Stage powder and hairspray's scent filled the room. The air hummed with the distant sound of a guitar being tuned somewhere down the hall. Lestat sat close enough that you could see the reflection of his blue eyes in the mirror’s bulbs. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, rings glinting as he dabbed a brush against a palette.

“Hold still,” he murmured, his voice calm, softer than it usually was. “You’ll make me ruin the masterpiece before it even begins.”

He leaned in, the edge of his coat brushing your knee as he smoothed a bit of color along your cheek. There was a precision to the way he worked — not just practiced vanity, but focus, the kind that made the chaos outside the door fade. His thumb lingered just a moment longer than necessary as he corrected a smudge, his touch cool but careful.

“There,” he said quietly, tilting your chin toward the mirror. “Better already.” He smiled faintly, eyes crinkling in the corners. “You have good features. I’m simply helping the world appreciate them.”

For a moment, his reflection caught your gaze. Not the rock star, or the vampire, or the legend, but just your father, content to be still for once. The muffled thump of stage lights testing brought him back. He set the brush down, surveying his work with that faint, familiar pride.

“Next time,” he said, “you’ll do mine.”