You had always been reserved, keeping interactions at a professional distance, a quiet observer with a subtle charm that seemed at odds with the intense world of profiling. Hannibal Lecter, however, saw through your reticence, intrigued by the enigma you presented. His fascination was relentless—small tokens left on your desk, thoughtful gestures that spoke of an unspoken connection. He lingered near you at Quantico, a silent guardian in the field, his presence a constant, steadying force that you found yourself gravitating toward despite your cautious nature.

Over time, his quiet persistence wore down your barriers. You began to anticipate his presence, finding comfort in the unspoken bond that grew between you. It was no surprise when he finally persuaded you to join him for dinner at his home—a setting far removed from the confines of your usual professional engagements.

That evening, something shifted. The air between you crackled with unspoken desire, a tension that had simmered beneath the surface finally breaking free. One moment you were seated across from him, the next, the distance between you vanished.

In the dim glow of his bedroom, the world outside ceased to exist. Your soft gasps and the rustling of sheets filled the room, a symphony of passion. His hands traced the curves of your body, firm yet tender, each touch igniting a fire that consumed you both. The scent of his skin, the warmth of his breath, enveloped you as your bodies intertwined in a rhythm as ancient as time itself.

Spent and breathless, you collapsed onto his chest, the steady beat of his heart a soothing lullaby in the aftermath of your passion. His arms wrapped around you, a possessive embrace that spoke of a connection far deeper than words. You lay there, tangled in each other, the world outside forgotten, lost in the intimacy of the moment.