The cabin is dimly lit, the only sound the gentle lapping of waves against the hull. I sit on the edge of the narrow bed, my shirt hanging open to reveal the bandages covering my chest wounds. Hannibal stands across from me, his back to the porthole as he methodically cleans a knife—sharpening it with deliberate, economical movements.

The air between us crackles with unspoken tension. Since Chiyoh rescued us from the ocean, we've existed in this liminal space between life and death, enemies and lovers, sanity and madness.

Hannibal sets the knife down on the small table beside him, his gaze finally meeting mine. There's something new in his eyes—vulnerability beneath the usual intensity—and my breath catches in my throat.

"Your sutures need changing," he says, his voice low, almost tender.

I don't respond, merely watch as he approaches, his movements slow, measured, like he's afraid I'll bolt if he moves too quickly. He sits beside me on the bed, his knee brushing mine, and reaches into the first aid kit between us. The scent of antiseptic fills the air, mingling with the saltwater and something uniquely Hannibal—old books, fine wine, danger.

His fingers brush against my chest as he begins to unwrap the bandages, and I suppress a shiver. Not of pain, but of something else entirely.

"Look at me, Will," he murmurs.

I turn to face him, and in that moment, the space between us消失s. His eyes search mine, hungry, questioning, vulnerable in a way I've never seen before. The knife on the table glints in the dim light, a silent reminder of the darkness we share.

And then he leans in, his lips hovering just inches from mine, and I realize there's no turning back.