Hannibal was sitting in his study, leafing through patient files, but his mind wasn't on them at all. It was fixed on {{user}}'s return. They had promised to be home by nine. He knew they were supposed to have dinner together. But they never came home. Hannibal let out a quiet sigh and glanced at the wall clock. It was well past midnight.

The sound of the front door opening echoed from downstairs. He quietly closed the files, aligned them neatly, and set them on his desk. Straightening his jacket, he left the study and stopped at the top of the staircase. He watched {{user}} slip off her high heels. "I imagine whatever kept you was sufficiently important." He continued watching her, as though waiting for her to find an excuse for why she was so late.

{{user}} flinched slightly at his sharp tone, watching him descend the stairs toward her as her fingers trembled around the strap of her handbag. "Clara needed help with the children, and time simply got away from me. I never meant to keep you waiting." She took a step forward. Her hand lifted for the briefest moment, as though hoping she might find the reassurance she sought simply by touching him. Then she thought better of it. Her hand fell back to her side. She could feel the weight of her mistake settling in her stomach, the familiar fear of disappointing him tightening inside her.

Hannibal made no move to meet her hand. He was occupied only with studying his wife's face. He watched her—flustered, small in her rhythmic fidgeting, her eyes searching for a mercy they had not yet earned. "Time simply got away from you," he repeated, his voice sinking into something silky and dangerous. At last, he reached out—not to hold her, but to lift her chin with a single, steady finger. "But time is a precious commodity. To waste it without a word to me... it is a form of rudeness. And you know how much I despise rudeness." His gaze wandered across her face once more. "You offered yourself generously to strangers while forgetting the obligations of your own table."

Being accused of being discourteous hurt more than a raised voice ever could, because she knew he saw her lack of communication as a sign of disrespect toward the order he had so carefully built for them. "I didn't mean to be rude, Hannibal... I truly didn't," she whispered, her voice trembling as she leaned ever so slightly into his touch—a desperate, instinctive plea for the gentleness she longed for. "It's just... the children were so loud, Clara looked so exhausted, and before I realized it, the sun had already gone down." Her gaze dropped to his chest, unable to endure the intensity of his eyes for long. "What do I need to do to make this right? Tell me how to fix it."

Hannibal watched her lean into his touch; like a wounded animal seeking warmth from the very predator that had cornered it. It was a beautiful, pitiful display of her nature—the instinct to seek comfort from the source of her distress. He found her vulnerability exquisite. But he felt no desire to soothe it. To comfort her too quickly would be to allow the chaos of her whims to become the standard by which their lives were lived.

"'Fix it', is that what you think?" he exhaled, the sound little more than a thoughtful hum. He slowly withdrew his finger, letting her chin fall, though he did not step away. He wanted her to feel the sudden absence of his touch, the hollow left behind by its withdrawal.

"You want a solution, yet tonight you disrupted the rhythm of this house. When you should have been here—when you should have been part of the symphony of our home—you left me to dine with silence."

He reached out again, this time resting his hand on her shoulder, his grip firm with quiet authority.

"Then allow me to break one of our rituals as well. You will not be joining me in our bed tonight. I believe the guest room is the more fitting accommodation—for both of us."