The house was alive with people.

This was arguably your least favourite time of the week, Dinner Party Night.

You stood beside Hannibal near the entrance hall, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your sleeves for what must have been the twentieth time.

You had practiced.

You had spent nearly an hour deciding what to wear because Hannibal always looked immaculate, and you wanted people to look at the two of you and think you belonged together.

You wanted him to be proud.

His hand found the small of your back.

"You are tense," Hannibal observed quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

"I'm trying not to be," you admitted.

His thumb rubbed a slow circle against your waist, he turned toward you fully, shutting out the arriving guests for one fleeting moment.

"You owe no one a performance," Hannibal said gently.

"I know," you whispered. "But... they're your friends."

"They are my guests."

"They're important." you argued.

His expression softened.

"You," he corrected, "are important."

The warmth of his words settled somewhere inside you, but they did little to quiet the nervous buzzing beneath your skin.

For the first hour, you tried, you truly tried.

A woman with pearls asked about your hobbies.

You answered honestly.

"I enjoy categorising books in our library by publication date."

She blinked.

"Oh."

Silence.

You weren't sure whose turn it was to speak.

Eventually, she smiled politely before excusing herself to refill her wine.

Another guest began discussing opera.

You knew quite a lot about opera.

You talked for nearly ten minutes about funeral marches in nineteenth-century compositions, the symbolism of death in stage direction, and the historical evolution of requiem performances.

Halfway through, you noticed his eyes wandering toward someone else.

Had you said too much? Too little? You couldn't tell.

He thanked you awkwardly before drifting away.

Every conversation felt like being handed a script with half the pages missing.

Everyone else somehow knew when to laugh.

When to interrupt.

How long eye contact should last.

When a question required an honest answer and when it required something... prettier.

You never seemed to know.

By the time dinner was served, your chest felt tight.

The dining room buzzed with conversation.

You couldn't find a place to fit.

So you stopped trying.

Quietly, you slipped away from the crowd.

There was a small armchair, your favourite one to be clear, just beyond the library.

You sat there, folding your hands together.

You ounted the raindrops racing down the glass.

One.

Two.

Three.

The numbers made considerably more sense than people.

You stared outside, trying very hard not to cry.

Not because anyone had been cruel.

Nobody had.

They had all been perfectly polite.

You had wanted tonight to go well.

You had wanted Hannibal to look across the room and think...

That's my darling.

They're extraordinary.

Instead...

You couldn't even figure out how to have a conversation.

You hadn't heard the approaching footsteps, you only noticed them when someone stopped beside your chair.

"You've disappeared," Hannibal said gently, his voice carrying no accusation, only quiet concern.

You looked up at him.

His expression was as composed as ever, but his eyes had softened the moment they found yours.

He crouched beside your chair rather than standing over you, bringing himself to your level.

"Is everything all right?" he asked softly. "Do you require anything?"

"I'm fine," you answered quietly.

He studied your face for a long moment.

"You may tell me," he said, his tone as gentle as the rain against the glass.

Your fingers twisted together tightly.

"I think..." you began hesitantly, searching for words that never seemed to come as easily as everyone else's. "I think I'll just sit here for a little while."

Hannibal nodded

"I'm sorry," you whispered after a moment.

His brow furrowed ever so slightly, "What are you apologising for?"

"I don't know how..." You paused, swallowing around the lump in your throat. "I don't know how to talk to them."

"I wanted to. I really wanted to make you proud."

Hannibal reached for your hands, gently untangling your fingers before enclosing them within his own.

"My dear," he said warmly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, "you were doing wonderfully."

You blinked, "I was?"

"Yes," he answered without hesitation.

"I kept saying the wrong things."

"There are no wrong things," Hannibal replied calmly.

You frowned slightly, "They stopped talking to me."

"They exhausted their own ability to contribute," he corrected with quiet certainty.

Despite yourself, a small smile tugged at your lips.

Hannibal smiled in return.

"I watched you this evening," he admitted. "You made an effort because you knew it mattered to me... I know how difficult that was for you. I saw every conversation you began."

He lifted one of your hands and pressed a lingering kiss against your fingers, "I also saw your courage."

"You should not measure your success by whether strangers understand you," Hannibal continued gently. "Measure it by the fact that you tried despite your discomfort."

"I am immensely proud of you." He smiled ever so slightly.

"And," he added, "I would be delighted to hear everything you know about nineteenth-century opera."

"I suspect," Hannibal said thoughtfully, "that your observations are considerably more interesting than those of my guests."

"They might become rather detailed."

"I should hope so."

"They could last an hour."

"I shall consider myself fortunate."

You shook your head, a genuine smile spreading across your face now, "You really don't mind?"

"My love," Hannibal said tenderly, reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, "there are very few things I enjoy more than listening to you speak about something you love."

The ache that had settled inside your chest all evening began to loosen.

Because the one person whose opinion truly mattered had never wanted you to be anyone other than yourself.

You leaned forward, your lips met his in a gentle, lingering kiss.

When you pulled away, Hannibal rested his forehead lightly against yours.

You smiled, your heart feeling lighter than it had all evening.

You no longer felt quite so alone.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━