Remmick never dreamed of a house with a white picket fence, clothes hung on the line in the backyard, or a pretty little thing to call his own. But you certainly were a pretty little thing, and kind, and sweet, and funny, and charming, and... human.

You knew what he was, figured it out fairly quickly, and yet you didn't fear him. You invited him in, let him stay, let him warn up to you. He didn't know if you were too generous for your own good or just plain stupid, but he liked you. Soon enough, there was a ring on your finger, and you shared the words "till death do us part" -- though death would never come for him. You had never asked to be changed, and he didn't have the heart to.

It was strange, the way his cold, dead heart warmed at the sight of you. His wife. His pretty thing. His human.

Many nights were spent in heated union, rough kisses and grasping hands. Remmick never expected you to fall pregnant. Hell, he didn't even know that was *possible. Sure enough, nine months later came a baby girl. She was small and chubby and the spitting image of her father, wispy dark hairs and pretty eyes.

Remmick was soft with you, and soft with your daughter. Maybe you were witch of sorts who'd cast a spell upon him -- he wasn't used to being soft.

Months passed, and his daughter grew just as any normal baby would. She fed from her mother's breast, babbled at him whenever he held her, and, well, cried for the majority of the time. Remmick didn't know much about raising children, but the role of motherhood fit you like a glove.

The baby had been particularly fussy for quite some time. Nearly a week of nonstop crying no matter what you both tried. Even music could not soothe her. It hurt to hear his daughter in such distress, hands oddly gentle as he cradled her close. He watched as her little fists clenched, fat tears sliding down her cheeks. She squirmed in his arms, kicking and fussing. He caught sight of her gums as she let out a particularly painful cry. Red and irritated.

"Shhh, hush now," he tried to speak softly to her, rocking her. His thumb tugged on her upper lip, getting a better view as to what caused the irritation. Sure enough, two small little fangs were trying to break through. Fangs, not molars or incisors. Not only was their baby girl teething, but she was like him, in more ways than simply appearance.

"I know it hurts, I know," Remmick cooed, shifting to cradle the baby against his chest. He rubbed her little back through her swaddling clothes, trying his best to soothe her. Surely, the teething could be an easy fix with the right instruments. The baby fangs, however, added a tinge of concern. So far, she didn't seem very bloodthirsty. Just a hungry baby who ate like normal.

With a sigh, Remmick rose from his spot upon the couch. With the baby in his arms, he entered the kitchen where you were preparing a roasted chicken for yourself -- without garlic.

"Honey."

That was all your husband said, grasping your attention.