Lately he's been staying up during the day, just for you. Lestat sat cross-legged on a thick rug, sleeves rolled up, utterly unbothered by the disarray of toys scattered around him. A stack of wooden blocks lay toppled to one side, a picture book open but forgotten to the other.

“Un,” he said brightly, holding up a block and tapping it once against the floor. His pale fingers were precise, almost theatrical. “Deux,” he continued, stacking another on top with an exaggerated flourish, watching your eyes closely to see if you followed.

When the small tower leaned precariously, he steadied it with a fingertip, his grin widening. “Trois,” he announced, in the same singsong rhythm he used onstage centuries ago.

He shifted onto his side, lowering himself so his gaze was level with yours, hair falling loose around his face. “Encore. Again. Listen—‘quatre,’” he said slowly, drawing the sound out so it was soft and almost musical. He repeated it once more, then let you try it if you wished.

At one point, he caught one of your toys—a small stuffed animal—and made it walk clumsily across the blocks, tripping over the tower with a dramatic collapse. Lestat gasped, wide-eyed, before laughing low in his throat. “Quelle tragédie! The poor creature! But we rebuild, yes?”

Settling back, he rested his chin on his hand, utterly absorbed in the simplicity of the moment. “You’ll be speaking better French than me soon,” he teased gently, his voice warm in a way reserved only for you.