After visiting for a while, Mom finally stood from the couch, brushing her hands down her jeans the way she always did when she was trying to steady herself. She looked around the house one more time — not with fear, not with judgment, but with that soft, searching expression she used to get when she was checking on me as a kid.
“I should head home,” she said. “It’s late.”
Late for her. Early for me.
I walked her to the porch, the night air cool and still around us. She took one step down the stairs before I stopped her.
“Mom… it isn’t safe for you to walk around here alone. Not at night. Not in this part of the world.” I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “If you ever come back, don’t do it unless I’m with you. Or Lilith.”
She nodded immediately — not scared, just accepting. “Alright.”
I believed her. Mom wasn’t reckless. She was brave, but not foolish.
She pulled me into a hug, warm and familiar, and for a moment I let myself sink into it — the grounding weight of someone who’d known me before all of this, before the Hollow, before the bond, before the power.
“I’m really glad I saw you,” she said into my shoulder.
“Me too.”
And I meant it more than she knew.
Because it wasn’t just that she’d found me.
It wasn’t just that she’d met Lilith and Lyndsay and Lucian.
It wasn’t even that she’d accepted the truth without running.
It was the simple fact that someone from my old life had seen my new one and didn’t run.
She squeezed my arm once more, then headed down the path toward the road, her footsteps fading into the quiet.
The night after my mom left, the house settled into its usual rhythm. Lucian slept in soft, uneven breaths. Lyndsay paced upstairs, restless in that fledgling way that made her reorganize the same drawer three times. And Lilith moved through the rooms with that quiet steadiness she carried like a second skin.
It was peaceful.
Then Lilith’s phone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen, and her expression softened in a way I recognized instantly — Caleb.
She answered with a simple, “What’s wrong?”
Even from across the room, I could hear Gaiah fussing in the background, her cries sharp and overtired. Caleb sounded worn thin, trying not to let it show.
Lilith didn’t wait for the full explanation.
“I’ll come over,” she said. “Give me five minutes.”
She crossed the room, lifted Lucian from his bassinet, pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, and placed him in my arms.
“Keep him here,” she said. “He’s settled. And you’re good with him.”
I wasn’t sure that was true, but the way she said it made me believe it for a moment.
Lucian blinked up at me, half-asleep, tiny fingers curling around my shirt. Lilith brushed a hand over his hair, grabbed her coat, and headed out the door with that purposeful stride she had when she was taking care of family.
The lights flicked on in Caleb’s house a moment later — Caleb opening the door, relief washing over his face, Gaiah reaching for Lilith the second she stepped inside.
After Lucian was born, the whole house shifted — not dramatically, just in that quiet, structural way a new life rearranges everything. Our routines changed. Our priorities changed. And Lilith and I had to rethink how we were going to build our lines.
We couldn’t both be out wandering the worlds at night anymore.
So we made a plan.
We’d alternate nights — one night I’d go out, listening for the pull of my next fledgling; the next night Lilith would go, searching for hers. Simple. Balanced. It felt like building something together instead of separately.
On her first night out after Lucian’s birth, Lilith headed to Oasis Springs. She said the air felt different there — clearer, sharper — and I didn’t question it. Her instincts were older than most cities.
I stayed home with Lucian asleep against my chest and Lyndsay pacing upstairs, muttering about reorganizing her dresser again. It was strangely peaceful.
Just before dawn, I felt it — a shift in the bond between Lilith and me, a quiet spark of recognition.
She’d found someone.
When she came in, calm as ever and brushing sand from her boots, she said, “I found him. Robert Mulligan. He works at the spa.”
She leaned against the counter, thoughtful. “He felt it too. Not fully, but enough.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“For a while.” A faint smile. “I followed your pattern — let him get comfortable first. It’s a good way to see if they’re going to get spooked or intrigued.”
“And Robert?”
“Intrigued,” she said simply.
She brushed her fingers over Lucian’s hair as she headed upstairs. “I invited him to meet me at the training grounds tomorrow night. If he shows up, he’s mine.”
Another beginning was coming.
And this time, I wasn’t the only one who understood what that meant.
The next night, Lilith headed back out to meet Robert at the training grounds.
I stayed home with Lucian, who had decided that sleep was optional now, and Lyndsay, who was trying to meditate but kept getting distracted by every sound in the house. It was chaos, but the kind I was starting to understand.
Lilith returned just before dawn.
“He came,” she said.
“How did it go?”
“He handled it well. Better than most humans would.” A faint smile. “He understood the consequences. The responsibility. The permanence.”
“And?”
“And he asked me to turn him.”
“So he’s yours.”
“He is.”
She said it with the same quiet pride I’d felt when Lyndsay accepted the bond — that strange mix of instinct and purpose that came with choosing someone to guide for the rest of their existence.
“Where is he now?”
“At the house. I had him move in until the transformation is complete. It’s safer that way.”
“How’s the connection?”
“Manageable,” she said, softer now. “Much easier than the first time.”
“Because you knew what to expect?”
“That,” she said, “and because I’m pregnant again.”
I blinked. “Already?”
She nodded. “Apparently being pregnant mutes the intensity. The bond is still there, but it’s quieter. Less demanding.”
Robert settled into the house quickly — calmer than most new fledglings, steady in a way that made sense once you spent more than five minutes with him. He listened more than he talked. He watched everything. He asked thoughtful questions, not panicked ones.
And he trusted Lilith almost immediately.
The first night he stayed with us, I found him sitting in the living room watching TV.
That’s when I noticed the hearing aids — small, sleek devices tucked behind both ears.
He caught me looking and gave a small, self‑conscious smile. “They’re not a big deal,” he said. “Just… part of the package.”
I nodded. “They won’t be for long.”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
“When you finish the transformation,” I said gently, “you won’t need them anymore. Vampires don’t lose senses. They gain them.”
He sat back a little, absorbing that. Not shocked. Not overwhelmed. Just… thoughtful.
“So I’ll be able to hear normally?” he asked.
“Better than normally,” I said. “It’ll take some getting used to. Everything will be louder at first. Sharper. But you’ll adjust.”
He touched the hearing aid behind his left ear, thumb brushing the curve of it like he was saying goodbye without meaning to.
“That’s… good to know,” he said quietly.
There was something in his voice — not relief exactly, but something close. A kind of cautious hope. The kind people don’t let themselves feel until they’re sure it’s safe.
In the middle of all the changes — Robert settling in, Lilith managing the muted bond, Lyndsay adjusting to another fledgling in the house — Lucian surprised us.
He grew.
Not dramatically, not overnight, but enough that one morning Lilith lifted him from the bassinet and frowned at the way his knees bent against the edge.
“He’s too big for this,” she said.
She wasn’t wrong. He looked cramped, like he was trying to fold himself into a space that no longer fit him.
So we bought a crib.
The moment we laid him in it — the moment his little body stretched out fully for the first time — he went still. Calm. Like he’d been waiting for this exact amount of space.
And from that point on, everything about him softened.
He slept in long, steady stretches.
He woke with soft coos instead of wails.
He watched the world with those dark, thoughtful eyes that made him look older than he was.
The crib changed him.
Or maybe he was just ready to be who he was becoming.
Since we needed the crib, Lilith went into full nesting mode. She converted the art studio into an infant room — soft lights, floor mats, shelves low enough for tiny hands. Then she turned one of the smaller spare bedrooms into a toddler room, because she was already thinking ahead. She left the bassinet in the original room, mostly because it was already set up and she didn’t feel like moving it.
And like most first babies, Lucian was never put down for long.
Someone was always holding him.
Rocking him.
Talking to him.
Carrying him from room to room like he was the center of gravity in the house.
He loved it.
He’d play with the dolls sometimes — well, “play” was generous. Mostly he drooled on them, chewed on their heads, and stared at them like he was trying to figure out what they were supposed to be.
Calm as he was, he did not like being alone.
At all.
If he woke up and didn’t immediately see someone, he used his entire body to announce it — arms flailing, legs kicking, face scrunching with dramatic urgency. Not crying, just… broadcasting.
“I’m awake. Someone come get me.”
And someone always did.
When Alina came to meet him, we were all in the living room. Lilith had just finished breastfeeding him, and Lucian was curled against her shoulder, content and warm.
Then he bit her.
Not hard — just a testing nip — but enough that Lilith hissed under her breath.
“He’s been doing that all week,” she muttered.
Alina raised an eyebrow, amused. “He’s early.”
Lilith set him on the floor, rubbing her shoulder. “Go on then. Show her.”
Lucian didn’t hesitate. He crawled straight across the rug, determined and focused, until he reached the fireplace. Then he sat — perfectly still — and stared into the flames like they were telling him secrets.
Alina watched him with that ancient, knowing expression she had.
“Yes,” she said softly. “He’s one of us.”
Lilith exhaled, not surprised. “I thought so.”
I stepped behind Lucian, resting a hand lightly on his back. He didn’t look away from the fire.
“He’s so calm,” I said.
“Calm doesn’t mean harmless,” Alina replied, though her tone was gentle. “It means he’s aware. Present. Connected.”
And standing there, watching my son stare into the fire like it held the whole world inside it, I felt something settle in me.
Alina watched Lucian a moment longer, then glanced at Lilith with a knowing softness. “We’re fairly certain Gaiah is one of us too,” she said. “Her dads haven’t noticed the biting — they’re bottle‑feeding — and she hasn’t shown an interest in fire yet. But there are other signs. Instincts she shouldn’t have.”
Lyndsay’s transformation didn’t look anything like mine.
I slept through most of mine — dead to the world, literally and figuratively — but Lyndsay? She barely slept at all during the first twenty‑four hours. She played chess. She blew bubbles. She mixed drinks no one drank. She tried to meditate and failed. She tried to sit still and failed harder.
“It’s like my brain is buzzing,” she said at one point, rubbing her temples.
“That’s normal,” Lilith told her. “Well… normal for you.”
But as she got closer to the end of the forty‑eight hours, the exhaustion finally hit. She crashed hard, sleeping in long, heavy stretches that reminded me of my own transformation. By the time she woke up the second night, her eyes had changed — sharper, brighter, aware in a way they hadn’t been before.
She was a vampire.
Alina came to get her not long after. She appeared in the doorway with that calm, ancient presence she carried like a cloak.
“Ready?” she asked Lyndsay.
Lyndsay nodded, nervous but excited. She hugged me — quick, tight, grateful — and then followed Alina out into the night.
Robert, on the other hand…
He was a different story. He slept in the beginning but almost not at all towards the end.
His transformation went smoothly — almost too smoothly — but he kept trying to eat human food.
Every. Single. Day.
He’d wander into the kitchen, grab something off the counter, take a bite, and immediately regret every decision he’d ever made.
“It might be different this time,” he said once, holding a forkful of scrambled eggs.
“It won’t,” I told him.
He ate them anyway.
Five minutes later he was hunched over the sink, groaning.
Lilith pinched the bridge of her nose. “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”
Robert shrugged weakly. “I was a vegetarian. My body is confused.”
“Your body is dead,” I reminded him. “It’s not confused. It’s rejecting breakfast.”
He groaned again.
Eventually, after his transformation completed, he accepted the truth — no more human food, vegetarian or otherwise. He packed up his things and headed to the fledgling house too, joining Lyndsay, Janessa, and Alina.
He paused at the door before leaving.
“Thank you,” he said. “For… all of this.”
“You’ll be fine,” I told him. “Just stay away from omelets.”
He laughed — a real one — and then he was gone.
The house felt quieter after both fledglings moved out.
For the first time in weeks, it was just me, Lilith, and Lucian again.
Simmers!
If you’re interested in writing and/or reading sims stories, participating in fun competitions and events, joining a friendly and welcoming community, completing legacies and challenge and earning medals, or just having a great place to discuss Sims 2, Sims 3, or Sims 4, then there is a place for you at the
Boolprop.net Forums
Discover more from Love My Sims
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
Be the first to comment