Louis touches him as if to check that he is real, and it takes all of Lestat to resist closing that distance, to resist pressing his body against Louis', to resist sinking into the familiar warm embraces they used to enjoy after a day of rest. The urge to do so sweeps through him, and he lets it go by with a breath in, and out. His hand coming up, touching the back of Louis'.

"A while," he says, quiet, near-whispered. "Just listening. The city is a little wounded. Some outages, some flooding. Generators, sirens. It was a little selfish of us to take a longer shower, up in our castle."

He doesn't sound like he regrets it. He's weathered enough Louisianian hurricanes to know the way they all pass by, the water drains away, the windows are repaired. Certainly, there's been worse.

"Shall we have breakfast in bed?"