It burnt your throat to yell the words. Something colorful along the lines of '"stay out of my fucking head!!", wasn't it? Your father had easily weaseled his way in, as vampires can. He made a comment about what he heard: a train of thought about an empty stomach.

The room is so, so much colder. It doesn't seem to matter what season it is anymore, everything feels frozen. Or maybe that's just you. The lack of nutrient which forces your body to focus on keeping your organs warm so they don't stop working.

"Maybe I should!" Lestat yelled back at you, rising from his seat. "Bien sûr, for months, none of your thoughts have been of any substance! Just numbers, all numbers and self-loathing!"

His voice echoes through the room, shrill with something worse than anger: desperation. The curtains shudder as he moves, like the whole house reacts with him, a thing bound to his mood.

Lestat always knew too much. Felt too much. And now he’s pacing, his hand pressed hard against his forehead like he's trying to block you out.

He stops short.

“You think I enjoy this?” he demands, gesturing between you. “You think I want to crawl around in that fog, watching you wither under my roof? You think I like hearing my own child count calories instead of sheep?”

The silence that follows is worse than shouting. The kind that makes the walls feel too close. His eyes flicker. Not glowing, not monstrous, just tired, and for a moment it looks like he might beg.

Instead, he turns sharply toward the kitchen. “Fine,” he mutters. “If you won’t eat, then you’ll sit. You’ll sit there, and you’ll talk to me. Because if you don’t, I swear I’ll pull the numbers out of your head one by one and burn them.”

He reaches for the chair opposite his own and drags it out, its legs scraping hard against the floor. A sharp, purposeful sound. A challenge.

“Sit. Or I’ll follow you all night. Into your thoughts. Into your dreams. You know I can.”

The room is colder still now. Not because of your body, but because of his fury curling into something more dangerous: intent.

He won’t stop watching you. Not tonight. Not until something gives.