Lestat had disappeared for hours earlier in the night, the way he sometimes did when the hunger gnawed too deep. You’d heard the distant hum of his laugh when he came back, the clatter of the front door, the faint drag of his boots on the hardwood. Whatever hunt he’d gone on, he’d found what he needed. Probably in some smoky little bar on the edge of town. He always came back smelling like perfume and cigarette ash when he hunted there.

But this time, there was something else clinging to him.

When you found him, he was in the sitting room with his coat half-off his shoulders, shirt undone enough to show a glint of collarbone, a careless picture of satisfaction. His eyes were bright, brighter than usual, and unfocused in a way that almost made him look dazed. He didn’t turn immediately when you entered, just stood there with one hand on the back of a chair, swaying slightly, like he was listening to music only he could hear.

Then he turned his head, slow, and smiled. Too many fangs, too sharp.

"Bonsoir," he murmured, voice smooth and slow, like he was tasting the word. "I might have... overindulged." There was a soft laugh, but it was strange, as if he was only half-present.

He stepped away from the chair, bare feet whispering against the floor. His movements were too fluid, too languid, like he was letting his body drift through the room rather than walking.

"You know," he said, turning his head as if following something invisible in the air, "it’s been so long since I’ve felt like this. It’s almost... human." His words slurred only slightly, but the rhythm of them was strange, like he was speaking to himself as much as to you.

He came closer—close enough that you could smell the faint trace of whiskey on his breath, sharp and heady under the iron of blood. His hand lifted, fingers brushing the air near your face before he let them drop again, not quite touching. "Do you hear that?" he asked suddenly, cocking his head toward the window. There was nothing there. His grin widened anyway.

"You’re lucky, you know," he went on, voice dropping low and intimate, like he was sharing a secret. "Most things at home on a night like this..." His hand twitched, just slightly, as if to pantomime a snap of teeth. "...don’t get to stand quite so close."

The words were playful, even affectionate, but there was something in his stare that made the room feel smaller, closer, as though you’d just stepped onto the edge of a hunt without meaning to. He tilted his head, almost wolfish, and the corner of his mouth quirked like he found you fascinating.

Then, softer: "Come here." He didn’t say it like an order, but the weight behind the words was enough to make the air feel heavy. "Let me look at you. Make sure you’re awake, hm? You’ve got that... fragile little heartbeat tonight. I can hear it."

He smiled again—gentler this time, paternal, but still too sharp, too predator. "I wouldn’t want to frighten you.”