The mansion was quiet at that hour, the kind of quiet that hums beneath the skin. The lamps in the sitting room burned low, throwing long shadows across the parquet, the scent of bergamot still clinging to the air from the tea you had shared earlier.

Hannibal appeared in the doorway without announcement. There was a looseness to his stance that was almost theatrical—shoulders set back, head slightly tilted—but it was his hands that held the true performance. The crimson sheen caught the light like a deliberate choice of lacquer, the slow curve of his fingers betraying no haste in his work. He lingered there, watching, as if measuring the seconds it would take for you to react.

You did not look up right away. A page was turned in your book, a note scribbled in the margin. When you finally lifted your eyes to meet his, there was no gasp, no arch of the brow—only that quiet, unshaken recognition he had come to know. A faint sigh escaped you, not at the sight, but at the thought of what would happen if he walked across the carpet.

Closing the book with deliberate care, you rose and crossed the room. The cloth was warm in your hand as you took one of his, guiding it into the linen’s fold. No questions. No reproach. Only the slow, methodical motion of your fingers wiping away the stain. Hannibal’s gaze followed every movement, the faintest smile touching his mouth—something private, like a secret offered and kept in the same breath.