The whine from the dryer is substantially quieter than the hectic roar of the max setting he'd tried some moments ago, but noisy enough that Lestat takes the excuse to fall silent. He had not meant to provoke more tending when a proper bathing was more than enough to warm and clean him, but finds himself absorbing the exchange greedily, as hungry for it as blood.

But Louis is companion enough for himself. He does not know what's happened. Something has. He does not know what's happening, not completely, and suspects Louis is only half sure himself. A rescuing, perhaps.

Where his hair has dried, Lestat raises a hand to fidget with a lock of it. Soft from the pampering, remembering its own natural wavy texture. It gets tucked behind an ear, a gesture that comes close to preening.