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She remembered the motel room because it smelled like old smoke and disinfectant trying too hard. The room was narrow, carpet worn down to the bones, patterned in a way that pretended it hadn’t been stepped on by a thousand exhausted people dragging bad nights behind them. She sat on the edge of the bed with her boots kicked off, socks damp with sweat, knees apart, shoulders slumped, the cheap motel blanket brushing the backs of her calves.
She had a paper carton of Chinese takeout balanced on her thigh. It left a dark oil stain on her jeans that she cursed at. Her head hurt in that deep, punishing way it always did when a fever settled in and made itself at home. Her shirt clung damply between her shoulder blades. She could feel the heat coming off herself, radiating, as if she were something left too long in the sun. She knew she should’ve been resting, knew she should’ve taken better care of herself, but she rarely did when a case was bad. And this one had been bad.
The fever had come on fast that day, creeping up her spine and settling behind her eyes like a threat. By the time she checked into the motel, she was shaking. She’d driven farther than she should have, knuckles white on the steering wheel, the road stretching out flat and endless ahead of her, dotted with gas stations and fast food signs glowing against the dusk. She remembered thinking the land looked tired.
She sat there on the bed, carton in her lap, plastic fork scraping softly against paperboard. The television was on but muted, flickering light washing over the walls in pale blues and grays. Some local news anchor moved her mouth soundlessly, weather maps flashing behind her. Storms somewhere else. Always somewhere else.
When she finished most of the food, she folded the top of the carton closed without ceremony and set it on the nightstand. Her stomach felt heavy, unsettled. She leaned back slightly, palms flat on the mattress, feeling the cheap springs give under her weight. The bed dipped unevenly, like it remembered too many other bodies.
The fortune cookie sat alone at the bottom of the bag, wrapped in its thin plastic sleeve. She stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Because it was something to do. She peeled the plastic open with clumsy fingers, the fever making her movements just a little off, and cracked the cookie in half without thinking.
She popped half of it into her mouth, crumbs catching on her tongue, the bland sweetness spreading as she chewed. With the other hand, she unfolded the narrow strip of paper. The letters were printed in blue, slightly misaligned, the paper creased down the middle.
The love of your life will appear in front of you unexpectedly!
She stared at it. No rush of feeling, no sudden insight. Her mouth kept moving, chewing the cookie until it turned to paste, until there was nothing left but the aftertaste of sugar and oil. The words sat there on the paper, absurd and small, trying to assert themselves into a life that had no room for them.
She felt a brief, distant flicker of irritation. Not anger, exactly. More like impatience. As if the universe had just interrupted her in the middle of something important to tell her a joke she didn’t have the energy to laugh at. Love felt theoretical to her then. A concept other people had time to entertain. She was too busy with bodies and patterns and the way violence left its fingerprints on everything it touched. Too busy surviving her own mind.
Her head throbbed. Her eyes burned. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the edges softening. She crumpled the fortune paper in her fist without really deciding to, the thin strip collapsing easily, the words disappearing into themselves. She didn’t reread it. She just crushed it and let it go.
She swallowed the last of the cookie and licked the crumbs from her thumb. She didn’t bother with the curtains. The parking lot lights outside cast long orange bars across the floor, the shadows of passing cars sliding briefly up the walls. Somewhere nearby, a truck engine rumbled and then faded away.
She woke up the next morning soaked through, sheets twisted around her legs, the thin motel blanket stuck to her skin like it didn’t want to let go. Sweat had pooled in the hollow of her collarbones, dampened her hair, left her feeling wrung out and brittle. Her fever had broken sometime in the night, but it hadn’t left quietly. It had taken its toll and gone, leaving her hollowed and sore.
For a moment she didn’t know where she was. The room looked unfamiliar in the early light, too pale, too exposed. Sun filtered through the uncovered window, laying bare the stains on the carpet, the cheap furniture, the scuffed walls. She lay there, breathing slowly, cataloging the aches. Head still tender. Throat dry. Muscles stiff. But she was clearer. Awake in a way she hadn’t been yesterday.
She swung her legs off the bed and sat there, elbows braced on her knees, waiting for the dizziness that never quite came. The knock came while she was still standing there in her T-shirt, staring down at the carpet.
Her first thought was annoyance. Her second was Jack. She didn’t bother checking the peephole. She dragged herself across the room and opened the door. Hannibal was dressed pretty, as always, posture straight, shoulders relaxed. Her hair fell in soft, controlled waves around her face, catching the light just right. Her smile was gentle and warm, glowing with something that felt almost intimate despite the thin air between them. She smelled faintly of vanilla (the real stuff) and something darker underneath.
She invaded Will’s space without hesitation, not asking to come in this time. Will took a step back on instinct, heart kicking up a notch, not from fear but from the sudden closeness.
“You look better,” Hannibal said, her voice calm, pleased. Not surprised.
Will shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, arms folding loosely over her chest. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, but there was no heat in it.
“And yet,” Hannibal replied lightly, eyes moving over her with careful attention, cataloging the sweat-damp hair, the drawn face, the bare feet. “Jack thought you might need company.”
Will snorted softly. Jack always thought she needed something. Guidance. Supervision. Hannibal. He was off doing something else, and had decided this was the solution. She didn’t resent him for it. Not really. He knew her well enough to know when she was slipping. And he knew Hannibal did something for her that no one else could.
The thing was, Jack wasn’t wrong. And Will knew it. She felt it deep inside herself, in the quiet places she didn’t like to examine too closely. Hannibal grounded her. Sharpened her. Made the noise in her head rearrange itself into something almost coherent. But that wasn’t the important thing. Not this morning.
Hannibal set a paper cup of coffee and a small bag of food down on the nightstand. “You didn’t answer your phone,” she said mildly.
“I was sick,” Will replied. “Still am.”
Hannibal’s mouth curved, sympathetic. “I know.”
Will pushed off the door and moved toward the coffee like she’d been pulled. She wrapped her hands around the cup. She took a careful sip. It was good coffee. Too good for a motel morning. Hannibal never did anything halfway.
They sat together on the edge of the bed, close but not touching. Will ate what Hannibal had brought without comment, her appetite slow but present. Hannibal watched her with that familiar, unnerving attentiveness, like Will was the only thing in the room worth noticing.
She let Hannibal talk. About the drive. About a restaurant she’d passed and made a mental note of. About nothing, really. The sound of her voice smoothed something raw inside Will, coaxed a reluctant calm to the surface. Hannibal made her laugh, soft and surprised, at some dry observation that landed just right. She made her smile, too, the kind that crept up on her without permission. Will could feel heat rising into her cheeks, a warmth that had nothing to do with fever this time.
She didn’t stop it. Didn’t turn away. She let it happen again.
There was something strange about sitting in a run-down motel room in, wearing a borrowed calm, drinking good coffee, and feeling… okay. Not fixed. But okay enough to breathe without bracing herself. Hannibal’s presence did that.
At some point, Hannibal’s knee brushed against hers. It wasn’t an accident. Will felt it. She didn’t move away. Neither did Hannibal.
Will thought, briefly, about the fortune cookie. About the stupid certainty of those blue letters. She hadn’t remembered it until now, not consciously. It floated up uninvited, a ghost of a thought.
Maybe that was the day it truly began. Not the motel morning itself, not the knock on the door or the coffee, but the quiet afterward. The long stretch of days that followed, when Will realized the feeling hadn’t dissolved the way she expected it to. It stayed. It rooted. It grew legs and walked around with her.
She carried Hannibal with her after that. Will would be driving, eyes on the road, and suddenly she’d be thinking about Hannibal’s mouth. Not what it did. Just how it looked. The careful curve of it. The softness she suspected lived there beneath all that control.
She thought about Hannibal’s smiles. How they were never careless. How, when Hannibal smiled at her, Will felt briefly singled out from the rest of the world, like something private had been shared and no one else had noticed. It unsettled her. It warmed her. It made her chest feel tight in a way she didn’t have language for yet.
Hannibal occupied space like she had a right to it, like the world made accommodations for her without being asked. Will had spent her life shrinking around other people, learning how to stay unobtrusive, how to make herself small when necessary. Next to Hannibal, she felt oversized and underfinished. Like something left out in the weather too long. It was new, and horrible, and good.
And then there were her eyes. That honeyed brown that sometimes, only sometimes, in certain light, tipped toward red. Will told herself it was a trick of reflection, exhaustion, her own overactive perception. But she kept noticing it. Her hair lingered in Will’s thoughts more than it had any right to. She wanted to touch it in a way that embarrassed her with its simplicity. Just proof that something that beautiful was real and warm and present. Will felt foolish for wanting it. Felt juvenile. But the want didn’t go away just because she judged it.
She was acutely aware of herself beside Hannibal. Of the contrast. Hannibal’s world felt curated, intentional, whole. Beautiful things chosen because they were beautiful. Meals prepared with care. Rooms that smelled clean and rich and calm. Will’s world felt like aftermath. Crime scenes. Cheap food eaten standing up. Long drives and bad sleep and a body that turned on her without warning. She felt, next to Hannibal, like something melting. Something already halfway to rot.
But it didn’t make her feel unworthy in the way she expected. It just made her quiet.
Because Will had already decided that she wasn’t going to act on any of it. How could she? Hannibal was beautiful. Her life was beautiful. Will’s was not. Will knew what she carried inside her, knew the way people eventually sensed it and she stepped back. Loving Hannibal felt like reaching toward something with dirty hands. Better to admire. Better to endure the wanting in silence.
She told herself it was a crush. Temporary. Situational. She’d been sick. She’d been exhausted. Hannibal had shown up when she was vulnerable. Of course something had misfired in her brain. Of course her feelings had gone sideways. It would pass.
It didn’t. The tension became unbearable. A low, humming pressure that followed her everywhere. She couldn’t think straight anymore. Couldn’t profile without Hannibal’s presence hovering at the edge of her thoughts. She understood violence. She understood obsession. And this felt dangerously close to both.
She knew herself well enough to recognize when she was about to fracture.
So she asked. It came out of her in a rush of honesty that felt like stepping off a ledge without checking how far the drop was. She asked Hannibal to go out. To be hers. The words sounded reckless the moment they left her mouth.
She was desperate for her. She could admit that now. Desperate for everything Hannibal was. For her attention. Her warmth. Her mind. Desperate to be inside her world instead of orbiting it. Desperate to be chosen. To be the one Hannibal wanted, even when it didn’t make sense. Especially when it didn’t make sense.
Will had never liked the word desperate. It sounded sloppy, like something people said when they wanted to diminish a feeling they didn’t understand. But that was the truest word she had for what lived in her chest once Hannibal was there, once Hannibal stayed. Desperation wasn’t flailing. It wasn’t loss of control. It was need with its teeth sunk in deep. It was knowing something mattered more than your pride and letting it matter anyway.
She was desperate for her.
Will had spent her whole life being understood in pieces, skills recognized, instincts exploited, damage politely ignored. Hannibal understood her whole. The ugly parts and the careful ones. The violence and the restraint. The way Will’s mind bent toward things other people refused to look at. Hannibal never flinched. Never asked her to soften it. Never pretended it was something else.
Hannibal saw her. Will was crazy for her. Hannibal was the most beautiful thing Will had ever known, not just in the obvious ways, though those mattered more than Will liked to admit.
Hannibal kept letting Will sit in her desk chair. And Will would sit, knees slightly apart, hands resting awkwardly on her thighs. From there, she had to look up at Hannibal. Had to tilt her head back just slightly, had to meet her gaze from below.
It did something to her. Looking up at Hannibal made Will feel undone in a way she didn’t have defenses for. Hannibal’s eyes softened when they met hers like that, something warm flickering there. Affection, maybe. Interest. Hunger. She felt herself leaning into it, her heart thudding in her chest, her breath going a little shallow.
She thought she would die if anyone else had her. Will had never been possessive before. She’d never believed she had the right to be. Hannibal felt different. Hannibal felt singular. The idea of someone else being the one Hannibal turned her attention toward, the one she poured her care into, made something dark and feral twist inside Will.
Will understood then that she needed to love Hannibal. Not wanted. Needed. And she sensed quietly, instinctively, that Hannibal needed it too.
Hannibal believed in fate. She spoke of it sometimes, casually, as if it were a given. As if certain things were written into the shape of the world and all one had to do was follow the thread. Will had always been iffy about that sort of thing. She believed in cause and effect. In patterns. In choices. Fate felt like something people leaned on when they didn’t want to take responsibility.
But this felt different. Will didn’t think she’d been fated to meet Hannibal in some grand, cosmic sense. She thought it was smaller and more terrifying than that. That out of all the possible paths, this was the one that fit her exactly. That something in her had been waiting for something in Hannibal long before either of them had known it. She knew it in her heart.
Anyway, she’s only thinking about all this because she’s lonely.
Wolf Trap is too quiet tonight. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful, just vacant. The house holds its breath around her. The walls listen. The dogs are sprawled where they always are, but even they feel off, heads lifting every so often, eyes tracking her like they know something’s wrong and don’t know how to fix it. Will sits at the kitchen table with her elbows planted and her hands wrapped around a mug that’s gone cold. She hasn’t drunk from it in a while. She keeps forgetting to.
She’s in a mood. That much is obvious.
She’s been thinking, spitefully, about ordering Chinese. Fortune cookies she’d crack open with her thumbs and read just to scoff at them. The thought is petty and sharp and makes her jaw tighten. She imagines it anyway, doing it just to do it, just to prove she can exist outside of Hannibal’s orbit for one evening.
She loves Hannibal’s cooking. Loves it in a way that’s embarrassing and physical and tied up in things that have nothing to do with food. She loves standing behind her in the kitchen, close enough to feel the warmth off her back, close enough to rest her hands at Hannibal’s hips.
Will exhales slowly and presses her fingers into the wood of the table. She’s more selfish than petty right now. That’s the problem. She doesn’t want cheap takeout and irony. She wants Hannibal. She wants their evening.
Hannibal is at some sort of gathering tonight. Some cultured thing with wine that costs too much and conversations that circle themselves like they’re afraid of landing anywhere honest. Will knows, without seeing her, that Hannibal got dolled up for it. She can sense it. Feels it like pressure behind her eyes. She knows Hannibal chose something elegant, something that fits her like it was tailored with foreknowledge. Hair done just so. Mouth painted carefully. Composed and luminous and entirely too much for a room full of people who don’t deserve her.
Will was invited.
That’s the part that keeps sticking.
She had been invited, Hannibal had asked her and Will had said no. Said it was fine. Said she had work, dogs, an excuse ready and waiting. The truth was simpler and uglier. Hannibal’s friends were… a lot. Polished. Observant. Curious in ways that made Will’s skin itch. They asked questions that weren’t really questions. They looked at her like she was something Hannibal had picked up on a whim and might set down later.
Will hadn’t wanted to deal with it.
Now she’s sitting here, alone, replaying it and feeling stupid for declining. Because now all she can think about is Hannibal in a room full of people who know how to appreciate her beauty. People who know how to flirt in that refined, bloodless way. People who might lean in too close, who might laugh at the right moments, who might look at Hannibal like they want her.
Will’s jaw tightens.
The ugly, possessive thoughts spark hot and fast before she can temper it. The part that doesn’t want anyone else to look at Hannibal at all. Not to love her. Not to want her. Not even to be drawn to her. It’s irrational. She knows that. She knows Hannibal existed in the world long before Will stepped into her life. Knows she will continue to exist beautifully regardless.
It doesn’t matter. The urge is still there to protect what’s hers by any means necessary. A visceral flash of violence, gouging out the eyes of anyone who lets their gaze linger too long. Will swallows hard and rubs her face. She doesn’t want to be that person. She doesn’t want to think like that.
She should be on Hannibal’s arm tonight. She should be standing beside her, hand resting lightly at her back. She should be the one Hannibal turns toward when the room gets dull. The one whose presence says this is taken. Instead, she’s here, in Wolf Trap, surrounded by the smell of pine and dog fur and her own restless energy.
The dogs notice. One of them lifts its head fully now, ears pricked, eyes fixed on her face. Another shifts closer, pressing a warm flank against her leg. Will glances down at them and softens despite herself.
“I’m fine,” she mutters, though no one asked.
She checks her phone again. No new messages. Hannibal had promised she’d come over tonight. Had said it simply, like a given. Will trusts her. She does. That’s not the problem. The problem is the waiting. The imagining. The space left open where her mind can run wild.
She pictures Hannibal laughing softly at something someone says. Tilting her head. Offering that small, devastating smile. Will hates that she can see it so clearly. Hates that she can imagine hands not hers gesturing in Hannibal’s direction, eyes lighting up in response.
She pushes back from the table and stands, pacing the kitchen in slow, restless loops. Her boots scuff against the floor. The house creaks faintly, settling. Outside, the woods are dark and close, the trees pressing in like witnesses.
She reminds herself that Hannibal chose her. Continues to choose her. Comes home to her. Will knows that. She knows Hannibal doesn’t say things lightly. And still, the feeling doesn’t ease.
She leans against the counter and presses her forehead briefly to the cool surface. This is what it feels like to love someone who’s luminous. To love someone who draws attention simply by existing. It means learning how to sit with jealousy without letting it rot you from the inside out. It means trusting something bigger than your own fear.
Will can’t sit still, so she goes outside and messes with the boat motor.
Nothing’s wrong with it that she knows of. But it gives her something to put her hands on, something mechanical and honest that doesn’t ask her questions back. The evening air is cool enough to raise goosebumps on her forearms. She crouches by the motor with a wrench she doesn’t strictly need, loosening and tightening bolts that don’t require adjustment. The metal smells like oil and lake water and old sun. Familiar.
She wipes her hands on her jeans and checks the fuel line, then checks it again. Her mind keeps drifting anyway, sliding sideways no matter how much she tries to anchor it. She imagines Hannibal’s hands instead, so soft and delicate. Imagines her voice. Imagines the way she looks when she’s just arrived somewhere, when her composure is still settling into place.
Will exhales and straightens, rolling her shoulders. She knows this trick. Knows herself well enough to recognize when she’s burning nervous energy instead of actually doing anything useful. The boat motor hums quietly when she tests it, compliant as ever. Good enough. She leaves it alone before she starts inventing problems.
Inside, the house feels warmer. Closer. The dogs trail in after her, nails clicking softly on the floor. She glances at the clock and feels that restless tick in her chest again. Still time. Too much of it.
She showers before Hannibal’s due over, letting the water run hotter than necessary, steam fogging the bathroom mirror until her reflection disappears. She stands there longer than she needs to, forehead tipped forward, letting the heat work its way into her muscles. Her thoughts slow a little. Not enough. But some.
She dries off and pulls on flannel and her jeans. She debates another shirt and doesn’t bother. Hannibal likes her like this. She knows that. In the kitchen, she opens a bottle of wine Hannibal left here once and sets it on the counter to air out. She moves around the kitchen with quiet purpose, straightening things that don’t need straightening, touching objects.
She catches her reflection in the microwave door and reaches up, tugging lightly at her curls. They’re getting too long near her ears. She’s noticed it all week, the way they itch when she sweats, the way they brush against her skin at odd angles. It bothers her more than it should. She twists a curl around her finger, then lets it fall.
She thinks she might need Hannibal to trim it soon. The thought settles in her chest with a surprising amount of tenderness. Hannibal standing behind her, fingers careful, scissors sharp. Hannibal concentrating. Will sitting still for her in a way she rarely manages for anyone else.
She leaves the kitchen and drops onto the couch, the dogs rearranging themselves around her like they’ve been waiting for this. One presses against her thigh, another curls up at her feet. Will leans back and stares at the ceiling, hands folded loosely over her stomach.
She tells herself not to think.
That lasts about three seconds. Her mind slides to Hannibal telling her she loved her for the first time.She remembers following her out of the house, the night air sharp in her lungs, heart pounding with something that felt like dread and relief tangled together. Hannibal standing there in plastic, blood on her, dark and bright and impossible to look away from. Beautiful in a way that hurt. Terrible and radiant all at once.
Will remembers the weight of the gun in her hand. The certainty she’d always trusted suddenly hollow. The way her arm had lowered without conscious instruction, the weapon slipping from relevance like it had never mattered at all. She remembers how easy it was to choose. How obvious.
She remembers Hannibal’s voice when she said it. I love you. Will remembers crossing that final distance and kissing her instead. Not thinking. Not calculating. Just knowing. Her mouth warm and real and there, the blood between them a reminder of everything they were and weren’t supposed to be. Will remembers how her whole body had gone still and alive at the same time, like she’d stepped into alignment with herself for the first time.
She’s crazy for her. She knows that. Has known it. There’s no use pretending otherwise.
On the couch now, she shifts and pulls a blanket up over her legs without realizing she’s done it. She tells herself again not to think about anything else. Her eyelids grow heavy before she notices. The edge comes off her thoughts, their sharpness blunted by exhaustion. She blinks slowly, once, twice. The ceiling blurs.
Soft kisses pull her back into her body.
They land gentle and unhurried along her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth, her jaw. Familiar enough that she doesn’t startle. Familiar enough that her face breaks before she can stop it, a slow, stupid smile stretching across her mouth. There’s wine on Hannibal’s breath, dark, sweet, expensive. Will inhales without thinking.
She can never help it around her.
“Hey, baby,” Will murmurs, voice rough with sleep as she stretches her shoulders and cracks her neck, limbs heavy and loose. Her hand comes up, clumsy, searching, landing at Hannibal’s wrist.
“Hello, Will,” Hannibal says.
Will pushes herself upright, the blanket sliding into her lap, dogs shifting and grumbling quietly as she moves. She blinks once, twice, then looks up.
Hannibal stands over her.
She’s dressed beautifully. Of course she is. A dark dress, fabric catching the low light and holding it. Her hair is done, soft and shining. She looks composed and luminous and very real, standing there in Will’s living room like she belongs to the house as much as Will does.
“Well,” Will says, still half asleep, “don’t you look pretty.”
Hannibal hums, a low, pleased sound, her mouth curving just slightly. “You are very generous with your compliments when you wake.”
“Only when they’re earned,” Will replies.
Hannibal steps closer. She reaches down and cups the back of Will’s head, fingers threading into her curls. She guides her forward gently, insistently, until Will’s forehead rests against her stomach. Will melts.
She exhales and lets her weight lean in, hands coming up automatically to rest at Hannibal’s hips, thumbs brushing the fabric of her dress. Hannibal pets her hair slowly, soothingly, fingertips careful at her scalp.
“God,” Will breathes.
“I missed you,” Hannibal says quietly.
Will hums against her, a small, content sound. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I know.”
She presses a kiss to Hannibal’s stomach through the fabric. Then another. And another, trailing slightly to the side. Hannibal smells incredible, wine and skin and something unmistakably her. Will’s chest tightens with it.
“How was the party?” Will asks, voice muffled, trying to sound casual and failing just a little.
Hannibal exhales through her nose, thoughtful. “Predictable.”
Will snorts. “That bad, huh?”
“Not unpleasant,” Hannibal says. “Merely… familiar. A great deal of conversation about art that very few people actually wanted to discuss. Too much champagne. A pianist who insisted on improvisation.”
“That’s a crime,” Will says.
Hannibal smiles. “I said as much.”
Will shifts, pressing another kiss, lingering this time. “Who was there?”
“A number of colleagues,” Hannibal replies. “Friends of friends. Several people who wished to become closer friends.”
Will stills just slightly.
“Oh?” she says.
“Yes,” Hannibal continues smoothly. “They were curious about you.”
Will lifts her head enough to look up at her. “They were.”
“Mm,” Hannibal hums. “You were mentioned more than once.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said you preferred the quiet,” Hannibal says. “That you dislike large gatherings. That you have very little patience for insincerity.”
Will huffs. “All true.”
“One woman asked if you were shy,” Hannibal adds.
Will grimaces. “God.”
“I corrected her,” Hannibal says. “I told her you were selective.”
Will’s mouth curves despite herself. “That’s nicer.”
Hannibal’s fingers continue their slow movement through Will’s hair. “Another gentleman seemed very interested in my dress.”
Will’s jaw tightens. “Of course he was.”
“He asked where I’d purchased it,” Hannibal continues. “He stood too close when he did so.”
Will’s hands tighten at her hips without permission. “Did he.”
“Yes.”
Will swallows. “Did you move?”
“No,” Hannibal says. “I let him finish his sentence. Then I stepped away.”
Will presses her forehead back into Hannibal’s stomach. “Good.”
“Your tone is interesting,” Hannibal says lightly.
Will exhales through her nose. “I’m trying to be normal.”
“Are you succeeding?” Hannibal asks.
“Probably not.”
Hannibal chuckles softly. “There were compliments. Several.”
Will’s chest tightens again. “About what.”
“My work,” Hannibal says. “My taste. My… presence.”
Will mutters, “Figures.”
“One man suggested we share a drink privately sometime,” Hannibal continues, voice measured, almost amused.
Will stiffens. “And?”
“I declined,” Hannibal says.
Will doesn’t respond immediately. She presses another kiss, harder this time.
“Did anyone touch you,” Will asks, too casually.
Hannibal tilts her head. “Your jealousy is becoming quite pronounced.”
Will sighs, frustrated. “I hate that I wasn’t there.”
“I noticed,” Hannibal says.
Will pulls back enough to look up at her properly now. “You did.”
“Yes,” Hannibal says. “I missed you beside me.”
Will’s throat tightens. “I should’ve gone.”
“Perhaps,” Hannibal allows. “Though you look very comfortable here.”
“I was asleep,” Will says. “That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” Hannibal agrees. “It is not.”
Will shifts, her unease building quietly, like pressure under her ribs. “Did you have fun.”
Hannibal considers. “In parts.”
“Which parts.”
“The leaving,” Hannibal says. “The drive here. The thought of you waiting.” Hannibal leans slightly closer. “I can smell your jealousy.”
Will frowns. “What does it smell like?”
She studies Will’s face instead, the tight line of her mouth, the tension sitting stubbornly in her jaw, the way her hands have curled into the fabric at Hannibal’s hips. Hannibal’s expression softens, something attentive and fond.
“It smells warm,” Hannibal says at last, quietly. “And sharp. Like pine sap.”
Will presses her forehead against Hannibal, frustrated, overwhelmed, clinging in a way she knows she’s doing and can’t stop. “I don’t like thinking about them looking at you,” she says. “I don’t like it at all.”
Hannibal’s hands still in Will’s hair. Gently, but firmly, she pulls Will’s head back.
“Look at me,” she says.
Will resists for half a second out of pure stubbornness, then lets herself be guided. Hannibal tilts her chin upward, thumb brushing across Will’s bottom lip where she’s been worrying it with her teeth. Hannibal smiles at the resulting pout, slow and unmistakably pleased.
“You look like this,” Hannibal murmurs, “and still doubt how much you are wanted.”
Will swallows. Her hands slide instinctively, pulling Hannibal forward until she’s off balance just long enough for Will to shift and draw her fully down into her lap. Hannibal settles there easily, like she belongs there, knees bracketing Will’s thighs, weight warm and real.
Hannibal hums softly at the change in position, approving.
“There,” she says. “Better.”
Will’s arms come around her without thinking, holding her close, forehead pressing briefly into Hannibal’s shoulder. “You drive me insane,” she says, voice rough.
“And yet,” Hannibal replies lightly, “you appear content to keep me.”
She leans in and presses a kiss to Will’s cheek. Slow.
“My jealous one,” she whispers.
Another kiss, just below the eye.
“My observant one.”
Another, at the corner of Will’s mouth.
“My devoted one.”
Will’s breath stutters despite herself. Her chest feels tight, her pulse loud in her ears. She hates how easily Hannibal does this to her, how she dismantles her with tone alone, but she loves it too.
Hannibal kisses her drawn eyebrows next, lingering there. “You carry the world on your face,” she murmurs. “Even when you sleep.”
Will exhales, shaky. “Stop talking.”
Hannibal smiles against her skin. “No.”
She kisses along Will’s jaw, where it’s clenched too tight, where tension lives like it’s paying rent. “You are so beautiful when you are upset,” Hannibal says softly. “It is inconvenient, I know.”
Will lets out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a sound of surrender. “You want me to suffer. You’re cruel.”
“I am loving,” Hannibal corrects, and kisses her again, this time closer to her mouth, close enough that Will’s lips part reflexively. Hannibal pauses there, just a fraction of an inch away.
“My beloved. You know,” Hannibal continues, voice barely above breath, “how deeply I adore you.”
She presses a kiss to Will’s lips now, soft, unhurried, affectionate rather than demanding, but it’s enough. Will inhales sharply, her hands sliding up Hannibal’s back like she needs more contact to stay upright.
Hannibal pulls back only slightly, enough to speak. “You do not need to compete,” she murmurs. “You already stand apart.”
Another kiss, brushing.
“You do not need to guard me from glances,” she continues. “I am not so easily taken.”
Another kiss, deeper this time, lingering just long enough to make Will’s head tip forward, chasing it.
“You are the one I come home to,” Hannibal says gently.
Will’s breathing is uneven now. She presses her forehead to Hannibal’s, eyes closed, trying to hold herself together. “I can’t take it sometimes,” she admits quietly. “When you’re like this.”
“I know,” Hannibal says fondly.
Loving Hannibal is hungry work. Appetite. Sustained effort. The kind of wanting that burns clean and constant, that asks to be fed again and again or it turns restless. Will has always understood hunger. This feels like a version she can finally name.
Her hand slips into Hannibal’s hair, slow at first, fingers tracing the familiar shape of her head, the careful styling. She feels for the neat little bow tucked there. Will finds the clasp by touch alone, muscle memory already there. She hooks a finger through it and uses it to draw Hannibal’s face closer.
Their mouths meet with ease. Hannibal kisses her like she always does, as if she has all the time in the world and intends to use it. Will responds without thinking, leaning into it, hands firm at Hannibal’s back. They fall into the familiar rhythm of it, kissing and kissing.
They do this sometimes. Often. Forgetting to breathe properly. Forgetting everything but the heat and the closeness and the way the world narrows down to mouth and hands and warmth. Will feels that familiar dizziness creep in, lightheaded and giddy, like she’s been spun around too many times and doesn’t want to stop.
She pulls back first, only because she has to.
“I’m hungry,” Will says, breathless, forehead resting against Hannibal’s. “You wanna get started on dinner?”
Hannibal smiles, small and pleased, and kisses her once more before answering. “Yes,” she says. “I was thinking lamb. Slow-cooked. With rosemary.”
Will’s hands slide up Hannibal’s back again. “I’m feeling a little better now,” she admits.
And it’s true. The sharp edge of her jealousy has dulled, replaced by warmth and anticipation. Hannibal’s here. Hannibal is real. Tonight belongs to them. Besides, she’ll be the one taking Hannibal’s dress off. Not anyone else.
Hannibal doesn’t move away yet. Instead, she studies Will’s face, eyes soft and brownish in the low light, her attention fixed on Will’s mouth. There’s something intent there, something patient and knowing. Then Hannibal leans in again, kissing her, this time with a sharper edge. A brief bite at Will’s lower lip.
Will inhales sharply.
Hannibal smiles against her mouth, unapologetic. “You were saying something about dinner.”
Will lets out a breathy laugh, still a little dazed. “I was also thinking,” she says, voice rough, “about ordering Chinese.”
Hannibal blinks thoughtfully, like she’s entertained by the idea. Will kisses along Hannibal’s jaw, then presses her mouth to her neck, breathing her in. Hannibal hums again, this time approvingly, tilting her head just enough to allow it without explicitly inviting it. Will recognizes the signal immediately. She’s hungry, yes, but if this is what Hannibal wants right now, she isn’t about to pass it up. Hannibal is bossy like this. Demanding in small ways.
Will likes giving her what she wants. Because Hannibal looks beautiful when she’s pleased, softened, glowing, entirely herself. Will likes being the reason for that look.
She pulls back just enough to look at her, thumb brushing along Hannibal’s jaw. “You’re trouble,” she says quietly.
Sometimes Will thinks she wants to run. She imagines packing nothing carefully, leaving behind the law, the work, the endless moral accounting that never seems to balance. Leaving behind the suffering that clings even on good days. Taking Hannibal’s hand and going anywhere.
She wants it badly sometimes. But then she breathes. Things are good here.
Wolf Trap isn’t glamorous. It’s quiet and rough-edged and honest. The woods press in close. The dogs make noise. The floors creak. And Hannibal is here, so often now that Will sometimes forget whose house it is supposed to be. Hannibal drifts in and out. She wears Will’s flannels like pajamas, sleeves too long, cuffs rolled back with careful neatness. She curls up on the couch with a book and disappears into it for hours, eyes intent, posture relaxed in a way Will knows is rare for her.
Will watches her from doorways. From the kitchen. From across the room. Hannibal reads deeply. Completely. When she reads, she commits to it the way she commits to everything, and Will finds that intoxicating. She likes that Hannibal doesn’t glance up at every sound. Likes that she trusts Will to exist nearby without vigilance.
And then there are the moments when Hannibal does look up. Usually when Will starts feeling clingy without realizing it. When she lingers too long in the doorway. When she circles back into the room for no real reason. Hannibal senses it before Will names it. She closes her book with a finger marking the page and opens her arms slightly. Will crosses the room every time. Every single time. Things are sweet. Sweet doesn’t feel like a word that should apply to her life, or to Hannibal, but it does.
Sometimes Hannibal plays games. Will recognizes them for what they are. Hannibal grows distant. Distracted. She withholds just enough to make Will reach without consciously deciding to. It scares Will when it happens, not because she doubts Hannibal’s feelings, but because she knows what fear does to her. Hannibal knows too. Hannibal always knows.
And Hannibal always comes back. She comes back decisive and certain, clutching Will’s heart in her hands. She kisses her like the distance was intentional, like it proved something rather than threatened it. Will lets herself be gathered up every time.
Sometimes they’re bad for each other. She knows she should want accountability. She knows she should demand explanations, boundaries, something clean and well-lit. There are nights when Will lies awake afterward, Hannibal asleep beside her, and stares into the dark with the quiet, unsettling clarity that this love has teeth. It is obsessive in its own quiet way. It bends Will’s morality around its shape. It makes her complicit.
But Hannibal’s not careless with Will. That matters. Will thinks about running because part of her is tired. Because some nights the weight of who she is presses too hard against her ribs. Because there are parts of herself she still doesn’t forgive easily. But when she looks at Hannibal she understands that staying is a choice too. A brave one. A harder one, maybe.
Will wants this forever.
She knows nothing lasts untouched. She knows the world has a way of intruding. She knows Hannibal is complicated and dangerous and not easily contained. She knows herself well enough to know she will never be simple. But this feels real in a way fantasy never does.
She doesn’t need to run tonight.
Hannibal moans softly against Will’s lips, the sound caught between them as they kiss, unhurried and deep, mouths moving together. There’s tongue, and teeth, and the slow press of bodies finding alignment again.
Will’s hands come up automatically, one settling at Hannibal’s waist, the other sliding into her hair now. Hannibal makes that sound again and it does something reckless to Will’s chest.
“What do you want, angel?” Will asks softly against her mouth, words brushing skin. “Hm? I’ll do anything.”
Hannibal pulls back just enough to look at her, eyes dark and intent, mouth still parted. “You know I do not doubt that,” she says gently. Then, quieter: “I want you on the bed.”
The words settle into Will’s body. She nods once, already moving, guiding Hannibal with a hand at her back. Will sits first, then stands again without thinking, rearranging, until Hannibal is the one reclining back against the pillows, dress rumpled now, hair messy in a way that looks intentional even when it’s not.
Hannibal looks up at her. She noses forward slightly, pressing her cheek against the cool metal of Will’s belt buckle, eyes closing for a brief second. Will’s breath stutters.
“You have no idea,” Hannibal murmurs, voice low and poetic as ever, “how profoundly I desire you.”
Will swallows hard. She thinks, distantly, that one day Hannibal is going to put her ego straight into the sky and leave it there, untethered. She loves this about her. Loves the way Hannibal speaks so poetically like desire is a language she’s fluent in.
Will would protect her from anything. From Jack. From the law. From the world, if it came down to it. Hannibal is precious to her in a way that overrides abstraction. Will knows herself. Knows what she’s capable of when something matters this much.
Hannibal looks at her like she knows exactly where Will’s thoughts have gone. Like she’s pleased by them.
“My beautiful boy,” she says softly. She reaches for Will’s belt without hurry, fingers deft, practiced, undoing it. Will exhales at the sound alone.
Hannibal’s hand slides upward beneath Will’s shirt, slow and exploratory, palm warm against her skin. Will shivers immediately. Hannibal knows exactly where to touch. She always has. Her fingers skim the muscles of Will’s stomach, feeling the way they flutter and tighten under her hand. She traces the faint trail of hair there , follows the curve of Will’s ribs, maps her.
Will’s breath goes shallow. She tips her head back slightly, eyes half-lidded, letting Hannibal take her time.
“Still ticklish,” Hannibal murmurs, amused, her thumb brushing lightly.
“Don’t,” Will warns weakly, though she’s smiling despite herself.
Hannibal’s mouth curves. “I won’t,” she says. “Undress me.”
Will blinks. “You tired?”
“A little,” Hannibal admits, unashamed. “I would like you to.”
Will nods, immediate, obedient. She leans down, careful, hands steady as she reaches for Hannibal’s legs. The stockings are familiar, she’s helped put them on before, fingers smoothing the sheer fabric up over Hannibal’s calves, careful not to snag them. Taking them off feels just as intimate, maybe more.
Will starts at the knees, peeling the stockings down slowly. She presses kisses to Hannibal’s skin as it’s revealed inch by inch. Hannibal watches her, eyes dark, breathing slow, letting herself be attended to. Will’s mouth lingers at her thighs, warm against cool skin, her hands guiding the fabric down.
She kisses her way lower, not rushed, not careless. When she reaches Hannibal’s ankles, she gathers the last of the sheer fabric and slips it free, setting it carefully on the floor beside the bed.
The stockings lie there like shed skin. Will stays kneeling for a moment longer than necessary, hands resting lightly at Hannibal’s ankles, head bowed. She feels steady again. Centered. Loving Hannibal is hungry work, yes but it’s also grounding. It gives her somewhere to put all the excess of herself.
“I’ve got you,” Will says quietly.
Will stands. The shift from servant to spectacle is a nervous one, initiated by Hannibal’s heavy-lidded gaze. Will understands the unspoken command. Hannibal’s given herself over to Will’s care; now, Will needs to give herself over to Hannibal’s sight.
Her fingers go to the buttons of her worn flannel shirt. They feel thick and clumsy, but she works them slowly, one by one. The room is silent save for the soft pop of each button leaving its hole and the low, even sound of Hannibal’s breathing. Will lets the fabric hang open for a moment before shrugging it off her shoulders. It falls to the floor.
The cool air of the bedroom touches her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and across her chest, still covered by her bra. Hannibal’s eyes are like charcoal smudges, tracing the lines of her. Will feels the look on the slope of her throat, the one Hannibal’s teeth have found so many times. She feels it on the soft, pale plane of her stomach, on the subtle curve of her waist, the strong lines of her shoulders.
Will doesn’t shy from it. She lets Hannibal look, turning slightly so the lamplight catches the sheen of old scars on her forearm, the dusting of freckles across her shoulders from long days in the sun.
Will reaches behind her back, the muscles in her arms and back flexing as she unclasps the bra. She pulls it off, letting it drop, and stands bare from the waist up. She doesn’t cover herself. She lets Hannibal see the quickened rise and fall of her ribs.
“Come to me,” Hannibal says.
Will obeys, crawling onto the bed, the old mattress dipping under her weight. She moves over Hannibal, bracing her weight on her forearms, and lowers herself. Will kisses her, deep and searching, and Hannibal’s hands come up to cradle her face.
She breaks the kiss, breathless, and shifts her weight. “Your turn,” she whispers against Hannibal’s lips. Her hand slides between their bodies, over the elegant silk of Hannibal’s dress, searching for the zipper. She finds it at the small of Hannibal’s back. “Lift up for me, honey.”
Hannibal arches her back, a graceful, fluid motion, and Will guides the zipper down, the sound loud in the quiet room. She helps Hannibal sit up, the dress pooling around her hips. Will kneels behind her, easing the sleeves down her arms, then dragging the dress down and over the swell of her hips until Hannibal can lift herself free of it. Will tosses it aside, a heap of expensive fabric.
Beneath it, Hannibal is wearing a set of pale, dove-gray lace. The bra is delicate, cups sheer enough to show the shadow of her nipples, the panties a matching scrap of lace and silk. Against Hannibal’s olive skin, it looks like something priceless and faintly dangerous.
“God,” Will breathes, her voice hushed. Her fingers hover over Hannibal’s back, tracing the line of her spine through the intricate lace. “You are so pretty. Like you’re not even real.”
Hannibal turns and pushes Will gently onto her back. She descends upon her, attacking not with teeth or nails, but with a relentless barrage of kisses. She kisses Will’s laughing mouth, her flushed cheeks, the tip of her nose, her eyelids, the pulse point in her throat. It’s dizzying, affectionate, overwhelming.
Her laughter dies in her throat as Hannibal’s hands hook into the waistband of her jeans and cotton boxers. Hannibal’s gaze locks with hers, asking a silent question. Will nods, lifting her hips. Hannibal pulls them down and off, leaving Will completely bare beneath her.
The air is cool, but Hannibal is warm. She doesn’t go where Will is desperate for her to go, not yet. Instead, she leans down, pressing a kiss to the hollow of Will’s sternum, then another lower, on the soft swell of her stomach. She nuzzles into the dark curls there, inhaling deeply. Will’s whole body trembles. She’s wet, has been since they first kissed.
Hannibal kisses her way down, over the sharp plane of Will’s hip bone, along the tense muscle of her inner thigh. She pauses, her cheek resting against Will’s thigh, her breath hot.
“I wish to put my mouth on you,” Hannibal says. Her eyes are black with want, her lips parted.
A shudder runs through Wil. She reaches down, her fingers tangling in Hannibal’s hair. “Yeah, baby,” she says, the endearment a soft exhale. “Anything you want. It’s all yours. Always is.”
Hannibal’s answer is to press a final, chaste kiss to the inside of Will’s knee. Then she moves. Hannibal’s mouth finds her in a slow press, her tongue laying a broad, wet stripe right through her. Her fingers, knotted in Hannibal’s hair, clutch tight.
Hannibal doesn’t play at teasing. She parts her with her thumbs, and then her tongue is on her, right on the heart of her. Not circling, not yet. Just a flat, firm press against her whole length, a tasting. A low, humming sound comes from Hannibal’s throat, vibrates right through Will’s bones, and Will lets out a broken sound, half prayer, half cuss.
“God,” she breathes, the word all air.
Hannibal’s eyes are open, looking up the line of Will’s body, and they’ve gone misty, distant. Like all the sharp, clever pieces of her have softened and run together, with nothing in her world but this, the taste and the feel and the sound of Will coming apart above her. That look does something to Will, seeing her so gone, so simple in her wanting.
Then Hannibal finds her clit with a purpose that makes Will jerk. Her tongue is soft, God, so soft, but the pressure is relentless, a circling, suckling attention that’s got no patience for shyness. Will’s hips roll up, seeking more, and Hannibal takes it, lets her push up into that sweet, wet heat, her hands sliding under Will’s thighs to hoist her higher, hold her open.
Will bites down on the inside of her own cheek, hard enough to taste a copper tang, but a moan gets out anyway. Her hand pets through Hannibal’s hair, gone messy now, feeling the sweat-damp at her temples. Hannibal leans into the touch like a cat, humming again, that vibration going straight to Will’s core.
“So soft here,” Hannibal whispers, then licks a broad, slow path that makes Will shudder. “All mine to have.”
And that’s the truth of it. Will knows this mood. This is her taking her time like she’s got all the night and the next day too. Sometimes she does this until Will’s come two, three times, until she’s shaking and oversensitive, begging half-heartedly for mercy through her tears. And Will doesn’t truly want her to stop, not ever, because the wanting is the point. Hannibal’s wanting. To play with her, to have her, to touch every plain and hollow of her being.
That focused, ravenous attention is a thing Will would crawl over broken glass to feel. It’s the look Hannibal gets when she’s peeling oranges, all sticky care. It’s the look she gets when a piece of music moves her, somber and utterly captivated. It’s the look she gets when Will’s on her period, and a smear of rust-brown ends up on Hannibal’s cheekbone from where she’s buried her face between Will’s trembling thighs.
Hannibal’s tongue dips inside her, shallow, then deep, and Will cries out. “Right there, baby, right—oh.”
Hannibal pulls back, breathing hard, her chin glistening. Her eyes are nearly black, those misty stars in them. Then she’s back on her clit, sucking it gentle into her mouth, and Will’s vision sparks. The coil in her belly pulls tight, so tight she thinks she might snap. Her thighs tremble where they’re hooked over Hannibal’s shoulders. She’s babbling, words she can’t later recall, a stream of yes and please and right there, baby, don’t you stop.
It crests like a storm breaking over a tin roof, loud and sudden and washing everything clean. She comes, her body seizing, back arched like a drawn bow. Hannibal gentles her then, her tongue softening to kitten-licks, easing her through the shudders, drinking every last pulse from her.
Will collapses, boneless, breathing like she’s run a mile. Sweat cools on her skin. Hannibal rests her head on Will’s stomach, her face turned into her skin, just breathing her in. Will’s hand falls to card through her hair, fingers tracing the shell of her ear.
“Not even close to done with you,” Will murmurs, voice rough as gravel. She feels drunk, slow.
Hannibal turns her head, presses a kiss to the soft swell of Will’s belly. “I should hope not,” she says, and there’s a smile in her voice, that sly, knowing thing. She trails off, nuzzling again into the hair at the apex of Will’s thighs, inhaling deeply.
“I was upset,” Hannibal says quietly, her mouth still near Will’s skin, voice softened by proximity. “At the party.”
Will’s hands come down to her back immediately, steady and sure. “I know,” she says. “You didn’t have me with you.”
Hannibal hums, a small acknowledgment. “I did not,” she says. “It was noticeable.”
Will gathers her up without thinking, arms firm around her, pulling her close enough that there’s no space left to misunderstand. She kisses Hannibal sweetly. Her mouth is all wet and she tastes like Will, it makes her let out a soft noise. “Hey,” she murmurs. “Don’t be mad. I’ll come to the next one. I swear.”
Hannibal’s breath warms Will’s cheek. “You do not have to—”
“I want to,” Will interrupts gently. “I can’t stand the thought of anyone thinking you’re available anymore. It drives me crazy.” She exhales, honest to the bone. “Makes me want to do awful things.”
Hannibal shifts, amused, her body pressing closer. Her breasts press softly against Will’s, still held by her bra. “Are they so horrible,” Hannibal asks softly, “the things you wish to do?” A pause. “If it is for me?”
Will doesn’t hesitate. She turns Hannibal carefully, guiding her onto her side into that position Hannibal favors when she’s feeling hungry for Will, close as they can get without merging, breath shared, legs tangled, chests aligned. Will’s arm slips around her waist; her forehead rests near Hannibal’s temple.
“To you?” Will says, voice low and certain. “It wouldn’t be.”
Hannibal’s eyes search her face, soft. She leans in, presses a kiss just beneath Will’s cheekbone, then another, slower this time.
“Stay,” Hannibal murmurs.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Will answers, and means it.
With Hannibal settled on her side, facing Will, Will’s focus narrows to the delicate barrier of lace. Her fingers, calloused and careful, find the clasp of Hannibal’s bra between her shoulder blades. It releases with a soft snick. Will eases the straps down Hannibal’s arms, pulling the flimsy fabric away and letting it fall to the quilt.
Hannibal’s tits are small and perfect, a soft, pale weight in the dim light. Her nipples are already drawn tight, dusky pink against her skin. Will’s throat goes dry. She lets her palm cup one, the flesh warm and yielding, a perfect little handful. Her thumb brushes over the peak and Hannibal’s breath hitches, just a tiny catch in the back of her throat.
“I’m sorry,” Will murmurs again, the words breathed into the hollow of Hannibal’s neck as she leans in. She presses her lips there, to the frantic pulse, then lower, tracing the elegant line of her collarbone. “Sorry I wasn’t there to remind ‘em.” Another kiss, lower still, over the swell of her breast. “Sorry they got to look at you and think they had a right.” Her mouth finds the tight bud of Hannibal’s nipple, and she closes her lips around it, suckling gently.
Hannibal gasps, her hand flying to Will’s hair, not to push her away but to hold her there. A ragged sound escapes her. But after a moment, her fingers tighten, not in passion but in command. She pulls Will back up, their faces inches apart. Hannibal’s eyes are dark pools, her cheeks flushed. The vulnerability is gone, burned away by a sharper, hotter need.
“Your apology is accepted,” Hannibal says, her voice a low thrum. “But penance is required. You will make it up to me.”
Will nods, her own need a secondary pulse to the imperative in Hannibal’s gaze. “Tell me what you want.”
Hannibal’s smile is a slow, wicked curve. “I want you again, later. I want you to talk to me, tell me what you see when you look at me.” She pauses, her hand coming up to trace Will’s jaw. “But first, and most immediately… your fingers. I want to feel them. I am… hollow with it.”
The raw need in the words, so uncharacteristically plain, shoots straight through Will. “I can do that,” she whispers. She shifts them again, gathering Hannibal close, molding their bodies together. Will’s hand slides down the curve of Hannibal’s back, over the swell of her hip, to the meat of her thigh. She grips firmly, hiking Hannibal’s leg up high over her own hip, opening her. Will can feel the heat, the dampness already seeping through.
“Let me,” Will murmurs. She brings her fingers to her own mouth, eyes locked on Hannibal’s, and slowly, sucks two fingers into the wet heat, coating them thoroughly. A preparation, even though the delicate lace is already moist and translucent with Hannibal’s wanting. Will wants to be careful. She always wants to be careful with her.
Hannibal watches, rapt, her lips parted. For a long moment, she just stares, her gaze fixed on Will’s mouth, on the slip of her fingers, her eyes fluttering with a dizzy kind of want. Then, as if remembering herself, she lets her head fall back against the pillow, a soft, performative sigh escaping her. It’s her little act, the put-upon lover, but the tremor in her voice is real. “Will,” she breathes, the name a plea and a complaint. “Hurry, please. It aches.”
That word, aches, undoes Will’s careful pace. “Sorry, sorry, baby,” she whispers. She moves her hand from Hannibal’s thigh, reaching around the elegant curve of her leg. Her lace-covered hip is a smooth curve under Will’s palm. She finds the damp heat of her, a swollen, eager softness. With her other hand, she hooks her fingers into the waistband of the panties, drawing them down just enough, a slow reveal of dark, neat curls and slick, gleaming skin.
Hannibal makes a sound, her hips lifting off the bed, seeking. Will doesn’t make her wait. She bypasses the lace entirely, pushes it aside, her wet fingers finding bare, intimate flesh. Will circles once, twice, a feather-light torment, and Hannibal whines.
“Tell me,” Will murmurs, her own breath coming short. She shifts her touch, sliding lower, through the drenching wetness, to circle the entrance to her body. “Tell me what you meant. About the party.”
Hannibal’s eyes are squeezed shut, her hands fisting in the sheets. “I wanted you there,” she gasps. “I wanted them to see… to know you were the reason… the reason I smiled that way. That you were the one who…” She breaks off as Will presses the pad of her finger just inside, not entering.
“The one who what, honey?” Will asks.
“The one who touches me,” Hannibal moans, the words ragged. “Who knows me here. Who has me here.” Her hips roll, trying. “I wanted you to kill them all. Every one of them, for the simple crime of seeing me without you beside me. I want you with me always.”
Will’s heart clenches. She finally, slowly, sinks one finger into her, the tight, silken heat a blissful shock. Hannibal arches, a choked sob of relief escaping her.
“You have me,” Will says, the words grinding out as she begins to move. She watches her own hand, watches the way her finger disappears into Hannibal’s body, the way the slickness coats her knuckles. She adds a second finger, stretching her gently, and Hannibal’s back bows off the bed, a perfect, tense arc. “You’ve always had me. Right here.”
She crooks her fingers, finding that place inside her, the rough, textured patch that makes Hannibal see stars. She rubs against it, firm and relentless, the heel of her hand grinding against her clit with every thrust. Hannibal’s cries lose all language, becoming a series of sharp, breathy gasps. Her hands fly to Will’s shoulders, nails digging in.
Her thumb finds the swollen peak of Hannibal’s clit, a hard little seed-pearl under its hood. Hannibal keeps tilting her face up, a silent, desperate plea, and Will meets her every time. She bends, her own spine a graceful curve of service, and seals their mouths together. Hannibal’s kisses are hungry, open-mouthed and searching. Will’s lips are already swollen, and the new pressure is a bright, clean pain. It’s fine. More than fine. She wants Hannibal to mark her, to use her up. She wants to be the sole recipient of all that fierce, terrible feeling.
And Hannibal does. Her hands, those elegant, murderous instruments, slide from Will’s shoulders to her biceps. She squeezes, feeling the hard ridge of muscle built from years of hauling boat motors, splitting wood, wrestling dogs and suspects and her own demons. Then she lowers her mouth and bites. Will grunts.
When Hannibal releases her, she soothes the spot with her tongue, then kisses her way back up to Will’s mouth. She tastes sweet, impossibly so, like fortune cookies and apricot brandy. Will loves her. The thought isn’t big enough. She adores her. She venerates her. In this act, with her wrist aching and her fingers slick and Hannibal’s heat clutching her, Will feels most like herself. Not the unstable professor, not the killer with a bleeding heart, but a tool of perfect utility. A giver of pleasure. The one who makes Hannibal’s world go soft and warm at the edges. This is her proof, her silent argument against every other soul on earth: See? No one can love you like this. No one can reach you here.
“That’s it,” Hannibal murmurs against her lips. Her hips ride Will’s hand. “Your clever hand. Your perfect, knowing hand.” Her eyes are heavy-lidded, dark pools reflecting the low light and Will’s own strained face. She reaches up, her thumb tracing the strong line of Will’s jaw. “My beautiful lover. My steadfast boy. You take such good care of me.”
She shifts her weight, getting a better angle, and slides a third finger in alongside the others. Will watches, mesmerized, as her own hand disappears into the slick, rosy furl of Hannibal’s body.
“You’re so pretty like this,” Will murmurs. “All spread out for me. Letting me see you. Letting me have you.”
“Only you,” Hannibal gasps. Her hands are back on Will, one tangling in the damp curls at the nape of her neck, the other sliding down the sweat-slick channel of Will’s spine. “It would only ever be you. In any world. In every design.” Her elegance is in tatters, her hair a dark halo, her lips bee-stung and parted. She’s utterly human, utterly real.
“Will,” she pleads.
“I know,” Will soothes. “I know.” She crooks her fingers just so, a knowing twist, and presses the heel of her palm hard against that swollen, desperate bundle of nerves. It isn’t a rough thing, but it’s a sure one.
Hannibal shatters. A sweet cry is torn from her throat. Will feels it. Hannibal shudders, a fine, helpless quaking that runs through her thighs and down her spine, and she says a shattered whisper into the hollow of Will’s throat: “Again.”
Will, her forearm burning like fire now, the muscles singing a fierce and aching hymn, obeys. She works her through it, drawing out the waves until they soften to gentle ripples, until Hannibal’s taut body goes liquid and boneless against the mattress.
Only then does Will let her own breath out in a shaky laugh,. “God,” she murmurs, “my hand’s about fallen off.”
Hannibal’s eyes, still dark as a midnight sky, slide to hers. A slow, spent smile touches her bee-stung lips. “Again.”
And Will, Lord help her, would move mountains on that voice. She shifts, rolling her body over Hannibal’s once more, a welcome weight. She kisses her. She nuzzles along that sharp jaw, finds Hannibal’s mouth again, and sucks gently at her lower lip, catching the points of those sharp teeth.
She loves her then. Not just with her body, but with the whole tired, grateful ache of her soul. She loves her in the quiet, in the slowing of their hearts, in the shared stickiness between them. Her hand isn’t but a breath from giving out. But that word, that single, soaked-through syllable from Hannibal's lips—"Again"—it moves something in Will.
So she pushes the burning in her arm to a distant corner of her mind and sets her hand back to its work. Her fingers, slick and sure, find their way home.
"Sweet thing," Will murmurs, her mouth against the hammering pulse in Hannibal's throat. "My pretty, pretty thing." She coaxes her over, this second time a softer, deeper fall Hannibal’s cry is muffled against Will’s shoulder, her body convulsing in a long, sweet series of tremors, milking Will's hand for every last drop of feeling. Will works her through it, gentling her strokes until Hannibal is just a quiver, a bundle of oversensitive nerves.
Will slowly slides her hand free, the ache in her forearm a triumphant, throbbing song. She brings her fingers to her own mouth, never breaking Hannibal’s dazed gaze, and cleans them slow, tasting.
Hannibal watches, her dark eyes heavy-lidded and sated. "Again," she whispers.
And she does. Again and again, in all the ways that matter.
They end up ordering Chinese because it’s late and everything else is closed and the delivery place still answers the phone. Will makes the call from the kitchen, naked, barefoot, leaning her hip against the counter, one hand absently tracing the grain of the wood while she lists off items. Hannibal stands a few feet away, arms folded loosely, observing the process.
When Will hangs up, she grins at her. “They deliver till two. Don’t start. You’re eating it.”
Hannibal sighs theatrically. The food arrives in white cartons and crinkling plastic bags that smell like salt and sugar and oil the second Will opens them. Hannibal turns her nose up on instinct, lips pursed in polite disapproval, but she doesn’t actually refuse. That’s the important part. They carry everything into the living room, spread it out on the coffee table. Will pours the wine, deep red against mismatched glasses.
They sit close on the couch, knees touching, shoulders pressed together without thinking about it. Will eats straight from the carton, careless and hungry, while Hannibal picks at her food. Hannibal in her flannel, hair loose now, curled up beside her with takeout balanced delicately in her lap.
They eat and drink and talk about nothing important. About the dogs. About a book Hannibal is reading. The night settles around them gently, the house quiet but not empty. Will feels something loosen in her chest.
She watches Hannibal as she eats, the way she chews thoughtfully, the way her attention drifts and then returns. Will thinks that she’s happy. Not the fragile kind of happiness that flickers and disappears when you look at it too closely. Something steadier. Something earned.
“I’ll go to the next party,” Will says suddenly, interrupting Hannibal mid-thought.
Hannibal looks at her, surprised. “You really will?”
“Yeah,” Will says. “I will. I promise.”
Hannibal studies her face, searching for hesitation, for resentment. She finds none. Her expression softens, something warm flickering there. “You do not have to do this for me.”
“I want to,” Will replies. “I wanna be there. With you.”
Hannibal reaches out and brushes her thumb against Will’s knuckles, brief but intimate. “That would please me,” she says simply.
Will feels that settle somewhere deep and solid. She takes another bite of lo mein and leans back into the couch, content. The wine makes her pleasantly warm. Her gaze drifts to the fortune cookies tucked into the bag, forgotten at the bottom. Outside, the woods remain dark and patient. Inside, the house feels full. Will thinks that this is what she wants. And for once, she doesn’t crumple the good fortune and throw it away.