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Will noticed him first through the window.
It wasn’t intentional, not at first. It was the result of insomnia, of pacing his small apartment with a mug of cooling coffee in his hands, of staring out into the courtyard because there was nothing else to look at.
The opposite building was close enough that he could see into several windows when the lights were on. Most of them were ordinary: televisions flickering, people moving past half-seen, shadows crossing curtains.
One window, however, remained consistently lit late into the night.
The man who occupied it moved with a calm precision that felt… deliberate. He cooked. Always cooked. Sleeves rolled just so, posture straight, movements economical and practiced. He never rushed. Never hesitated. He plated food like it mattered, even though he appeared to be alone.
Will told himself he was just curious.
He told himself that several nights in a row.
The second week, Will began timing his insomnia around the light across the courtyard.
He would sit on the edge of his couch, laptop forgotten, watching as the man—tall, dark-haired, always impeccably dressed even at midnight—poured wine into a glass and took a measured sip. Sometimes he read while eating. Sometimes he listened to music Will couldn’t hear but could somehow sense through the way his shoulders loosened.
Once, just once, the man looked up.
Not accidentally. Not distracted.
Directly.
Their eyes met across the space, glass and distance separating them.
Will froze.
The man didn’t react. Didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.
He simply acknowledged him.
Then he lifted his glass, just slightly, and took another sip.
Will’s heart kicked hard against his ribs.
After that, pretending not to look became impossible.
They never waved. Never gestured. They just… noticed each other.
Some nights the man cooked. Other nights he stood at the window with his jacket off, tie loosened, reading or thinking or simply being. There was an intimacy in that quiet presence that made Will feel like an intruder and like a chosen witness all at once.
Will began leaving his own lights on.
Not deliberately. Not at first.
But one night, as he stood shirtless in his kitchen, he realized the man across the courtyard was watching him too.
Not staring. Observing.
Will felt the heat of it crawl over his skin.
He didn’t turn away.
Weeks passed.
The city moved around them, indifferent. Rain came and went. Summer pressed close, warm and heavy. Windows stayed open longer. Curtains were left undone.
One night, Will found a note slipped under his apartment door.
Cream-colored paper. Elegant handwriting.
If you’re watching tonight, so am I.
No name. No apartment number.
Will’s breath caught.
He looked across the courtyard.
The light was already on.
Will didn’t sleep that night.
Instead, he sat by the window, heart hammering, acutely aware of his own body in space. The other man stood across from him, closer to the glass than ever before.
He raised a brow slightly.
A question.
Will swallowed, then lifted his own glass—cheap whiskey this time—and mirrored the gesture.
The man smiled.
It was subtle. Controlled. Devastating.
The first real interaction happened by accident.
Or maybe by design.
They met in the courtyard laundry room, both reaching for the same washing machine. The space was small, concrete walls amplifying the hum of machines and the tension snapping into place immediately.
“You live across from me.” the man said calmly.
Will stiffened. “You’ve noticed.”
“I notice many things.” he replied, unbothered. “Hannibal.”
“Will.” he answered, after a beat.
Their hands brushed as they both withdrew. Neither apologized.
“You work late.” Will said, because silence felt dangerous.
“So do you.” Hannibal replied.
Will laughed softly. “Insomnia.”
Hannibal tilted his head. “Choice.”
The word lingered between them.
After that, there was no pretending.
They spoke in passing—on the stairs, by the mailboxes, sometimes lingering longer than necessary. Conversations were quiet, measured, intimate in their restraint.
Hannibal never asked questions he didn’t already seem to know the answers to.
Will never volunteered more than he felt safe giving—until he realized Hannibal never pushed.
That, somehow, made it worse.
The invitation came without ceremony.
“Dinner.” Hannibal said one evening, standing just a little too close in the hallway. “If you’d like.”
Will hesitated. “Is that… dangerous?”
Hannibal smiled faintly. “Only if you resist.”
Will went anyway.
Hannibal’s apartment was immaculate. Warm. Intentional. The windows overlooked the courtyard, their courtyard.
“I suppose this is where it started.” Will said quietly.
“It began long before either of us admitted it.” Hannibal replied.
They ate slowly. Talked about books, work, solitude. About the comfort of being seen without explanation.
At one point, Will realized Hannibal was watching him more than listening.
“You’re doing that thing again.” Will said.
“Which thing?”
“Looking at me like I’m a… conclusion.”
Hannibal’s voice softened. “You are.”
The first touch wasn’t dramatic.
It happened when Will laughed, really laughed, and Hannibal’s hand rested briefly on his forearm, grounding, steady.
Will didn’t pull away.
Neither did Hannibal.
That night, nothing more happened.
Which somehow made the wanting sharper.
The next weeks were unbearable.
Looks held too long. Conversations that edged closer to confession and pulled back at the last second. Will found himself hyper-aware of Hannibal’s body in space—how close he stood, how his voice dropped when speaking softly, how he waited.
One night, standing in Will’s apartment, the windows open to the courtyard, Will finally broke.
“Do you ever stop thinking about it?” he asked.
Hannibal met his gaze. “No.”
“Good.” Will said, stepping closer. “Because I don’t either.”
Hannibal didn’t move—didn’t close the distance.
He let Will do it.
The kiss was inevitable.
Slow. Intentional. Devastating.
Hannibal tasted like wine and restraint. Will like need and certainty finally claimed.
Hands slid—not rushed, not desperate—but sure. Touches lingered, memorized.
When they broke apart, Will’s forehead rested against Hannibal’s chest.
“This changes things...” Will said.
“Yes.” Hannibal replied. “It does.”
“Are you okay with that?”
Hannibal’s hand cradled the back of Will’s neck, firm and reassuring. “I wouldn’t have allowed it otherwise.”
They spent the night together—not in frenzy, but in exploration. In trust. In heat that burned slow and deep.
When morning came, light spilling into the courtyard they had watched from opposite sides for so long, Will realized something quietly terrifying.
He felt safe.
Wanted.
Chosen.
Hannibal watched him from the bed, eyes dark, satisfied, attentive.
“You’re still here.” Will said.
“I intend to remain.” Hannibal replied.
Across the courtyard, the windows stood empty.
The watching had ended.
The choosing had not.