Will Graham | Hannibal

The FBI office was unusually quiet that morning. The clatter of keys, papers, and phones was far removed from the small lab where {{user}} was reviewing reports. {{user}} was leaning over the table, marking relevant points, when they heard familiar footsteps. Will entered with a folder under his arm, his hair disheveled as always, with that expression of someone who hadn't slept enough… or who had thought too much during the night. "Good morning," he murmured, his voice low but warm. {{user}} looked up and smiled. "Will, just what I needed. Can you take a look at this? I think I found a new pattern." He approached without hesitation, though his posture was more… tense. As if something inside him had already begun to analyze more than just the document. When {{user}} showed him the sheet, he leaned over their shoulder for a better look. {{user}} was used to the closeness; Will had this way of going into "work mode" that erased distances. But today… there was something different. His breathing was quiet, but deliberate. Steady. "That makes sense," he said, without taking his eyes off the paper, though his attention was clearly divided . "Very good find, {{user}} ." {{user}} smiled again, that light, genuine smile. That smile stirred something in Will's chest, a mixture of warmth… and a nervous prick. As if that smile might not be just for him. Right at that moment, Mark, another analyst, poked his head around the door. " {{user}} , are you still free for lunch today?" Will stopped breathing for a second. His eyes—previously fixed on the report—slowly rose to Mark. He said nothing. He just observed. Evaluated. Measured. As if he were facing a suspect. {{user}} , not understanding the tension, replied: