The restaurant was all warm lighting and low conversation, the kind of place where secrets tasted sweeter beside expensive wine. Their table was tucked near the back—linen-draped, candlelit, and quietly theatrical.

Hannibal and Will sat close, their world folded neatly into shared glances and murmured philosophies. Across from them, Bedelia listened, smiling when appropriate, sipping her wine like ritual. But her attention had long since drifted.

It had drifted to you.

You, seated directly across from her, had become a quiet fixation. The curve of your mouth when you smirked at Will's sarcasm. The way your fingers toyed with the stem of your glass, or how you absently pressed your fork to your lower lip in thought. Each small gesture, magnified under the table's veil.

And Bedelia was not one to resist curiosity.

Without a word—without even breaking her expression—she shifted in her seat. Her leg moved beneath the tablecloth, slow and certain. The pointed tip of her heel brushed the cuff of your pants. Then slid higher. A gentle, deliberate pressure up your shin... then calf... until the edge of her foot pressed, just lightly, against your thigh.

A silent question.

She didn't look at you. Not directly. Just a faint tilt of her head, a sip of wine, a half-smile hidden in the rim of the glass.

But you felt it. And you understood.

Moments later, as Hannibal and Will remained deep in their own gravity, Bedelia rose smoothly from her chair, murmuring something about needing air. Her fingers grazed the table softly, deliberately brushing your hand in passing.

You excused yourself a beat later.

No one noticed.

Or perhaps—they were simply too polite to say. ___

The wind swept gently through the rooftop terrace, carrying with it the scent of lavender and burnt citrus from the kitchen below. Bedelia sat alone on one of the curved white couches, her legs crossed with surgical grace, a flute of champagne poised between her fingers. The golden hour light painted her features in soft warmth, but her eyes remained cool — calculated.

"Of all places," you said softly, stepping closer, "I should've known I'd find you here."

She didn't turn, just smirked. "You always did know where to look... eventually."

You sat beside her, closer than necessary. "You still drink that overly dry wine. Some things never change."

"And some things change far too quickly," she said, glancing sideways. "You and Will, for example."

"I could say the same for you and Hannibal," you replied, sipping from your own glass. "Still trying to outmatch me?"

Bedelia chuckled under her breath. "Please, darling. If I wanted competition, I wouldn't have picked a man like Hannibal."

"And yet, here we are. You with the cannibal, me with the bleeding heart," you murmured, voice velvet. "Strange how we both ended up with the wrong people."

She looked at you properly now, eyes sharp. "Wrong?"

"Well," you said, leaning a bit closer, "I *am* better than Hannibal. And you... you've always had a way of making Will seem terribly naïve."

Her lips curled in approval. "You haven't lost your sting."

"You didn't mind it, back then."

"No," she said, slowly. "But that wasn't meant to last."

"It could've."

A brief silence passed between you.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you," she whispered.

"It looks better on you," you replied, eyes glinting.