Clarice steps through the threshold of her home, the weight of the weekend's emotions settling heavily upon her. The world outside fades as she retreats to the sanctuary of her room, where the dim lighting wraps her in a cocoon of solitude. Hannibal's oversized green sweater swallows her petite frame, its familiar scent offering a fragile semblance of comfort. She climbs in bed holding a block of savoury halloumi in one hand, its salty richness a temporary distraction from her grief. In the other hand she cradles a mug of Prosecco, boldly emblazoned with the words "World's Best Girlfriend," a whimsical self-affirmation that once sparked laughter between her and Hannibal.

xx

Her gaze wanders to a distant memory from a couple of months ago, a snapshot of warmth and affection. She recalls sitting in Hannibal's kitchen, the morning sun peeking through the windows. The same mug she now clutches had been filled with steaming coffee as she and Hannibal shared a quiet breakfast. Hannibal, with his characteristic blend of curiosity and amusement, had remarked, "I don't recall giving you that."

With a mischievous grin, she had responded, "You didn't. It was a gift from my other boyfriend."

Hannibal's eyebrows arched in playful intrigue. "Ah, young Pilch, I take it?"

"No, actually," she had said with a wink. "I bought it for myself."

His laughter had been a rich, rolling sound that resonated through her heart, a melody of genuine mirth. "Well, now I'm feeling a bit like the world's worst boyfriend."

"Never," she had assured him with a mischievous grin, reaching out to touch his hand. "C'mere." Their kiss had been a playful peck, a quick exchange of affection that still managed to feel both tender and timeless. She stood to fetch a matching mug from the cupboard, her exaggerated flourish making him chuckle.

"Perfect match," she said as she handed him the mug, the gesture a lighthearted symbol of their shared connection. In that moment, the clinking mugs and their laughter wove their lives together in a joyful dance of everyday love.

xx

Now, alone in her room, that memory seems like a distant dream. Tears cascade down her cheeks as she watches "An Affair to Remember," a film that mirrors her own aching heart. The iconic scene unfolds with Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr locking eyes from across a crowded theatre, their gazes a poignant mix of longing and regret. Their planned reunion at the Empire State Building lies in tatters after she fails to appear, her hidden injuries a barrier between them. The unspoken desires and missed opportunities are palpable, mirroring the void Clarice feels within.

In a moment of raw emotion, Clarice's anguished cry pierces the quiet room. "TELL HIM!" She cries, her mouth full of cheese, her voice trembling with the weight of her own loss--a reflection of her longing to bridge the gap between herself and the one she loves. How she wishes for a chance to reclaim what she's lost, to mend the rift that has torn her apart, heart and soul.

Hearing the commotion from downstairs, Dee enters the room, her eyes widening with concern as she takes in the sight of the cheese, the bottle of Prosecco, the scattered tissues, and Clarice's tear-streaked face. "Holy shit, Clarice, what happened to you?"

Clarice quickly wipes her tears, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Nothing. Nothing. I'm fine. It's just a really sad movie."

Dee's eyes narrow, seeing through the façade. "Yeah right, Clarice... that's a classic break-up movie if ever I saw one." She takes a few steps closer, sits on the edge of the bed. "Did something happen between you and Hector?"

Clarice's breath catches as she feels the familiar sting of fresh tears. "He, uhm, he had to go back home. It's...it's over between us."

"Where's home?" Dee asks, her brow furrowing in concern. "Can you guys try to do long distance?"

"Home is across the pond." Clarice explains, her voice quivering with the effort to remain composed.

"Did he tell you where?"

Clarice shakes her head, trying to keep her emotions in check. "Not exactly. He has family all over, so he'll be bouncing around. It's... complicated." She knows her answer is weak, but she genuinely doesn't know where he is—and she doesn't want to reveal where she thinks he might be.

Dee's sympathetic gaze softens as she absorbs this, though she can't help but find his sudden disappearance to somewhere across the pond a little shady. "Well damn, I'm sorry, C," she says gently, her empathy palpable. Her eyes then fall on Beatrice, who is curled up on the bed. "You got a cat?"

Clarice's heart swells with a bittersweet warmth at the sight of the feline. Sniffling, "She's H's."

"You looking after her for a while till she finds a new home?" Dee's voice is gentle, filled with understanding.

Clarice's gaze softens as she strokes Beatrice's sleek fur. "No," she replies, her voice a whisper. "We're looking after each other."

"What do you mean?" Dee's curiosity is piqued, her concern evident.

"H asked me to take care of her before he left," Clarice explains, her fingers moving slowly through Beatrice's fur. The cat's purr is a small, soothing comfort amidst her sorrow. "It's what he wanted. And I guess in a way, it's what I need."

Dee nods, her expression one of sympathy and support. She places a comforting hand on Clarice's shoulder. "I'll be here for you if you need anything," she says sincerely before giving Clarice some time alone with her thoughts.

As Dee leaves, Clarice is left with the quiet companionship of Beatrice and her heartsore reveries of a lost love. The room is a swathe of memories and heartache, the gentle purring of the cat a soft reminder of the connections that still hold her together, even as she navigates through her grief.

xx

After roughly two weeks of wallowing in her own sorrow and dragging herself through work, Clarice decides she needs a change. The shooting range, with its familiar clangs and booms, usually serves as a grounding ritual for her, a place where the physicality of the sport clears her mind. Today, however, the scent of gunpowder and the weight of the firearm in her hands offer no solace. The sharp, acrid tang of spent cartridges fills the air, and the regular rhythm of gunfire—typically a comfort—seems out of sync. Her shots are scattered, the groupings on the target uneven and haphazard.

John Brigham, with a friendly, concerned demeanour, sidles up behind her, noticing her struggle. His eyes assess her performance with a blend of curiosity and empathy. "Your aim's off, Starling. What's going on?"

Clarice lowers her weapon, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion. She exhales slowly, the weight of her thoughts almost palpable. "Yeah, I guess I'm a little distracted lately. My heart just isn't in it."

"Well, you're probably burnt out. You stretch yourself too thin," Brigham suggests, his voice laden with concern and camaraderie, the sound of distant gunfire echoes around them. "Let's get a drink later and just forget about it all, yeah?"

Clarice nods, a flicker of gratitude lighting her weary eyes. "Yeah, sounds good."

Later, in the dim and dingy pub, Clarice finds herself sinking deeper into her disenchantment. The atmosphere is a soft murmur of clinking glasses and low conversations, the dark wood and flickering candlelight providing a warm contrast to the cold reality of her dwindling spirit. The whiskey burns its way down her throat, leaving a trail of warmth that does little to numb the ache in her chest. With each sip, her resolve weakens, and the sorrow she's been stifling bursts forth, spilling out between half-formed thoughts and words.

Brigham, ever the attentive listener, offers his ear as Clarice unwinds. As the evening stretches on, she finds herself sharing more than she intended. Her voice cracks and wavers, her emotions laid bare. Eventually, overwhelmed by the weight of her own sorrow and the alcohol's fog, she decides it's time to leave, lest she share an altogether detrimental detail.

"Thanks for putting up with me tonight, Brigham," she says, her voice tinged with gratitude and a slight sheepishness. "I think I'm going to head out."

All you need do is look to the stars.

The words echo in her mind as she steps outside into the cool night air. The crisp, damp breeze contrasts with the warmth of the pub and her internal turmoil. In her sad and inebriated state, she turns her gaze heavenward, quickly deciding that tonight stargazing simply won't do. Instead, she pulls out her burner phone, her hands trembling as she speed-dials Hannibal's number, uncertain he'll even answer. The phone rings and rings, each second stretching into an eternity. As she's about to hang up, the automated voicemail system kicks in.

Leaning against the brick facade of the pub, she squeezes her eyes shut and lets out a pained breath. Just when she's about to slip the phone back into her purse, it vibrates.

With a rush of relief and nervous anticipation, she answers the call, her throat constricted. The silence on the other end feels both heavy and hopeful. Finally, Hannibal's voice emerges, soothing, calm. "You know, it is customary for one to offer a greeting upon answering the telephone, Clarice."

She laughs breathily, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Hi, H."

"Hi, my darling."

"Sorry for calling so late," she says, her voice trembling involuntarily.

"Nonsense, it's never too late to hear your voice," he reassures her gently. "At any rate, it's rather early here, and I cannot conceive of a pleasanter wake-up call."

"I'm surprised you actually answered," she admits, her voice thick with yearning.

"I wanted to give you proper time to process your emotions," Hannibal confesses. "But make no mistake, my dear, I have wanted desperately each day to hear that sweet southern drawl of yours," he adds with a touch of amusement, "Even if it is a bit more slurred than usual."

Clarice chuckles softly, a fragile smile on her lips. "I miss you.".

"I miss you too, my darling girl," Hannibal replies. "But you've always been stronger than you give yourself credit for. You will get through this."

"I don't feel strong," she confesses, her voice barely more than a whisper. She leans against the rough, cold brick of the pub's facade, the steady hum of the city a distant backdrop to her sorrow. "I feel... lost."

"You are allowed to feel lost," Hannibal says softly. "But remember, you have the strength to find your way again."

His words wrap around her like a warm blanket, providing her with a flicker of hope. "Thank you, H. Just hearing your voice helps."

"I'm glad," he murmurs. "Now, go home and get some rest. Tomorrow is a new day."

"I will," she promises, her resolve strengthened by his words. "Goodnight, H."

"Goodnight, my darling. Sweet dreams."

She hangs up, a weight lifted from her chest. The comfort of Hannibal's voice lingers, a beacon of hope in the quiet night. Taking a deep breath, she steadies herself and begins walking home, the city streets bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. Each step feels more purposeful, her determination renewed.

Halfway home, her phone vibrates with a new message.

Be careful on your way home, my darling. May I call you tomorrow?

Smiling softly, Clarice replies, Yes, I'd like that. Thank you, H.

Sleep well, Clarice, comes his immediate response.

You too, H, she texts back, her steps lighter with each word, the night now feeling less oppressive.

xx

Clarice wakes up with a throbbing headache, a relentless drumbeat pounding against her skull. The haze of last night's whiskey lingers like a storm cloud above her head. Beatrice, with her sleek black fur and green eyes, is perched on her chest, her gaze unwavering and expectant. Clarice groans, the sound escaping her lips like a wounded animal. "I bet you're hungry, aren't you? Well, that makes two of us." Carefully, she lifts the cat off her chest, her movements slow and unsteady as she sits up.

She shuffles to the kitchen, the cool tiles against her bare feet sending a small shiver through her. She bends over to fill Beatrice's dish, the clinking of the food against the metal bowl punctuating the thumping pulse in her temples. Beatrice meows appreciatively and rubs against her legs, the cat's warmth a small comfort. Clarice grabs a glass from the cupboard, filling it with water from the faucet. The water rushes with a soothing sound, and she desperately gulps it down. The clock on the wall reads 10:30, its ticking almost mocking her indecision about how to spend the day.

Then she remembers the promise of Hannibal's call. The thought, even through her foggy mind, sparks a flicker of excited anticipation. She makes her way upstairs, her movements heavy but determined, and retrieves the burner phone from its resting place. Her heart skips a beat when she sees his message: Good morning, my love.

A smile tugs at her lips, and she quickly types back, Hey baby. When did you wanna talk?

His reply is almost immediate. Once you've had time to recover a bit and have had some proper sustenance. Let me know when you're ready.

And then, with a hint of his playful nature, And Clarice—none of that McDonald's rubbish you call food.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Clarice heads to the kitchen to prepare a light breakfast. The smell of freshly toasted bread mingles with the delicate, ginger-spiced aroma of her tea. She nibbles on the toast and sips the tea, its warmth calming her upset stomach. After breakfast, she decides to indulge in a long, hot bath, hoping it will ease both her physical discomfort as well as her restless mind.

As she sinks into the bath, the warm water envelops her like a comforting embrace. The lavender-essenced steam rises in gentle spirals, creating a soft mist that blurs the edges of the bathroom, making it feel like a secluded retreat. As the tension in her muscles begins to dissolve, her thoughts drift to Hannibal, a familiar heat stirring within her. She allows herself to imagine his touch, the memory of his voice igniting a longing that she fails miserably to push aside.

She lets her hand slip beneath the water, the sensation heightened by her growing desire. Her breath quickens as she envisions him there with her, guiding her every movement. The bathroom is filled with the soft sound of water lapping against the sides of the tub, the echoes of her own breaths.

Picking up the burner from the edge of the vanity counter, she dials Hannibal's number, her heart aflutter with excitement and nerves. He answers on the second ring, his voice soothing her frazzled nerves.

"Hello, Clarice."

"Hi, H," she replies, her voice soft and hesitant. "I'm calling you from the bath."

A low, appreciative chuckle rumbles through the line, a sound that sends a shiver of pleasure down her spine. "That sounds delightfully relaxing. I trust it is aiding in your recovery from last night's indulgences?"

"It is," she admits, her voice a tired, content sigh as she settles deeper into the tub, the water embracing her like a lover's touch, like his touch. "I needed this."

"I am pleased to hear it," Hannibal responds, his tone tender, enveloping. "I admit, I have been concerned for you, my dear."

"I'm okay," she reassures him, though the pain in her chest yet lingers. "I just miss you... Where are you, anyway?"

"And I, you," Hannibal's voice carries a depth of feeling that resonates with her own longing. "Does it make a difference where I might be?"

She lets out a soft sigh, the sound joining with the gentle splash of water. "I don't know. I just wish I could place you somewhere. I kinda fumbled when Dee asked."

"I understand, but let us live simply in this shared moment, hmm?"

As their conversation continues, the water lapping softly against her skin creates a soothing rhythm. Hannibal, ever perceptive, picks up on the sound. "I can hear the water, Clarice. I imagine you look quite enchanting there, surrounded by a curtain of steam, your skin glowing in the dim light."

Her cheeks flush with arousal, the warmth of the bath amplifying the heat rising within her. She trails her fingertips lightly over her damp skin, each touch sending a ripple of sensation. "I wish you were here with me," she murmurs, her hand drifting to her breast, kneading it gently as the warmth intensifies.

"I wish for the same, more than you know," Hannibal's voice grows huskier, filled with an almost tangible longing. "Are you touching yourself, Clarice?"

"Mhm," she breathes, her voice barely a whisper as the water's surface ripples with each of her movements. "Keep talkin'."

"How utterly tantalising," he murmurs, his voice a seductive caress. "I can see you, the way your skin glistens like moonlight on still water, the way the water glides over every luscious curve."

Her breath catches at his words, her hand drifting lower beneath the water. "Hannibal..."

"Yes, my love," he purrs, his voice thick with desire. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you," she breathes, her voice trembling with need. "I want to feel you, hear you..."

"You have me, Clarice," he says, his voice a velvet whisper that wraps around her senses. "Close your eyes and imagine my hands on you, my lips tracing your every curve. Feel the gentle pressure of my touch, the warmth of my breath."

She closes her eyes, the darkness behind her lids heightening her senses. Her hand moves in response to his words, the water amplifying every touch, every caress. "I need you, H," she whispers, her body trembling, her skin slick with both sweat and water.

"And I need you, my dearest," he responds, his voice a symphony of desire. "Let yourself go, let the water and the sound of my voice take you where you need to be."

As Clarice's fingers move with increasing urgency, Hannibal's own breathing grows deeper and more laboured. He leans back in his chair, the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder. His free hand slides down to his own body, the soft touch of his fingers against his skin bringing him an exquisite mix of pleasure and restraint. He groans softly, the sound a low rumble of desire. "I wish I could be there to touch you," he murmurs, his voice thick with yearning. "To feel you beneath my hands, to taste you on my tongue."

Her moans become more urgent, the water's surface churning with each of her movements. "I wish you were here, Hannibal," she gasps, her voice a soft echo in the steamy air. "I wish you were touching me."

"I am, Clarice," he replies, his voice a rich, throaty whisper. "Imagine my hands guiding yours, my lips tracing every inch of your body. Feel the softness of my touch, the firmness of my body against yours."

She gasps, her body arching in the water, the warm liquid enveloping her like a lover's embrace. "Hannibal, I..."

"Yes, Clarice," he whispers, his voice a gentle command that wraps around her senses. "Be a good girl for me. Come for me, Clarice."

With a shuddering breath, she surrenders to the moment, the sensations overwhelming her. The bath becomes a sanctuary for their connection, the distance between them fading as they share this intimate experience. Hannibal's own movements grow more fervent, his breath ragged as he imagines the scene, the distance between them shrinking with each passing moment.

When she finally comes down from the waves of her pleasure, she hears Hannibal's voice, tender and soothing. "I adore you, Clarice. Every moment we share, no matter the distance, is precious to me."

"I adore you too, H," she murmurs, her voice soft and fulfilled, her body still tingling from the experience. "Thank you for this."

"Always, my love," he replies softly, his voice a promise of enduring affection. "Always."

After a moment, Clarice asks cheekily, knowingly, "By the way, you haven't seen my Bowie t-shirt, have you?"

Hannibal's smile is audible through the phone, "Mmm, surely you don't mean the one I'm currently wearing?"

Clarice laughs heartily as she imagines the fabric of the shirt straining against his body, the hem barely reaching his belly button.

xx

Over the following weeks, Clarice and Hannibal establish a cherished ritual. Every Sunday evening, as twilight falls and the room softens with the faint glow of the setting sun, they share a phone call that becomes a sanctuary of connection. The familiar chime of her phone dings through the evening quiet, each call acting as an emollient to their souls, a reprieve from the loneliness of their individual worlds.

Clarice eagerly anticipates these moments, her heart fluttering with excitement and longing each time her phone buzzes. Their conversations meander from mundane details of their daily lives to the depths of their emotions, often culminating in an intimate exchange that leaves them both breathless and covered in a sheen of perspiration.

Hannibal, too, treasures these weekly interactions. They offer him a profound reminder of a love he never imagined possible, a bond that transcends the physical distance between them. Yet, as much as he relishes these moments, he recognizes that their frequency might tether them to a past they must eventually release.

On a cool November evening, Hannibal broaches the subject with the delicacy of a surgeon. "My dearest Clarice," he begins as the bistered hues of night spill into his study, "our calls have been a source of immense comfort for me. But I fear that continuing them at this frequency may hinder our ability to move forward."

Clarice's heart tightens at his words, a pang of understanding mingled with reluctance descending upon her. The dim light of her living room, filtered through the gauzy curtains feels suddenly fragile. "I know, H," she replies softly. "Maybe we could... space them out? Every other week, perhaps?"

"Indeed," he agrees, his voice tinged with regret as he gazes out at the tranquil view of the city skyline. "That seems wise. We must allow ourselves the space to heal and grow, as difficult as it may be."

And so, their ritual adjusts, now marked by a call every other week. As the weeks roll into months, Clarice begins to sense something amiss within herself. It starts subtly—a vague feeling of being out of sync with her own body, like an off-key note in a familiar song. She experiences moments of uncharacteristic fatigue, a dull ache in her lower back, and an odd sensitivity to certain scents that make her stomach churn. Her emotions swing with a sharpness that puzzles her, leaving her vacillating between elation and despair with a frequency she can't quite parse out.

The changes impact her daily life in quiet, disconcerting ways. At work, she finds herself struggling to concentrate, the slightest stressor feeling amplified. The smell of coffee, once an enticing aroma, now triggers waves of nausea. She finds respite only in the quietude of her home, where she can retreat from the relentlessly tedious demands of her job.

During one of their now bi-weekly calls, Hannibal's perceptive nature catches the subtle shift in her tone. "You sound weary, Clarice," he observes, his voice a rich, resonant note of concern as he leans back in the luxury of his leather armchair, the flicker of the hearth casting dancing shadows around his study. "Are you unwell?"

"I dunno," she admits, her voice tinged with frustration and uncertainty. "I just... I haven't been feeling like myself lately. It's probably just stress and lack of sleep, or something."

"Do take care of yourself, my love," he urges gently, his voice imbued with a tenderness that soothes her frayed nerves. "Listen to your body and give it the rest it needs."

Clarice nods, though he cannot see her. "I know, H, I will. Thanks."

Despite her efforts to rest and care for herself, the strange sensations persist. She finds herself craving peculiar food combinations, her appetite swinging unpredictably. The tender ache in her lower back and her mood swings become more pronounced. She chalks it up to the emotional turbulence of recent months and the residual stress of their separation.

During their next call, the evening outside Hannibal's study is wrapped in the hush of twilight. The soft hum of his surroundings contrasts with the weight of his concern. "How are you feeling today, my dear?" he asks, his voice a steady presence against the backdrop of his carefully curated environment.

"Eh, still feelin' a bit off kilter," she admits, the sense of disquiet still lingering. "It's strange… I can't quite put my finger on it," she adds, idly plucking at the fabric of her jeans that mysteriously feel a bit tighter than usual.

"Perhaps you should see a doctor," he suggests gently, his tone edged with care and practicality. "It might put your mind at ease."

"Maybe," she concedes, though the thought of a doctor's visit feels daunting. "Unfortunately, my preferred doctor is currently unavailable."

As the days pass, the inexplicable feelings seem to compound. Clarice becomes increasingly attuned to her body's subtle changes, though she struggles to understand their significance. Hannibal, ever attentive, continues to express his concern, though he refrains from pressing too hard, respecting the boundaries of their evolving dynamic.

One evening, after a particularly exhausting day, Clarice lies in bed, the cool sheets contrasting with the heat of her restless thoughts. As she drifts into a restless sleep, a fleeting thought crosses her mind—a possibility both distant and oddly compelling. But before she can fully grasp it, sleep claims her, leaving the question to linger in the recesses of her subconscious.

And so, Clarice navigates her days with an increasing sense of uncertainty. The shifts in her body and emotions hint at a truth she has yet to uncover. All the while, Hannibal's voice remains a constant anchor, even as the frequency of their calls diminishes, reminding her of the enduring devotion that spans the distance between them.

xx

One evening, Clarice stands in the kitchen, the familiar clatter of cereal hitting the bowl and the cold splash of milk over the brightly coloured Lucky Charms offering a small, fleeting comfort. The kitchen is filled with the rich, spicy aroma of Dee's reheating curry, its pungency cutting through the air with an almost oppressive intensity.

As the scent grows stronger, Clarice feels a sudden, unwelcome roiling in her stomach. The room begins to sway, the cheerful hues of her cereal box and the vibrant aroma of the curry merging into a nauseating blur. Without warning, she slams the milk carton down on the counter, the sharp sound reverberating through the kitchen. Her breath comes in frantic, uneven gasps as she stumbles toward the bathroom, barely making it in time to vomit.

The cold, hard tile floor feels harsh beneath her knees as she retches, the acidic taste of bile clinging bitterly in her throat. Her hands grip the edge of the sink tightly, knuckles turning white with tension. She rises shakily, returning to the kitchen, still ashen and unsteady. Dee's gaze is a mix of concern and curiosity as the curry continues to bubble on the stove, its spicy aroma a persistent reminder of Clarice's queasiness.

"Girl, you've been sick for weeks," Dee remarks, her tone worried with a hint of exasperation. The sight of Dee's concerned expression deepens the turmoil within Clarice.

Clarice wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, her movements slow and uncertain as she reaches for a glass of water. The cool liquid offers a temporary reprieve but does little to alleviate her underlying dread. "Yeah, I know," she mutters, her voice strained and weary. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Dee raises an eyebrow, crosses her arms. "You know what it looks like, right?"

Clarice gives her an oblivious look, shakes her head.

"...morning sickness?" Dee offers gently, thinking Clarice is missing the obvious explanation.

The words hit Clarice like a sledgehammer, sending a jolt of cold panic through her. Morning sickness. Her mind races, heart pounding violently as the realisation begins to settle in. The room feels both expansive and confining, the warmth of the kitchen transforming into a stifling cage. Could it be? She feels a wave of fear and disbelief wash over her, her thoughts swirling in a tumultuous storm.

"I... I couldn't be," she stammers, her voice barely a whisper. "I'm on the pill, Dee."

"Look, I know you don't wanna hear it, but somebody's gotta make up that one percent," Dee's offers gently, her gaze steady but empathetic. "Maybe you should take a pregnancy test, just to be sure."

Clarice nods slowly, the idea taking root in her mind with a mix of terror and reluctant acceptance. "Yeah," she says, her voice firmer now despite the trembling of her hands. "Yeah, I guess I should."

Later that evening, Clarice finds herself at the pharmacy, the harsh fluorescent lights casting an unrelenting glare over her already frayed nerves. The sterile white aisles and the clinical scent of antiseptic heighten her growing anxiety. She picks up a few pregnancy tests, her hands quivering slightly as she pays, the cashier's sympathetic smile feeling distant and hollow.

Back at home, she locks herself in her bathroom, the silence almost deafening. The coolness of the flooring feels unyielding against her skin as she sits on the edge of the bathtub, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart as she follows the instructions on the box, her movements mechanical and detached.

The minutes stretch into what feels like an eternity, each tick of the clock echoing ominously through the quiet bathroom. Her mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, the faint echoes of Hannibal's voice mingle with her mounting anxiety. The weight of their complex relationship, the intensity of their connection, and the uncertainty of what this news could mean are almost too much to bear.

When the timer finally goes off, Clarice hesitates before looking at the tests, her hands shaking uncontrollably. The quiet click of the timer feels deafening as she braces herself for whatever the results might reveal.

As she gazes at the tests, a myriad of emotions flood through her. The truth is unmistakable now, staring back at her in the form of two bold lines--well, six as a matter of fact. The stark, undeniable confirmation sends a wave of shock, fear, and an unexpected warmth through her. Tears blur her vision as she grapples with the gravity of her situation, the implications flurrying around her like a maelstrom. She sinks to the floor, the cold, hard bathtub against her back, the tears flowing freely as she grapples with the reality of her situation; the overwhelming sense of isolation heightening her distress.

With trembling fingers, she reaches for her phone, the device feeling heavy and foreign in her grasp. She texts Dee, her message brief and fraught with urgency: Need you here. Now.

Within minutes, Dee arrives, her face a mask of concern as she takes in the sight of her friend. Clarice shows her the tests, the reality of the situation palpable in the silence that follows. Dee sinks to the floor beside her and pulls her into a tight embrace, her presence a comforting anchor amidst the storm of emotions.

"It's gonna be okay, Clarice," Dee whispers, her voice soothing as she holds Clarice close. "We'll figure this out together, okay?"

As Clarice clings to her friend, a strange sense of relief converges with the overwhelming weight of this wholly unprecedented development. The gravity of having to share this news with Hannibal, and the complications it will have on their already intricate relationship, presses heavily on her mind. Yet, in this moment of shared solace, she allows herself to be comforted by Dee's presence, finding peace in the knowledge that she doesn't have to face this alone.

After Dee leaves, Clarice sits quietly in her darkened bedroom, the space quiet save for the occasional rustle of her movements and the distant hum of the city outside her window. The gentle swish of her pyjamas as she changes, the soft sigh of the bedding as she smooths it out—these small sounds fill the silence, providing a miniscule distraction from her thoughts.

Once she's ready, she sits down on the edge of her bed, her phone in hand. The subdued yellow gleam of the lamp casts a warm glow over the screen as she composes a message to Hannibal. Her fingers hover over the keys, the weight of this unexpected development heavy in each tap of the keys.

I know our next call isn't for another week, but we need to talk.

Soon.

Clarice reads the message over, each word feeling like a weighty declaration. The room seems to hold its breath as she presses send, the message disappearing into the ether. The silence that follows is profound, the only sounds her own deep, steadying breaths and the soft rustle of the bed linens.

She places her phone on the nightstand and lies back on the bed, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. As she tries to settle into sleep, her thoughts remain restless, a mix of fear, hope, and anticipation pinballing around her mind. The comforting embrace of her bed offers little solace as she drifts in and out of fitful slumber, knowing that tomorrow will bring the difficult conversation she never in her wildest dreams imagined she would have to have.