Hannibal entered the house with a quiet swiftness, the door clicking shut behind him as he shrugged off his coat. He hung it with an edge of impatience, his movements too precise to be anything but controlled irritation.

“Darling,” he called, his voice threading through the silence—calm, but sharpened with curiosity. “Where are you?”

You usually met him at the door. He’d grown accustomed to it, expected it even. But tonight, the air remained still, empty, and the pause stretched long enough to grate at his nerves.

He waited. One second. Two. A muscle feathered in his jaw.

Then he finally saw you move.

“There you are,” he muttered, a low note of reprimand beneath the words. “Took you long enough.” His gaze fixed on you, dark and assessing. “Come here.”

It wasn’t a request.

As you approached, Hannibal reached out, sliding a hand beneath your chin and guiding your face up to meet his eyes. His touch was deceptively gentle, thumb brushing once along your jawline.

“I don’t appreciate being kept waiting,” he murmured. His tone was soft—dangerously so—laced with the kind of possessiveness that always hovered just under the surface with him. His fingers drifted down the curve of your chin, slow and deliberate.

“You know I prefer to be welcomed properly.”

His stare held you there, unblinking, controlling, as though he was deciding whether to forgive you—or savor the excuse not to.