Rose Milk 🌹🥛

Hannigram AU: Doctor Hannibal/Professor Will. They are married, gorgeous, domestic and in love.

Ch. 01

The house was quiet, save for the soft patter of rain against the windows. Hannibal stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The weight of the day settled into his shoulders as he slipped off his coat, hanging it neatly by the door. His hands moved instinctively, unfastening the cuffs of his sleeves, rolling them up as he walked toward the kitchen.

A faint aroma of rosemary and simmering stock lingered in the air—something simple, something warm. He had prepared just enough to fill the space with comfort before stepping back out into the evening. A glance at the clock told him it was time. He washed his hands, dried them, and retrieved his keys from the counter.

Outside, dusk had deepened into night, the rain steady but gentle. The drive was quiet, the road slick with reflections of streetlights and neon signs bleeding into puddles. When he pulled up outside the Academy, he saw him already waiting under the awning, hands in his pockets, hair damp from the mist.

Hannibal stepped out of the car, rain touching his face in cool pinpricks as he approached. Will looked at him, and without hesitation, they met in a kiss—unhurried, familiar. The kind exchanged not out of urgency but as a quiet recognition: you are here, and I am here.

Will took the keys from his hand without a word, and they both moved inside the car. Once settled, Will shrugged off his coat, handing it to Hannibal with an absentminded gesture. Hannibal took it, folding it neatly over his lap.

Another kiss—this one slower, lingering just long enough for warmth to pool between them, to soften the sharp edges of the cold night. Hannibal let his fingers brush along Will’s wrist before pulling back.

“How are you?” he asked, his voice low, steady.

Will exhaled, the faintest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Fine.”

The engine hummed to life, and the road stretched before them. The drive home was quiet, but not in the absence-of-sound way—rather, in the way of two people who did not need to fill space with words. Rain streaked the windshield in delicate rivulets, the occasional hum of tires against wet pavement the only interruption to the soft cadence of their breathing.

When they pulled into the driveway, Will stepped out first, shoulders hunched slightly against the chill. He was halfway to the door when he noticed Hannibal still seated inside, the faint glow of the overhead light casting his profile in sharp relief.

Will turned back, stepping through the rain to open the driver’s side door. “You planning on spending the night in here?” he asked dryly.

Hannibal, unfazed, was reaching into the glove box, extracting a folded piece of paper with quiet precision. He glanced up, a small smile curving his lips at the sight of Will standing there, holding the door open for him like a chauffeur.

As he moved to step out, his hand found Will’s waist, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of his shirt as though grounding himself. Will exhaled, the warmth of the touch something familiar, something expected. He let his free hand settle against Hannibal’s back briefly before closing the car door behind them.

Inside, the house greeted them with the lingering scent of their unfinished meal. Hannibal moved toward the kitchen with the same measured ease he did everything, while Will disappeared into the bedroom. When he returned, he was in clean clothes, barefoot, his damp curls pushed back from his face. He hovered in the doorway for a moment, watching Hannibal at the stove—sleeves rolled up, movements precise, the low flicker of the flame catching in the gold of his wedding band as he stirred.

“Need help?” Will asked, though they both knew he didn’t mean it.

Hannibal turned just enough to glance at him, an amused tilt to his brow. “I think I can manage.”

Will smirked, padding over anyway. He stole a piece of bread from the counter, tearing it absently between his fingers before popping a piece into his mouth. Hannibal didn’t stop him.

Dinner was slow, comfortable. They ate with the easy rhythm of people who had done this a thousand times before—passing dishes without asking, nudging ankles beneath the table. Will reached for his glass of wine, but before he could lift it to his lips, Hannibal caught his wrist gently, examining a faint scrape near his knuckles.

“Paper cut?” he asked, his thumb brushing over the skin.

“Student’s report had a vendetta,” Will muttered, taking a sip of wine before Hannibal could scold him for not disinfecting it.

Hannibal hummed, unconvinced, but let it go.

When the meal was done, they moved through the motions of cleaning up without speaking, the quiet sound of running water and the occasional clink of dishes filling the space between them. Without discussion, they made their way to the bathroom.

The shower was warm, steam curling around them as water drummed steadily against tile. Will leaned into the spray first, tilting his head back, eyes fluttering shut. Hannibal stood behind him, hands sliding over his shoulders, mapping the familiar terrain of muscle and bone beneath damp skin.

“You’re tense,” Hannibal murmured, pressing his thumbs into the knots along Will’s spine.

Will huffed a small laugh. “You say that like it’s new information.”

Hannibal didn’t argue, only kneaded the tension from his muscles with deliberate care. Will let himself sink into the touch, head tipping forward slightly. In a quiet act of reciprocation, he reached for the soap and lathered it between his hands before running them down Hannibal’s arms, slow and steady.

By the time they settled in the study, the fire had already begun to take the chill from the air. Hannibal stretched out on the lounge chair first, and Will followed, fitting himself into the space beside him with the ease of habit.

Hannibal had patient files in his lap, Will with a stack of student reports, both absorbed in quiet concentration. Every so often, Will would shift, just enough for the fabric of their clothes to brush together. Hannibal, without looking up, would run a hand absentmindedly along his arm, fingers tracing idle patterns against the sleeve of his shirt.

When the fire had dimmed to a low, flickering glow by the time Will set his last report aside, exhaling as he stretched out his legs. Hannibal had already placed his files on the side table, his hand resting idly on Will’s thigh, thumb moving in slow, unconscious circles. The room smelled of burning wood, faintly sweet and smoky, mingling with the remnants of soap and skin-warm fabric.

Will shifted, letting his head tip against Hannibal’s shoulder. “Tired?” Hannibal asked softly, not moving, as though unwilling to disturb the moment.

Will hummed, his voice edged with the haziness of approaching sleep. “Mhm. You coming?”

Hannibal didn’t answer with words. Instead, he pressed a kiss just behind Will’s ear, slow and deliberate, the warmth of his lips lingering against his skin before he finally stood, offering Will his hand. Will took it without hesitation.

The house was quiet as they moved through it, the faint patter of rain still audible against the windows. In their bedroom, the sheets had already been turned down.

Will pulled his sweater over his head, tossing it onto a nearby chair before sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his socks. Hannibal watched him for a moment, then stepped closer, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind Will’s ear. His fingers lingered, sliding down to trace along the line of Will’s jaw, tilting his face up.

Will met his gaze, something knowing passing between them before Hannibal leaned down, capturing his lips in a kiss that was slow and searching, deep enough to send a shiver down Will’s spine. Will’s hands found Hannibal’s waist, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of his shirt, warm palms pressing against warm skin.

They undressed with the ease of familiarity—not rushed, but not hesitant either. Clothes were peeled away in quiet motions, and soon they were sinking into the bed together, bodies folding into one another with practiced ease.

Hannibal moved first, rolling Will onto his back with a touch that was firm but unhurried. He pressed his weight against him, not enough to trap, but enough to be felt. His lips found the hollow of Will’s throat, the curve of his collarbone, mapping a path with the usual devotion. Will exhaled sharply, hands threading through Hannibal’s hair, guiding but never forcing.

Their movements were not urgent, not desperate—just steady, deliberate, filled with the quiet intensity of knowing they had nowhere else to be but here. Each touch, each kiss, each shift of breath against skin was something meant to be savored.

After, Will lay against Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal’s fingers traced slow patterns along his back, absentminded but tender. The rain outside had softened to a gentle patter, and the warmth of the sheets cocooned them in a space that felt separate from the rest of the world.

Will let out a small sigh, shifting just enough to press his lips against the center of Hannibal’s chest, right over his heart. “Goodnight,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion.

Hannibal’s arms tightened around him, his lips brushing the top of Will’s head in response. “Goodnight, my love.”

The fire in the other room burned down to embers, the house settling into the hush of night. And in the quiet, in the warmth of tangled limbs and slow, steady breaths, they slept.