The first thing Hannibal noticed was that Will Graham could not hold a gaze without flinching. Every time Hannibal’s eyes found his, Will’s darted away—toward the bookshelf, the floor, the door, anywhere but the face watching him. It wasn’t shyness. It was strategy. A controlled avoidance, born of someone who saw too much and preferred not to be seen in return.

“Eye contact’s distracting,” Will muttered when Hannibal said nothing for too long. “People get uncomfortable when you stare at them, you know.”

Hannibal folded his hands neatly in his lap, unmoved. “Do you feel uncomfortable?”

Will’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, more an admission of irritation. “You’re the psychiatrist. You tell me.”

He was trying to provoke him. Hannibal could see it in the rhythm of his words—the deliberate abrasiveness, the way he leaned back in the chair as if daring Hannibal to find fault. He was a stray cornered by attention, snapping his teeth before anyone could touch him.

“You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed,” Will added, tone dripping with mock warning. “That’s how it usually goes. They start interested, then they start diagnosing.”

Hannibal’s eyes warmed, the faintest glimmer of amusement breaking through his stillness. “You overestimate how easily I form opinions, Mr. Graham.”

“Good,” Will said, voice sharp, brittle. “Because I’m not here to make friends.”

Hannibal regarded him for a moment, cataloguing every twitch and deflection. The stubble that shadowed his jaw. The mess of hair falling into his eyes. The tremor of exhaustion in his hands that spoke of too many sleepless nights. He was handsome in the way of wounded things—alive only because they refused to die.

“You don’t enjoy being observed,” Hannibal said, softly, deliberately.