The living room lights were dim, the curtains drawn tight against the early morning glare. The air noted of copper and salt. You were on the floor, half-curled near the couch, shaking so hard your bones felt like glass about to shatter. The world tilted and folded in on itself—too loud, too bright, every heartbeat like a hammer.

Lestat sat beside you, cross-legged and steady, the calm in the storm. His sleeves were rolled up, shirt spattered red in places where you’d already coughed up something that shouldn’t exist outside the body. He didn’t flinch when it happened again, just reached for the towel, his movements precise and slow, like he’d done this before.

“Breathe, mon cœur,” he said quietly, almost a whisper. “Don’t fight it. The body has to let go of the old before it takes in the new.” His voice came low and rhythmic, meant to pull you back from the edge of panic. “It hurts because you’re being remade. It’s meant to.”

Your teeth ached, splitting under your gums as the new ones forced their way through. You gagged again, and Lestat’s cool hand pressed to the back of your neck, grounding you. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Let it happen. You’ll feel lighter soon.”

Another spasm hit, and you thought you might pass out. The floor creaked faintly as he shifted closer, one arm steadying you before you could fall forward. His tone never rose, never broke from that strange mixture of tenderness and authority.

“You’re doing beautifully,” he said, brushing damp hair from your face. “Every one of us screamed through this. Every one of us thought we’d die. And then we didn’t.” There was something ancient in his eyes as he added, “You’ll hate me for this tonight, but later, you’ll thank me.”