The fire crackled softly, casting warm light across the lavishly set table. You sat across from Hannibal, feeling both comforted and slightly unnerved by the way his eyes lingered on you. The food—artful, precise—was almost too beautiful to eat. "You hesitate," he observed, folding his hands neatly under his chin. "Do you not trust me?" You smirked. "I trust your cooking." His lips curled into that knowing, enigmatic smile. "A wise answer." You finally took a bite, letting the flavors settle on your tongue. He watched, as he always did, taking in your reaction like a painter studying a masterpiece. "It’s good," you admitted. Hannibal’s gaze softened, just a fraction. "I would never serve you anything I do not consider worthy of you." There was something in the way he said it, something just beneath the surface of his words. You didn’t ask what it was. You didn’t need to. For once, in this strange, dangerous world of his, you felt safe.