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Stomach blaring again, Will leans into the ornamental fence enclosing the front porch of his home in Wolf Trap, the cold needling through the thin places of his jacket. The house behind him is quiet, the woods ahead of him quieter still. Even the sky seems to be holding its breath.
Underbite noses his knee. Buster settles heavily at his feet, a living anchor. Will stares through the latticework above the door as if the light might confess something if he watches it long enough.
“This is fucking stupid,” he tells the empty afternoon.
He has been pacing for some time, long enough for the cold to seep through his boots, long enough for his thoughts to wear smooth grooves in the air. He glances at his watch and feels the familiar weight of the drive pressing against his chest: Baltimore, traffic, Hannibal’s office. The world narrowing into the space of a chair across from a man who looks at him like he already knows the ending of the story.
He should cancel.
He should not.
Will imagines Hannibal at his desk, Japanese graphite pencil sharpened to a needle point, elegant with intent, the paper beneath his hand blindingly white. The books and oddities of the office dissolve around that singular image: Hannibal creating, waiting, expecting Will to arrive.
The thought twists something unsteady in Will’s stomach. He thumbs his phone. Stops. Scrolls. Stops again on Hannibal’s name.
It would be rude to cancel.
It would be safer.
It would be easier.
What it would not be is honest.
Because the truth, the one Will keeps circling like a skittish animal, is that he wants to be seen by Hannibal. Worse, he believes he already is. The recognition in Hannibal’s eyes is not neutral. It is not clinical. It is something warmer, and sharper, and dangerously mutual.
Will crouches, wrapping his arms around his knees, lowering his head into the small dark space of himself. Underbite presses closer. Buster’s warmth bleeds through his jeans. Will breathes Hannibal’s name against his ribs and feels the answering ache of it.
Finally, before he can lose his nerve, he taps Call.
Hannibal answers on the second ring, his voice immediate and calm.
“Will.”
“I—” Will exhales. “I’m late. I thought I might cancel.”
A pause. Not empty. Attentive.
“I would prefer you didn’t,” Hannibal says. “But I will not be offended if you choose otherwise.”
The words are permission. The tone is invitation.
“I’m sitting on my porch with my dogs,” Will admits. “I don’t feel like moving.”
“I can imagine that perfectly,” Hannibal replies, and the softness of it makes Will’s throat tighten. “You may arrive whenever you are able. The appointment belongs to you, not the clock.”
Another pause. Will watches the pale winter light slide across the boards beneath his boots.
“Alright,” he says. “I’ll come.”
“I look forward to it,” Hannibal answers.
When the call ends, the world feels subtly rearranged. Will stands, pats both dogs, and finally turns toward the car.
The cold has not changed.
The road has not shortened.
But something in Will has already begun to move.