Mateo’s Chapter 4

Life in Forgotten Hollow settled into a rhythm that felt almost gentle.

Lilith moved through her pregnancy with a quiet steadiness, her days shaped by meditation, rest, and the occasional soft smile when she thought I wasn’t looking. Caleb and Trent slipped easily into married life, their house glowing with the kind of domestic warmth I didn’t realize vampires could have.

For a while, everything felt calm.

And then one night, I finally answered one of my mother’s messages.

I’d been avoiding them for weeks — little chat bubbles piling up on my phone, reminders of a life I’d stepped out of without warning. But that night, I found myself in the office, the glow of the computer screen reflecting off the window. Lilith was in the room with me, curled up in the chair by the bookshelf, reading quietly.

The house was still.
The moment felt safe enough.

So I opened her latest message and typed back.

Just a few words.
Enough to let her know I was alive.

She responded instantly. Relief poured through the screen in a way that made my chest tighten. We talked for a while — nothing deep, nothing dangerous. Just the surface-level things she could handle and I could manage.

I didn’t tell her about the turning.
Or the hunger.
Or the baby.

Not yet.

Later, we talked on the phone. Twice. Each time, I kept the conversation short, careful, controlled. When I hung up, I felt the distance between us stretch taut, like a thread pulled too tight.

Lilith noticed.

One evening, after another brief call where I dodged every real question, we settled on the couch to watch TV. The glow of the screen flickered across her face as she turned to me.

“You need to tell them about the baby,” she said softly.

I stared at the television, not really seeing it. “I’m not ready.”

“You don’t have to tell them everything,” she said. “But they deserve to know they’re going to be grandparents.”

I didn’t answer.
I didn’t know how to.

It wasn’t the baby I was afraid to tell them about.
It was the world I’d left behind — the human world — and how easily it could pull me back if I let it.

Later that night, I sat at the computer again.
Not to message anyone.
But to delete things.

My social media accounts.
Old photos.
Posts.
Tags.

The digital version of the life I’d lived before.

One by one, I erased them.

A clean break.
A necessary one.

When I finished, the screen went dark, reflecting a version of me I was still learning to understand — someone caught between two worlds, trying to choose the one that felt like home.

The heaviness of that night lingered, but life has a way of nudging forward even when you’re not ready. A few nights later, Caleb and Trent came over for game night.

Lilith had been looking forward to it all week — not that she’d admit it out loud. She’d set out the game on the game table before they even arrived, the little wooden llama standing proudly in the center like it knew it was about to cause chaos.

Caleb walked in with a grin, Trent right behind him carrying a fruitcake. “Tradition,” he said, setting it down.

Lilith rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

We settled around the table, the four of us leaning in as Caleb explained the rules to Trent, who pretended not to understand just to make Caleb laugh. It worked every time.

The game started simple enough — steady hands, careful moves, the occasional muttered curse when a block shifted too far. But it didn’t take long for the competitive streaks to come out.

Caleb played like a surgeon.
Trent played like a man with nothing to lose.
Lilith played like she was trying to intimidate the llama into cooperating.
And I… well, I tried.

The tower wobbled dangerously more than once, and every time it did, Trent gasped dramatically, clutching Caleb’s arm like he was witnessing a tragedy. Caleb pretended to be annoyed, but the way he leaned into Trent gave him away.

Lilith noticed.
I noticed her noticing.

She didn’t say anything, but the softness in her expression said enough. Seeing her brother happy — truly happy — meant something to her. Even if Trent was human. Even if he had no intention of turning. Even if their lives would always move at different speeds.

She was happy for him.
And that mattered.

The game ended the way it always did: with the llama collapsing in a spectacular crash that sent Trent flailing backward and Caleb laughing so hard he nearly fell off the chair. Lilith declared herself the moral victor, even though she’d been the one to knock it over.

We played another round.
And another.

The night stretched warm and easy around us, the kind of night that made the house feel full in a way I hadn’t realized it was missing.

By the time Caleb and Trent headed home, the fog outside had thickened, curling around their silhouettes as they walked down the path. Lilith watched them go, her hand resting lightly on her stomach.

After that, it became a habit — drifting between our house and theirs, sharing evenings that felt more like family than anything I’d ever known.

Every so often, Lilith and I wandered over to Caleb and Trent’s house for dinner — or, more accurately, for Trent’s dinner. For reasons none of us fully understood, Trent had become obsessed with grilling. Steaks, burgers, chicken, ribs — if it could be cooked over open flame, Trent was outside with tongs in hand, humming to himself like he’d been born for it.

The smell didn’t bother me the way it used to.
If anything… it did something else.

Lilith noticed it too.

The first time it happened, we were standing on the back patio while Trent flipped something that sizzled loudly against the grill. The smoke curled up into the night air, rich and savory, and Lilith shifted beside me — just a small movement, but enough for me to feel the spark that jumped between us.

She glanced at me.
I glanced at her.

And suddenly the air felt warmer than the grill.

Caleb caught the look and raised an eyebrow. “You two good?”

Lilith cleared her throat. “Fine. Perfectly fine.”

We were not perfectly fine.

It kept happening.
Every visit.
Every time Trent fired up that grill.

Something about the scent of cooked meat — the heat, the smoke, the primal edge of it — hit us in a way neither of us expected. Maybe it was the vampire instincts reacting to the smell of blood, even cooked. Maybe it was the warmth of the fire. Maybe it was just the domesticity of it all — the four of us together, building a life that felt strangely normal.

Whatever it was, Lilith and I always ended up standing a little too close, exchanging looks that made Caleb groan dramatically.

“Seriously?” he’d mutter. “He’s just making burgers.”

Trent, blissfully unaware, would grin and say, “You guys want some? I can make extra!”

Lilith would smile politely. “No, thank you.”

And then she’d tug me inside before either of us did something embarrassing.

But afterward, when we walked home through the fog, she always slipped her hand into mine. And I always felt that same warm pull in my chest — the one that reminded me how much had changed, and how much more was coming.

The night air was cool, the fog drifting low across the ground as we made our way back toward Wolfsbane Manor. The houses we’d rebuilt stood steady and warm around us — Caleb and Trent’s sanctuary glowing softly behind us, our own home waiting ahead.

Lilith leaned her head against my shoulder.

“Home,” she murmured.

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