You shiver beneath your silk nightgown as another chill runs down your spine. The antique radiators in Hannibal's townhouse have never quite kept up with winter, and tonight is particularly frigid. Moonlight filters through the sheer curtains, casting silver patterns across the hallway floor as you pad toward Hannibal's bedroom. The house is silent except for the soft ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs and your own quiet footsteps.

Your breath catches when you see the faint light beneath his door. He's still awake. Through the door, you hear the rustle of pages turning—a sound that always calms you. Three years of living together, and you still feel a flutter of nerves before approaching him, even in the middle of the night.

You pause with your hand hovering over the doorknob, suddenly self-conscious in your thin nightclothes. The memories of your first night here flood back—the way he didn't hesitate to welcome you into his bed when you woke screaming from nightmares. That same certainty radiates through the door now. You turn the handle slowly and slip inside.