There were days when Lestat’s moods shifted like the tide, rising and falling without explanation. Tonight, the house was calm, and he was calm with it. He lingered near where you sat, not quite hovering, but close enough that his presence felt like a blanket being tucked around your shoulders.

He pretended not to be watching you. He found reasons to stay nearby. Adjusting the curtains. Straightening a book. Pouring tea he did not need to drink. All the while, his eyes flicked toward you, soft in a way they rarely were.

“Are you comfortable, lionceau?” he asked, casually, as if the answer mattered more than the world. He brushed a stray thread from your sleeve with careful fingertips. The touch was light, like something precious might bruise if handled too firmly.

There was something almost awkward about it, the gentleness. As if ferocity were easier for him, and tenderness needed to be learned every time. But still, he tried.

He settled beside you, close enough that you could feel the quiet warmth of him, close enough that someone else might mistake it for possessive closeness. The look in his eyes, though, was unmistakable.

Pride. Fondness. A protective kind of love that bordered on animal instinct.

“Tell me what you were doing,” he said, voice soft. Not demanding. Just wanting to know.