the drive was silent. you kept both hands on the wheel. remembered to signal. parked two houses down—not directly in front. didn’t want to seem too eager.

you checked the mirror. dabbed at you lips. then again. then breathed.

hannibal’s house looked exactly as you remembered it. dark wood, pale stone, windows lit like warm lanterns. it smelled faintly of earth and pine when you stepped onto the walkway. not floral. not sweet. expensive, in the way very few things in your life ever were.

you knocked and the door opened almost immediately.

“good evening, {{user}}.”

his voice was soft. pleasant. practiced.

he stepped aside to let you in.

the interior smelled of something roasting. thyme, maybe. or wine. it was too beautiful a smell to name outright.

you smiled—tight, a little breathless.

“hi. i hope i’m not too early.”

“you’re precisely on time.”

your cheeks flushed slightly. “oh—good. i always worry about that.”

hannibal took your coat before you could shrug it off fully. his hands brushed your shoulders as he lifted the fabric away.

“you look lovely,” he said.