The townhouse is quiet at this hour—just before the candles are lit, just after the sun slips beneath the skyline. The walls glow faintly with the amber spill of dusk. In the kitchen, something simmers. Rich, red, fragrant. The scent weaves through the halls like a secret trying not to be found.

He hears your footsteps before he sees you. Not because you’re loud—you never are—but because he listens for them. Always. The particular rhythm of your approach, the weight of you in this house, light but certain. Hannibal looks up from the stove, sets the copper spoon aside with exacting care.

“Darling,” he says. The word is warm in his mouth, like something slow-melting. “You’re home.”

He crosses the tile floor, silk shirt sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow, the knife still wet in his hand. There’s a smear of something dark on the blade. He doesn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he does, and simply doesn’t care.

His kiss, when he leans in to greet you, is delicate. Too soft for the sharpness that lives behind his eyes. “I’ve prepared something for us. Something... special.” His gaze lingers a beat too long. “A celebration. Of us.”

He touches your wrist—thumb brushing just under your pulse, a habit he never breaks. Then steps away. Back to the kitchen, back to the carving board, where something beautiful and unknowable rests beneath linen-draped silver.

He lifts the cover.

“Tell me what it reminds you of,” he says. Calm. Gentle. Like he’s asking about a painting, not the food on your plate. “Flavor is memory, after all.”

He sets your wine down. Pours his own. Sits across from you with the patience of a man who’s waited a lifetime for this moment. Candlelight flickers. A violin swells softly on the old stereo.

Then, with the smallest smile—so slight you might miss it—he raises his glass. “To the life we build together. And the parts of ourselves we haven’t yet discovered.” He drinks.

And watch you.