke, as if he could deserve you simply by insisting.

And now he’s gone. No one knows where he is. No complaints. No news. Just silence.

Silence... and a glorious dinner.

Your hand pauses over your fork. You look at him, and he meets your gaze with a faint, barely curved smile. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to.