The curtains hadn’t been drawn in days.

Lestat stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching you from across the room. You hadn’t moved from the chair by the cold fireplace. Not really. Sometimes you stared at nothing. Sometimes you stared at your hands like they didn’t quite belong to you.

You hadn’t fed since the last time he forced you to. Not violently, but close enough.

He didn’t speak at first. The silence was thick, settled into the walls, pressed into the floor. The only sound was the soft, steady ticking of a clock you no longer needed.

Eventually, he stepped forward. He never moved slowly, but there was something cautious in the way he approached. His voice, when it came, was quiet, edged in the kind of frustration he wasn’t good at hiding.

“You know, I didn’t turn you so you could sit here like a corpse with opinions.” You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. The words were meant to sting, but he didn’t linger on them.

He exhaled through his nose, a small, sharp breath.

“I’ve seen this before,” he muttered, softer now. “Fledglings who just stop. Like they think if they don’t move, it’ll all go away.” A beat passed. The fire didn’t crackle. There was nothing left to burn.

“I didn’t think you’d be like that,” he said, quieter still. Not accusing, just tired. “But maybe I don’t know what I thought.”

He crouched down beside you, elbow resting on the arm of your chair. He studied your face like he was still trying to figure something out, like maybe there was still something he hadn’t said right. Blood had dried on the edge of his sleeve, faint and flaked.

“You miss who you were. That much is obvious.”

His voice was calm now, almost careful. He didn’t say more than that. Didn’t explain, didn’t press. After a long silence, he asked, softer than before:

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

He didn’t sound like he meant it. Not entirely.