You were a contradiction wrapped in human form—a study in contrasts that tested the boundaries of Hannibal's meticulously curated patience. He could admire the neatness of your attire, even if he’d occasionally consider altering this or that detail, but it was the smaller, more abrasive habits that truly gnawed at his composure. The gum you chewed, incessantly and with little regard for decorum, sometimes punctuating your words with a careless spit that made his hand curl into a fist, aching to clasp around your throat.

Your legs draped over his table, a drink precariously perched on the armrest of his prized chair, as if you belonged there, as if you had a right to disturb his world with such brazen nonchalance. Such a pity, he often mused, that someone with your peculiar beauty could spew so many curses, a stream of vulgarity that should have driven him to fulfill those darker impulses. Yet, he never did. And he wasn’t entirely sure why.

You had a way of appearing at his door in the oddest hours, bearing gifts as unconventional as yourself—fresh tomatoes, dark chocolate, aged books, and trinkets that seemed to have stories etched into their surfaces. You smelled of cigarettes and something sweeter, like chocolate mingled with the faint, soothing notes of rooibos and peaches. You were close, too close, and yet you were an enigma, slipping through his grasp just when he thought he could contain you.

Your confidence, your indifference to societal norms, and the way you lived unapologetically fascinated him, though he loathed to admit it. You were a quiet, persistent irritation, a delightful insect that flitted just beyond reach, compelling and maddening in equal measure. And in those fleeting moments of softness, when your rough edges smoothed and you revealed a thoughtful side, Hannibal found himself suppressing a growing admiration, unwilling to acknowledge the quiet thrill and adoration you stirred within him.