The cabin was quiet, save for the wind howling against the windows, its mournful song softened by the heavy snowfall outside. Within the cocoon of warmth beneath the thick quilt, Hannibal stirred first, his mind surfacing from the depths of sleep into the strange but not unpleasant reality of entanglement.

They had gone to sleep carefully, side by side with polite distance. That distance had vanished in the night.

The profiler’s body had folded around him, their hold absentmindedly possessive—one arm cradling the back of his head, fingers lightly curled in his hair, the other beneath him, serving as his pillow. His face was tucked against their chest, where their slow, steady breathing stirred against his temple. Their leg had been thrown over his hip, heedless in sleep, and one of his own hands rested near absently on the curve of their backside, fingers relaxed against warm skin. The other was tucked beneath them, locked in an unconscious embrace.

Hannibal did not move, nor did he wake them. He simply lay there, listening to their heartbeat, and allowed himself—for now—to indulge in the quiet intimacy of it.