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The Weathervane was Wednesday's getaway from her cheerful roommate—the one place a constantly blabbering werewolf wouldn't drown out her thoughts.
Today, she sat in her usual booth, alone and undisturbed, nose buried deep in newly acquired crime scene photographs depicting Jericho's latest victims. The Hyde was still at large, leaving limbs scattered across the town.
She organized the photographs in rows across the table, then rearranged them, hoping it would lead to answers, but more questions arose.
“Brought your trading card collection today?” a voice teased. Tyler.
She looked up as the barista slid into her booth, sitting uncomfortably close. “This is a serious matter, Galpin. People are being savagely murdered with no cause,” she chastised, pointing to a photo of a severed leg.
“Right, uh, so do you have to do this here? You'll scare our customers away,” he said, eyeing the photographs with surprising coolness. Others fainted or gagged at the sight—her roommate, namely.
“Customers?” Wednesday asked, her gaze fixed on the rows of empty booths.
Tyler followed with his eyes, chuckling softly, but nothing was the least bit amusing to her. “Looks like you already proved me right.”
“You can have your meaningless victory. Now, can you leave me be? I was on the verge of a breakthrough,” she claimed, though she was nowhere near one.
Tyler glanced at the photos again and slid further into her bubble of solitude. Her jaw clenched. He leaned in, and, in a conspiratorial tone, he said, “Meet me at the Crackstone Crypt tonight, and I’ll tell you everything you wanna hear.” He slid out of the booth before Wednesday could respond. “Oh, and wear something nice,” he added, strolling back to his station.
And as Wednesday observed him, expecting him to elaborate, he never did. More urgent matters, such as sorting blueberry muffins in the pastry case from least moldy to moldiest, demanded his attention.
Tyler’s invitation echoed in her mind. Was this the breakthrough she’d been seeking? It must be.
Whatever the case, Wednesday couldn't let the possibility of answers slip through her fingers. She was going to meet Tyler at the crypt.
But one bothersome question plagued her mind: Why would a secretive meeting regarding a string of murders require a dress code?
Enid watched from her bed as Wednesday barged in, returning from wherever she’d vanished after class. She sat up straight, a smile automatically curling on her lips at the sight of the goth. “Wens! I missed you!” she shouted, but no response came. “You took long. It’s almost dark out! You need to be careful walking alone at this hour!”
Silence.
What’s her deal? Enid wondered if she had done something to upset her more than usual. Nothing came to mind. Or could she still be mad at her for chewing her Froot Loops — or as Wednesday called it, ‘sugary toucan feces’ — too loudly the night before?
Wednesday wasted no time and got to work, adding new photos to her evidence board. She secured them in place with pushpins and crisscrossed a red string across the board. And she stood there for minutes, silent, tapping a finger on her chin, lost in morbid thought.
The remaining sunlight faded, and the orange hue in the sky captivated Enid as she looked out the window. “You have to come see this. It’s so pretty!” Enid chirped, turning back with hope in her eyes, only for Wednesday to glance at her briefly. It was a start, at least.
She sighed and stomped back to her side of the room. Maybe she just needed to stop thinking about Wednesday, but that's like asking her to quit doodling unicorns in her notebooks during class — it wasn't happening.
Wednesday showed no intention of breaking her trance, so Enid had to act. She couldn't just sit by and watch Wednesday become a death-obsessed loner—it’d only make her an accomplice to Wednesday’s first real murder, or worse, her first victim.
It shouldn't have come to this, but Enid knew it was her only option. She pressed ‘play’ on her phone, and from a speaker, Wednesday’s Kryptonite blared: K-pop . The catchy melody echoed off the walls, filling the space that the gloomy silence had previously occupied. Enid danced around like an eager puppy, and Wednesday finally showed signs of life. Her head snapped toward Enid, shooting daggers at the dancing wolf.
“Would it kill you to revel in silence for once?” Wednesday asked. Her monotone voice was just a ripple in the sea of sound, but Enid heard her—she always could. Yet in this moment, she pretended otherwise.
She shuffled over to Wednesday’s side, cupping her ear. “What?! Did you say you wanna dance?!” Enid yelled over the music, extending her hand to Wednesday.
“Enid, turn it off,” she paused, swatting Enid’s hand away and sighing deeply. “...please?” she spat out, looking as if politeness left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Upon hearing that single word from her, Enid obeyed. Silence settled over their room again, but Wednesday’s ‘please’ rang in Enid’s mind. She took a cautious step toward Wednesday, studying her closely. “Are you okay?” she asked sincerely.
“No, Enid, I'm not well. Some people wish they could hear, and you make me wish I couldn't when you blast that insipid nonsense.”
Enid rolled her eyes and plopped down on Wednesday’s bed with a huff. She pouted as she swung her legs idly, fighting an invisible battle with boredom. But at least staring at Wednesday provided enough entertainment.
She observed Wednesday’s steady focus on the board. Wednesday never blinked at the gruesome sights that repeatedly caused Enid to faint.
If only she would look at Enid with the same attentive intensity she reserved for gory images. It was usually the I-will-murder-you-in-cold-blood kind of intensity she received, but a girl can dream.
“You're ruining my meticulously made bed,” Wednesday accused, her gaze fixed on the board.
“And you're ruining my night…” Enid muttered under her breath, and only then did Wednesday notice her.
There’s that intensity again.
“Pardon?”
“I, uh–Twilight! I said Twilight. Tonight’s the Twilight marathon in the quad. Let’s go?” Enid stammered, chuckling and rubbing her neck. “Thing's already saving us seats!”
“Can’t,” Wednesday replied, shifting her focus back to the board. “Besides, you and Yoko already offer plenty of werewolf and vampire antics every day."
“Why not? C’mon, Wens, let’s get outta here!” Enid whined. “You know, dead people won't ever tell you about their day or about how life’s going—the small things!”
“Yes, I’ve found they’re much better listeners," Wednesday deadpanned. “But no, I can’t. I have a prearranged meeting with Tyler at the crypt in about an hour or so.”
“You have a what?! With who?!” Enid questioned, her voice an octave higher. “Why?!”
“He may or may not have crucial information regarding the case, though he never mentioned it,” Wednesday revealed.
“Then why go?” Enid protested, with maybe a bit too much sass in her voice—Wednesday glared at her again.
“A good detective never lets a lead, no matter how insignificant or even where it comes from, pass them by.”
Enid blinked. “Alright, Sherlock, calm down. This is Tyler we’re talking about. Weathervane, right? Yeah, there’s no way he has any leads for you, Wednesday. Why would he?” She got to her feet and forced a brave face, staring straight into those judgmental, brooding eyes. But her stomach twisted with unease at the thought of his stupid face being anywhere near Wednesday, alone.
“His father is the sheriff, Enid, and that man won't budge on assisting me. Tyler might. He has access to files that have been kept from me," Wednesday rationalized. “In fact, I could use your assistance for once, Enid. I’m meant to wear something 'nice,’ whatever that implies. And I need a second opinion on this mourning dress I deem ‘nice.’ It is a crypt, after all.”She turned toward her wardrobe.
But it clicked in Enid’s mind. Of course, that sneaky barista had ulterior motives with her Wednesday—a genius whose social cluelessness was bound to get her killed someday.
Enid took a big step forward, intercepting Wednesday. Their bodies collided. Wednesday bounced backward while Enid remained steady. “Wednesday, don’t panic, but you literally just got asked out! And you don't even realize it!” Enid frantically announced, ignoring her own advice.
The words didn't seem to penetrate Wednesday’s thick skull. “Well, whatever it may be, I'm still going. I need to be certain,” she concluded, determined (and stubborn) as ever.
Enid wouldn’t clear her path. If she did, she’d be letting Wednesday walk right into some normie’s arms. “You shouldn't go,” she pleaded with puppy eyes.
Wednesday clicked her tongue, growing impatient. “Enid, get out of my way.” Enid had to think fast. She could help Wednesday, but it would be on her own terms—however selfish they may be. “I meant, you shouldn't go without fully knowing what you're getting yourself into,” she suggested.
And Wednesday raised a brow. Intrigued? Annoyed? Enid couldn't tell, but she offered a sheepish smile in return.
“This isn't whatever you think it is,” Wednesday said, arms crossed.
“Oh, but it is , Wens. Haven’t you ever thought it was weird how he always ended up at our table when it was just you and me? And how he always ignored me and only talked to you? And then you’d ignore me too when he was around—jerk,” Enid recalled. “He’s so got a thing for you, and it’s so grossly obvious.” She fake gagged because, yes, the thought of him with her disgusted her even more than those pictures on Wednesday’s board.
A beat of silence, and Wednesday spoke. “Why me? I've made it clear I have no interest in—”
“Because, Wednesday! You’re you! Who wouldn't wanna ask out the smartest, most mysterious, kinda creepy, but also hottest goth girl at Nevermore?” Enid blurted out impulsively, clearing her throat once the words set in. “He’s just the first idiot who’s had the guts to. But don't worry! I’ll make sure you have the best first date ever!”
“The case, Enid. I can't just neglect it,” Wednesday argued, glancing at the board.
“You've been neglecting your social life for 16 years. It can wait! Let’s start!” Enid exclaimed, the elevated volume in her voice giving away her eagerness.
Her courage grew, prompting her to place both hands on Wednesday’s shoulders. She held her firmly and met Wednesday’s intense gaze head-on.
Wednesday stiffened at the sudden contact, her eyes flickering with a mix of confusion and irritation. “What are you doing?”
“Getting you used to physical touch. Boys are touchy-feely, so don't panic if he does something like this. And don't hit him if he does, no matter how strong the urge might be,” Enid explained, adding the last part when she felt Wednesday was on the brink of slapping her across the face. But she never did. She just stared at her… attentively.
Oh my god, it’s working.
“You never cease to amaze me, Enid.”
“R-really?”
“Yes, you somehow manage to get stranger every day.”
Never mind.
Enid’s defeated sigh ruffled Wednesday’s bangs. The slightest smirk flickered on Wednesday’s lips for just a microsecond—the little ghoul.
“Get your paws off me,” Wednesday demanded, yet she did nothing about it, almost as if she were waiting for Enid’s next move.
Enid’s hands remained on her roommate’s cold shoulders as she recalled Tyler’s persistence—how he never backed down from Wednesday’s dismissals. She’d say, ‘No more coffee,’ and he’d bring another cup anyway, just to spark another unwanted conversation. Maybe she just needed to be persistent.
She gently shook Wednesday’s shoulders, defying her orders. “Focus, Wednesday. This isn't a game,” she scolded, attempting to mimic Wednesday’s stern nature. But nothing about a blonde in a fluffy pastel sweater adorned with hearts screamed ‘obey me, or else.’
“You couldn't handle my full attention, and frankly, you don't deserve it,” Wednesday retorted, showing Enid how it’s done.
She might not have deserved it; no one did, especially not him, but she was willing to risk her life for it, in the form of a… hug.
Enid knew it well; ‘Wednesday Addams’ and ‘hugs’ don't belong in the same sentence unless that sentence ends with ‘death.’ Embracing Death itself wouldn't be such a bad way to go, especially when Death stood in front of her, looking as deadly as ever.
Enid’s hands slipped from Wednesday’s shoulders to her back, and she gently brought Wednesday’s rigid frame against her body. She held her breath and shut her eyes tightly, bracing for whatever violent retaliation Wednesday had prepared.
But she quickly stopped fearing for her life when, instead of Wednesday hitting her, realization did. The realization that she had Wednesday Addams in her arms, and she was as porcelain doll-like as she appeared. So stiff, yet if mishandled, she’d shatter beyond repair. In no way would a normie be capable of handling her—or anyone else, for that matter, except Enid. Only Enid could.
“Right, so what is the purpose of this?” Wednesday spoke after Enid had forgotten to.
“Oh! Well, um, he’s gonna wanna hug you!” Enid released her, meeting her eyes again. “Just be nice and let him. I know you might not wanna be hugged by him of all people, but let this be your one good deed for, like, ever.”
“Is that all?” Wednesday asked, stepping forward.
Persistence, Enid.
“Wait, no! Wednesday, you can’t half-ass a hug! I did all the work!” Enid stepped forward herself.
Wednesday groaned, maintaining dangerous eye contact with Enid. “I’m failing to see how any of this might help me solve a case.”
“Well, let’s see, if I were Tyler and I did have a lead to give you…” Enid trailed off, playfully tapping a colorful nail against her lips, her gaze floated upward in feigned thought. “You’d be shit outta luck. No one wants to hug a corpse!”
“You’d be surprised,” Wednesday said, but Enid had no interest in exploring the implications of that statement.
“Let’s try it again, but this time hug me back,” Enid proposed. “For science or whatever, of course,” she added, masking her excitement over Wednesday potentially embracing her.
Not a peep from Wednesday. The request was so foreign to her that she just stood there, unable to proceed.
“It’s okay, Wens, you can touch me. I won’t bite. Just promise me you won't,” Enid murmured, sensing Wednesday’s discomfort.
Wednesday’s arms were pressed tightly to her sides, her hands clutching her skirt. Enid noticed this and, in a brave act, grabbed Wednesday’s clenched fists. She knew to apply just enough force to guide them freely but not enough to hurt her.
She guided them to her waist, where they gripped the back of Enid’s sweater. Enid felt Wednesday’s tiny hands doubting themselves. She had no idea what she was doing, and Enid internally screamed. She’s so fucking cute when she’s clueless.
“Okay, now try pulling me closer,” Enid said, cheeks flushing, heart hammering.
The ‘try’ part never happened. Wednesday had fully committed, not to pulling, but yanking Enid mid-frantic heartbeat.
Enid howled, startled by the sudden jolt. Her breath hitched as her proximity to Wednesday reached levels she’d only ever dreamed of. Breasts pressed firmly together, providing cushion from an otherwise rough landing. Faces narrowly missing each other, Enid buried her chin on Wednesday’s shoulder. Tense hands gripped the fabric right above Enid’s ass. Wednesday didn't know it, but she was ticking all of Enid’s boxes.
“Like so?” Wednesday asked, her voice mere inches from Enid’s ear, amplified hearing working in Enid’s favor. A low hum became a whole-body experience for Enid; shivers ignited every nerve ending.
Exactly like fucking so.
“Y-yeah,” Enid managed, reciprocating, pressing Wednesday even tighter, absorbing all of her. Wednesday’s scent transported Enid to a funeral home brimming with floral arrangements featuring all of Wednesday’s favorite flowers, with black dahlia being the most prominent.
And her body, fuck, Enid’s hands wrapped around her toned curves so perfectly, as if they were sculpted specifically for Enid to hold, and only for Enid. Even through the thick fabric of Wednesday’s school blazer, the firmness was undeniable and provocative to the touch.
“How long do you expect this hypothetical embrace to persist?”
Wednesday’s voice ripped Enid from her brief, blissful trip. She reluctantly freed herself from the hug, already missing the warmth. “Not… long…” she managed. Her cheeks burned piping hot, as did every other body part that was capable of doing so.
Wednesday, in return, seemed largely unaffected and oblivious to the hormonal hurricane she inadvertently stirred within Enid. The only sign of the embrace on Wednesday was her bangs, slightly swept to one side, revealing more of her forehead than usual.
Fighting to regain her composure, Enid took a shaky breath and smoothed down her sweater. “Not so bad, right? Just work on being more gentle. Not everyone likes the roughness. Some people might, but Tyler doesn’t seem like the type. He’s too soft.”
“Do you like it rough?” Wednesday asked, looking Enid dead in the eye.
The unexpected question hit Enid in the face, hard. And it lingered long enough to provoke an awkward silence, at least awkward on Enid’s end—Wednesday found no fault in her words. “W-what?”
“Well, judging by your lack of protest during the entire ordeal, it seems you identify with the crowd that prefers roughness,” Wednesday deduced in the same analytical tone she’d use when discussing the latest murder in Jericho.
Is this girl serious?!
“This is about you, not me! And watch your words, weirdo!” Enid covered her own mouth, emphasizing her supposed offense at Wednesday’s observations. But her hand was there to conceal the giddy grin creeping on her lips as she imagined Wednesday whispering that question into her ear instead. Another fainting spell would follow, and Wednesday would rescue her, like always.
“I always consider my words carefully, Enid.”
“Well, not careful enough! You know what? Let’s work on that, too. I can’t have you making a fool of yourself because you totally suck at compliments, receiving or giving," Enid suggested, fiddling with her pastel sleeve.
Wednesday glanced at the clock on her desk, then back at Enid. “I don't need validation in the form of words. You people seem to thrive on insincere terms of affection. So long as one person flinches when I enter a room, I’m validated.”
“Ugh, see? That's exactly the kind of thing you don't say on a date! And I thought we were making progress, Wens,” Enid lamented, running a hand through her hair, slightly tugging at it. “Okay, just sit. We can make this work, somehow,” Enid gestured to Wednesday’s bed.
“No, you've already wrinkled the sheets enough,” Wednesday said, pointing at the single fold disturbing the otherwise impeccable surface.
Enid rolled her eyes, refusing to give Wednesday the satisfaction of yet another pointless argument. Instead, she grabbed Wednesday by the hand and hauled her across the room, forcing her to abandon her monochrome habitat and enter Enid’s colorful den.
“Sit, please,” Enid tried again, signaling her bed. And Wednesday wordlessly obliged, tossing a stray stuffed animal to the floor.
Enid pulled a chair from her desk and positioned it so she faced Wednesday when she sat.
“Wednesday Addams,” Enid declared once seated, gazing into the abyss of Wednesday’s eyes. Taking in every gorgeous detail of her face—the subtle freckles, plump lips, and… the slight reddening of her cheeks? That’s new. Suddenly, Enid’s new goal was to suppress a smile that threatened to break free.
She failed.
“Enid Sinclair,” Wednesday replied, internally questioning Enid’s twisted take on an interrogation. It was indeed an effective method, as she was willing to confess to all her crimes if it meant escaping this vibrant purgatory.
“I’m gonna say one nice thing about you, and I want you to do the same, ‘kay?” Enid instructed, smiling. But the prospect of eradicating that smile seemed much more gratifying to Wednesday.
“Fine, I’ll go first. Dearest Enid,” she began, enunciating her words with clarity, “you are the rainbow after a tempestuous storm.” Enid’s smile widened, naturally, but Wednesday was not finished, “My least favorite part.”
Enid sank into her seat and palmed her forehead. And her smile upturned into a frown. Success .
“You’re the absolute worst,” Enid muttered.
“Why, thank you, Enid. Now, I must—”
“That wasn't a compliment, genius. I mean it, you're the worst," Enid argued, grabbing both of Wednesday’s hands when she attempted to escape.
Enid once again held her captive. Wednesday sat, staring at her hands within Enid’s. Enid’s grip was firm yet surprisingly gentle, her hands warm as she traced soothing circles on Wednesday’s skin. And truth be told, she didn't mind the sensation. It was quite comforting. A sensation akin to her mother’s touch, though Morticia would never be caught dead in such revolting shades of nail polish.
“Wednesday, look at me.”
Wednesday obliged. Enid smiled again. It happened the instant they locked eyes as if she was hardwired to smile whenever Wednesday met her mischievous gaze, like a bizarre Pavlovian experiment of sorts. It was disturbing. And her heart was disturbed, too. At least, that’s how she justified her heart’s quickening pace.
“Wipe off that foolish smile. You looked much better with a frown,” Wednesday barbed.
Enid’s eyes sparkled. “Better how?” she asked, a hint of anticipation tinging her voice.
“Well, forced smiles are just as bad as the real thing—weak and pathetic. A frown cannot be forged. They are a genuine reflection of the misery residing within us.”
Where she expected to find displeasure or horror, she found a toothy grin. And Enid giggled.
“God, you’re so bad at this,” Enid sneered. She squeezed Wednesday’s hands and scooted closer in her chair, never breaking eye contact. “ Nothing about my smile is forced, Wednesday. Call me psycho, call me a maniac, or whatever Wednesday-ish term you prefer, but you are the reason I smile. You genuinely make me happy.” She finished with a predictable, blinding beam.
To Wednesday’s knowledge, everything Enid was uttering was part of her little role-playing game. So why did it feel so real? And how does one respond to such accusations?
“Say something back, Wens,” Enid whispered, hopeful.
“About Tyler?”
“About me.”
“Well, I suppose if you truly find joy in misery, then perhaps I misjudged you, Sinclair. It’s quite an admirable trait.”
A little more sparkle in Enid’s eyes, and Wednesday swore she saw stars form within them.
“So you admire me?”
“I admire your masochist tendencies.”
“I put up with you every day. What did you expect? Maybe I do like it rough,” Enid smirked, finally letting go of Wednesday’s hands. Wednesday was free to flee right then and there, but she didn’t.
Enid’s stare lingered, her lips parted, but no words came—a strange contradiction to her usual chatty nature. “Out with it, Enid.”
“It’s just—you're so pretty from up close—and from far! You make me forget what I wanna say,” Enid stumbled.
Wednesday still could not tell what was real or not. But Enid’s pink cheeks were undeniably real and distracting. “Beauty fades, but—”
“—‘but cunning intelligence is forever’—I know, I know. Can you just take a compliment and not make everything so damn philosophical for once?” Enid said, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Wednesday tilted her head. How was it that Enid knew her so well? Tyler, Xavier, Eugene, even her alleged therapist—none of them had the attention span required to quote one of her many aphorisms. Only Enid did. Only Enid listened when no one else would. Sure, she’d sometimes listen against her will, but she never seemed unhappy about it.
“Seriously, though, I don't think you're ready, like, at all. Which isn't the worst thing in the world; you can just tell him you're busy. Which you will be, if you stay here, with me, ‘til we get it right,” Enid suggested.
“Unless you can conjure up promising leads from thin air, there’s no motive for me to stay here.”
Enid’s shoulders drooped. “That’s… fair, I guess,” she murmured.
Wednesday took note of the time. Her time as Enid’s lab rat was coming to a close. Departing was the next logical step, but Enid’s expectant stare seemed to bind Wednesday in place.
“I think I should start preparing,” she voiced aloud—to herself, not Enid—hoping her body would take the initiative. But her mind would not let her gaze retreat from Enid’s.
“Oh, um… yeah. Okay,” Enid said, smiling noncommittally, as though convincing herself it truly was ‘okay.’
Wednesday nodded.
“Hold on, before you go. Your hair…” She reached out just as Wednesday’s body had seized control from her mind, halfway into a standing motion. And her mind rebelled again. Let it happen was the new decree. So she did, disregarding every bodily instinct rooted within her.
She sat again, and Enid brushed Wednesday’s disheveled bangs with her fingers, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. Then she caressed Wednesday’s cheeks, her thumb circling the corner of her mouth. Her gentle touch sent a peculiar shiver down Wednesday’s spine, like a swarm of scorpions skittering along and injecting venom into her nerves.
“Pretty,” Enid whispered, satisfied with her work. “Like, pretty pretty.”
It took a great deal of commitment to stare into those blue eyes for so long, and from so close. They say prolonged exposure to hydrogen sulfide can be fatal; try five seconds of eye contact with a werewolf who can disarm you with just one look.
So Wednesday’s gaze faltered, falling onto her own hands in an attempt to find her bearings. And her heart was disturbed again, thudding madly, betraying her mirage of stoicism.
Enid, though, was persistent. With a finger to her chin, she raised Wednesday’s head, and their gazes met again. Enid’s eyes drifted along Wednesday’s face, her lips parted again, but like before, she swallowed her words. Instead, she sighed, slightly undoing her work of tidying Wednesday’s bangs.
“He’s so lucky,” Enid muttered, and her resilient smile dissipated, along with the stars in her eyes. She withdrew her finger and deflated into her chair, keeping a safe distance.
Wednesday observed her retreating form with curiosity. What happened?
Are adolescent werewolves more prone to abrupt mood swings than the average teenager? Wednesday didn't know the answer. But Enid’s vibrant, cheerful disposition had faded into a dull gray that rivaled Wednesday’s own.
And for once, it didn't feel like a victory.
Reality was starting to creep up on Enid. None of this was real. Time was running out, and soon enough, Wednesday would be gone, along with any chance of Wednesday ever knowing how she truly felt.
“Is something the matter?” Wednesday asked, and Enid’s heart sank, blindsided by such a simple question. But coming from her, it meant the world.
“No, I’m just wondering what you’ll wear,” she lied, forcing one of those weak and pathetic smiles Wednesday talked about. “It’s getting late.” They glanced at the clock, then back at each other, but Enid broke the contact first.
With a slight nod, Wednesday stood and strode back to her side, rummaging through her wardrobe. Enid watched her and considered hugging her one more time, but she’d only be prolonging the inevitable.
While she waited for Wednesday, she slumped over in her chair, propping her head on her palm.
“This is comfortable, therefore adequate.” Wednesday emerged clad in that oversized hoodie she adored. Enid turned and allowed herself the briefest flicker of a giggle—she was just too adorable. Despite her constant scowl and unwelcoming eyes, the hoodie made her look so tiny and cozy.
“Looks good, Wens,” Enid said. Nothing about her outfit was date-appropriate, but a selfish part of her felt glad Wednesday wasn't putting in any effort for Tyler. So much for that creepy mourning dress.
“I didn't ask.”
“Whatever, asshole. I hope your date isn't allergic to girls who still use typewriters in the 21st century. And if he is, I hope he has an allergic reaction and dies.” Enid teased, but it was the truth.
“Language,” Wednesday scolded as she finished prepping her satchel with all her case-related essentials. It seemed she still believed she was headed into some top-secret meeting.
And as Wednesday reached the door, she turned to face Enid and stood still. “Will you survive on your own for a few hours? Perhaps the one dying will be you from lack of social stimulation,” Wednesday taunted, rubbing salt in Enid’s fresh wounds.
“Yes,” was all Enid managed to say in a small voice, as the reality of Wednesday’s departure hit her again.
Wednesday wouldn't leave. She stood there in silence, but her eyes wandered around the room as if searching for words. “Weren’t you planning to attend the screening of that wretched film?
"Just leave, Wednesday,” Enid said, her voice trembling slightly.
Wednesday glanced at the floor, then met Enid’s eyes. There was a brief, odd softness behind her gaze before she turned on her heels. “Farewell then, Enid,”
She left, and the warmth Enid longed for was granted to her, not from Wednesday’s embrace but by a single hot tear rolling down her cheek.
The eerie ambiance surrounding the crypt should have felt like home. It was the perfect backdrop—the kind that typically accompanied her sweetest nightmares: a moonlit sky bathing skeletal trees in silver light and the slight chance of an elusive monster mauling her to death.
Yet, the change in scenery—from rainbows to gloom—did little to ease the feeling that something was left unresolved, and it wasn't the bloody case.
Looming footsteps disrupted the stillness, and a nudge on her shoulder jolted her back to reality. Her heart came to a halt, and on instinct, she drew the knife concealed in her satchel, whirling to face whatever monster lurked in the night.
It was no monster. It was just Tyler. (His habit of serving drinks with monstrous amounts of caffeine to the general populace could earn him that title, however.)
The knife ghosted over his throat; millimeters separated the tip from his flesh. His Adam’s apple bobbed, revealing his dismay with a sharp gulp.
“Didn't know we moved past the talking stage that fast,” Tyler said, raising his hands in surrender, a nervous chuckle escaping him.
She reluctantly returned the knife to its place, slightly disappointed she couldn’t field-test last year’s Christmas gift just yet.
“You look… nice,” he said, eyeing her up and down once the color returned to his face.
“I tried.”
“I…see that. And thanks for not going all Michael Myers on me just then.”
“Don’t praise failure.”
“R-right,” he stammered. “So, wanna go in?” he asked, signaling the corroded iron door to the crypt.
She’d only half-nodded when he had already slipped behind her, two insistent hands on her shoulders prodding her forward. He briefly released her to push the door open, and it groaned in protest—a sentiment Wednesday also shared.
They abandoned darkness for flickering candlelight, the stench of dust and decay permeating the chilly air. “Let us begin, shall we?” she suggested once the door slammed shut behind them, shrugging his hands off her shoulders and shuffling through the contents of her satchel. She skimmed through her twenty-page case file, ready to divulge the latest happenings.
“We shall, but wait—”
“Just last night, a man, late 40s, was found brutally—”
“That’s not why we’re here, Wednesday,” he laughed, pulling the manila folder from her grasp, then handing it back for her to put away. “Come, I have something to show you.”
Before she could protest, he took her by the shoulders again, steering her deeper into the crypt’s chamber. Their footsteps reverberated like a choir in an empty cathedral. Every step taken, one further from solving a crime and one closer to the trivial romantic rituals Enid had accurately predicted and so enthusiastically ‘prepared’ her for.
Emphasis on rituals, or a normie’s misguided interpretation of one.
She counted exactly thirteen candles encircling a small table, casting dancing shadows on a pristine Ouija board that lay upon it, along with goods from the Weathervane. Tarot cards were haphazardly strewn across the floor beside it. The horrid sight would appall even a novice seer.
Tyler watched her in anticipation, waiting for some kind of positive reaction from Wednesday.
“A store-bought Ouija, Tyler? Really?” she complained. Everyone knew handcrafted boards were optimal for initiating séances, but the barista lacked common sense, and loving parents, apparently. Morticia and Gomez had always supplied her with all the animal blood a little girl could need.
“Just thought a girl like you would appreciate the, uh, vibe,” he said, his hands buried in the pockets of his corduroy jacket. “We don't actually have to contact the dead, unless you want to.”
“You don't know a thing about me other than my preferences regarding caffeinated beverages,” she said, snatching the quad over ice from the table, taking a deliberately loud sip, and bitterly setting it back down.
“Point taken. But let’s change that. Help me get to know you better,” he said, gesturing for her to sit. Two pillows were placed opposite the table, presumably for this hypothetical chat about herself.
“If you knew any more about me, you’d call your father and have me arrested on the spot,” she said, plopping down on the floor. Tyler followed. Indulging him was perhaps the quickest way out.
They stared at each other, shoulder to shoulder. He chuckled, finding humor in her dead-serious claims. “I’ve seen a lot of shit in this town. I’m sure I can handle you and whatever secrets you’re hiding,” he asserted with a smirk, and the only thing Wednesday felt like handling was her knife again.
“You can hardly handle a broken espresso machine,” she retorted, unimpressed by his sudden bravado. Yet, he mistook her snide remarks as a sign she was engaged in his tedious game of flirtatious banter—he took her under his arm. He playfully rubbed the top of her head as if every verbal jab was an invitation rather than a rejection.
Of all things Enid could have been right about, it had to be this . If she had only listened to Enid’s frantic warnings, she’d have avoided this tiresome mess. Still, Enid volunteered to guide her through similar scenarios. But while back then, the werewolf’s attempts were unexpectedly bearable—intriguing even—her current situation was anything but. This claustrophobic proximity was asphyxiating, and not in a fun, torturous way.
And she’d much rather be the subject of Enid’s brand of affectionate torture again than endure another second of his brash presence.
The heavy arm draped around her felt like a literal burden on her shoulders. Her attempt to shrug it off was futile, as he simply pulled her closer to him with minimal effort.
“I’d like to breathe,” she complained with a twitching brow.
“Well, that’s one way of saying I leave you breathless,”
“No, I mean your cheap cologne is assaulting my sinuses, and your arm is depriving me of what little oxygen there is in this forsaken crypt.”
He took the hint and eased his constricting hold on her. Her perfectly groomed hair was in shambles from his carelessness, so she attempted to pat it back into place, but Tyler, seeing this as an opportunity to ‘help,’ ran his fingers through her sleek raven locks, and she recoiled at once. “Do. Not. Touch. Me.”
Her command echoed throughout the chamber, perhaps loud enough to disturb the dead.
“You alright, Wednesday?” He asked, meeting her glare with mild concern in his eyes.
That marked the second time her well-being was questioned that evening. Her answer remained unchanged: “No, I’m not well,” but unlike with Enid, sarcasm ceased to exist in her words. She was nowhere near alright. How could she be when everything about her current predicament felt so wrong ? His touch, his stare, his voice—none of it compared to how right Enid had inexplicably made Wednesday feel earlier.
And then there was the unease that gnawed at her. The image of Enid, dejected and unusually subdued, haunted her, and she had no explanation for the tightening in her chest every time it replayed in her mind.
She shot a cold look at Tyler and met his quizzical gaze. He tried reading her like a book, but unfortunately for him—and fortunately for her—a happy ending was nowhere in sight.
“Well, if we’re just going to sit here, rotting away while a mystery remains unsolved, then I suppose I must get going,” she said as she clutched her satchel and stood up.
“Wait, Wednesday—” he blurted out, rising and blocking her path. “You can't leave now, we were just getting—”
“—watch me.”
She strode away but didn't cover much distance as Tyler, ever the persistent go-getter, caught up and stepped directly in front of her, once again placing his hands on her shoulders.
“I know what you're doing. It’s not going to work on me, your games.”
They stood near the crypt exit, gazes locked. A crooked smile and a presumptuous glint in his eye clashed against Wednesday’s icy glare. Her heart raced, but it felt different than it did with Enid—it was desperate to escape the crypt, even if it was without Wednesday.
“The only games I play involve torture devices. Now, release me, or your audacity might land you on said devices. My brother’s been dying for a new test subject after our previous one lost the ability to walk. Don't ask how.”
He snickered, only intensifying his stare. “If you’re trying to scare me off, it’s not working. You’re just proving exactly why I like you, Wednesday.”
“And why is that?” she questioned, not exactly interested in the answer but rather to confirm the extent of his delusions.
But perhaps fueling his advances was the wrong choice—he tightened his grip, pulling her slightly closer, and his eyes flicked from her lips to her eyes. “Because,” he began, inching closer as a bead of sweat formed on Wednesday’s forehead, “You pretend not to give a damn, but I know deep down, you feel what I feel when I'm with you.”
“If what you feel is an undeniable sensation of nausea, you’d be right.”
He scoffed, his smugness faltering ever so slightly. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. We’re all alone.”
“Indeed, we are. But—”
“And this is all I've ever wanted, to be alone with you, but that girl is always following you around,” he interrupted, and her blood boiled.
That girl. That very same girl whom she always sought to escape, and yet, she wished that girl had somehow followed her here, too, to rescue her from this hell. Not to mention, that girl could rip his face off if she wanted.
“Enid,” she corrected in a hushed but stern voice, her eyes drifting away from him. Just the act of mentioning her name was enough to pull her away from the repugnant reality that was Tyler’s proximity.
He spoke, but none of it was coherent to her, not when the ghost of Enid seemed to float around the crypt, smiling warmly at Wednesday. But she didn't want a ghost’s smile; she needed the real thing.
A sudden temperature spike snatched her from her whimsical musings. Tyler’s breath, like a gust of hot wind on a summer day, felt unpleasant against her skin. His face was mere centimeters away, and his intentions were blatantly and repulsively clear.
The impending doom of his kiss threatened her more than the jaws of a murderous monster ever could.
She had her constant fencing practice to thank for her heightened reflexes. In one fluid motion, she ducked, breaking free from his grip with a shove to his chest.
His eyes fluttered open, and he reached up to where Wednesday touched him for the first time that night, and the only time she touched him. He looked at her as if she had turned down a large fortune—utter confusion on his face.
Wednesday took one step back.
He stepped forward. “Wednesday, what—”
Another step backward. “You are bold, Galpin, but boldness unfortunately does not make up for your lack of perception,” she stated, her glare never relenting as she crept backward. “Next time, consult with your Ouija board beforehand. Perhaps it will spell out ‘NO’ to you before you embarrass yourself.”
One, two, three steps back. Tyler remained stunned in place, unable to articulate a response. And she finally felt the unyielding surface of the iron door pressing against her back.
Without taking her eyes off him, she fumbled for the door handle, and once she found it, she yanked it open without hesitation.
He opened his mouth, and all she heard was, “Wednesday, wait, I—” before the door’s groan drowned whatever desperate plea he had.
She fled the scene, and outside, the cold night air kissed her skin, refreshing her, providing the strength she needed to find her way back to that girl .
*
She didn't look back. Anything could have followed her: Tyler, the monster, or both. What did follow her was the residual distress of a traumatic experience. A sense of anguish far worse than the time she was forced to smile for picture day in elementary school. And much like she did to that photograph, she needed to burn any lingering thoughts of Tyler’s audacious attempts from her memory.
Knife in hand, she briskly navigated the moonlit forest until the familiar silhouette of Nevermore came into view. Only then did she turn back to confirm no one had followed. The path was devoid of normies and/or monsters.
All that remained was sneaking back to the dorm unnoticed to avoid a trip to Weems’ office for breaking curfew. That was, until halfway through her stealthy approach, she made a discovery. She wasn’t alone.
As she neared the quad, the voices she initially surmised were in her head became coherent. They spoke in cheesy, melodramatic dialogue that made Tyler seem like Shakespeare by comparison.
Twilight.
And a sizable portion of Nevermore’s student body was present to subject themselves willingly to such atrocity.
She peeked from behind a brick wall, scanning the crowd. The screen lit up every captivated face. She spotted Bianca resting her head on Xavier's chest, who appeared unimpressed. Yoko and Divina were cuddled under a shared blanket, seemingly happy with each other’s company.
And then she saw him. Thing. He was perched on a bench, alone. A bench reserved for two others, but the two were notably absent. In their place was a disembodied hand, incessantly tapping on the wood.
For a moment, it amused her, watching Thing as he endured cinema at its lowest, but the feeling didn't last long. Enid had held off from the event she nagged Wednesday about every night for the past week—a new mystery for Wednesday to unravel, but this time, she knew exactly where to find the answers.
*
The film’s soundtrack faded the further she ventured into Ophelia Hall, replaced by the echoing clicks of her boots on the floor.
Her hand hovered over the doorknob, but she stopped herself from grasping it. Instead, she gently pressed her ear against the door, and the only sound was the pulsating rhythm of her own heartbeat, accelerated and erratic. Nervous? Never. It was simply a physiological response that comes with being a great detective. Perhaps.
Wednesday usually craved silence, but now it was louder than Enid’s off-key singing to the most obnoxious pop song, or her drawn-out phone calls with Yoko, or even the admittedly infectious giggle whenever she forcefully showed Wednesday a ‘Click-Clock’ video, if that’s what those brief, nonsensical videos were called.
She twisted the knob, pushed the door open slowly, and was immediately engulfed in darkness. A sliver of moonlight spilled from the circular window, guiding Wednesday through the dark.
The creaking of the floorboards beneath her feet announced her arrival. As she reached to flick the switch on Enid’s desk lamp, there was movement—the rustling of blankets and a small, soft whimper that was immediately suppressed, as if trying to remain unheard.
“Enid?” Wednesday called out into the gloom with almost concern in her voice. Almost.
No response.
She flicked on the lamp. The dull light revealed a human-sized lump lying on Enid’s bed, wrapped head-to-toe in bundles of colorful blankets, like a body bag designed explicitly for Enid Sinclair.
With her hands on her hips, Wednesday stood beside the bed, observing the lump.
“Enid,” she tried again, louder, but the lump merely shifted.
“I know you hear me,” Wednesday said, kneeling and speaking directly to where she believed Enid’s head was, “I can hear you, Enid.”
A muffled voice responded, but the thick layer of fabric rendered it unintelligible.
She reached out, her fingers hesitating for a moment before tugging lightly at the topmost corner of the blanket. Like unwrapping a well-preserved mummy—one that reeked of fruity shampoo rather than decay—she peeled back the colorful layer with a slow, deliberate motion.
Blonde strands of hair were the first to emerge, followed by puffy eyes and the glistening streak of a fresh tear on her cheek.
The instant Enid met Wednesday’s gaze, she attempted to pull the blanket over her head, but Wednesday didn't allow it. Wednesday latched on to Enid’s wrists, and she examined Enid’s pitiable state.
“Leave me alone,” Enid protested, turning her head to avoid Wednesday’s intense stare.
“I did leave you alone, and look what’s become of you. Explain your despair, Sinclair.”
Enid remained tight-lipped, sniffling, and facing away from her.
Seeing Enid in such a state triggered something in Wednesday — a protective instinct, a primal urge to shield this strangely endearing creature from whatever idiot dared dim her spark.
“You should know I have a perfectly sharpened and untested knife at the ready. A name is all you have to utter,” she explained as her hand strayed from Enid’s wrist to interlock her fingers with Enid’s. A gesture she’s learned does wonders to soothe and comfort, so perhaps it’d have the same effect on Enid.
Wednesday inspected their interlocked hands, noting how Enid’s fingers slowly curled around her own. Soothing and comfortable, as anticipated.
Enid must have felt something, too. She turned her head, her tear-filled blue eyes blinking, processing, and meeting Wednesday’s unblinking stare. There was a hint of surprise in her shimmering eyes, or were the stars within them reigniting their shine?
“W-what are you doing?” Enid asked, her voice raspy.
“I do not know,” she admitted, looking away. Four words she rarely uttered in succession, but her answer came in the form of another four words. “It just feels… right.”
Enid sprang up from her bed, sitting upright and, in the process, pulling away from their shared warmth. The sudden loss of contact jarred Wednesday like a raven abruptly flying away when all she wanted was to admire it.
“How… how can you say that when you just ran off to be with him? And I bet you told him how ‘right’ it felt, too, didn't you?” Enid accused, fresh tears threatening to spill over.
Wednesday quirked a brow at Enid’s outlandish claims. She was no stranger to being credited for despicable acts, but this made attempted murder seem like a petty crime.
“Oh, absolutely . He and I are birds of a feather, bonded by our undying affection for one another," Wednesday remarked, nonchalantly inspecting her jet-black nails.
“I knew it,” Enid muttered, hugging her knees to her chest and burying her head between them.
Oh.
“Enid, quit moping and listen to me,” Wednesday said, sitting beside Enid on the bed.
Enid lifted her head, always willing to listen to Wednesday, even when she knew she might end up hurt. Those unusually somber eyes stared back at her. And it made her ponder. How many other times had Wednesday foolishly extinguished a flame meant to keep someone as cold as she was, warm?
“You were right, and I was wrong. And I should have listened to your expert opinion,”
“But you still went,” Enid pouted, wiping away a tear.
“And I don't regret it one bit.”
“Wow…”
“Because if I hadn't, I never would have realized that the only person in this world who doesn’t incite homicidal urges within me is, against all logic and reason, you.”
Enid’s puffy eyes widened for a split second before narrowing in skepticism. She seemed to brace for a continuation, for a cruel dashing of hopes.
Wednesday meant it.
“You don’t mean it,” Enid whispered, choking on a sob knotted in her throat.
“Liars lie for personal gain,” Wednesday stated, reaching out, brushing away a tear from Enid’s cheek with her thumb. “And I’d have nothing to gain, but everything to lose if I were being dishonest.”
Enid shuddered at Wednesday’s tender touch, a shaky breath escaping her lips. She let herself lean into Wednesday’s hand, and Wednesday felt the warmth of a fresh tear on her skin. And when Wednesday retracted her hand, that droplet became her only connection to Enid.
“I’m such a good teacher,” Enid whispered, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. The stars, now bright enough to reveal the vast, blue ocean of her irises.
Wednesday's gaze followed another tear that trickled down her cheek. This one wasn't born from misery; Enid’s softened expression hinted at relief. It led her to the corner of Enid’s upper lip, where it lingered. Her stare lingered there as well.
“Not as good as you think,” Wednesday replied, her attention fixed on Enid’s eyes again. “You failed to account for…” she trailed off, her eyes wandering back to the tear resting on Enid’s lip.
“A kiss? You let him kiss you?!” Enid’s outcry shattered the hushed atmosphere they were building.
“No, you imbecile,” Wednesday hissed, a low but commanding whisper that demanded silence and an end to Enid’s premature conclusions. “He attempted it, but I was unprepared to accept.”
Enid rubbed her eyes as if the tears welled within them impeded not only her vision, but her hearing as well. “Unprepared?” she echoed, her mind clearly gearing for a headfirst dive into another disastrously absurd conclusion. So Wednesday knew she had to intervene before Enid took the plunge.
“Prepare me, Enid.” It was not a command, but a rare surrender of the control she’d prided herself on.
The assignment was laid out, and Enid understood it to perfection. Words be damned, they both leaned into each other, foreheads meeting and breaths mingling. Enid cupped Wednesday’s cheeks, and on instinct, Wednesday captured her wrists in haste. A brief moment of uncertainty followed as Enid’s eyes widened and her breath caught, but Wednesday loosened her grip. It was Enid, not a boldly dense barista. Her body and soul now recognized the difference, easing into the werewolf’s gentle hold.
“Dramatic much?” Enid breathed against Wednesday’s lips, coaxing them with her warmth.
For you, I’d be that and worse, so much worse, Wednesday thought. Words were needless when actions spoke volumes.
So they acted.
Enid closed the narrow gap separating their mouths, her lush lips pressing against Wednesday’s. Her eyes fluttered shut, and in that instant, nothing else mattered—no potential leads, no looming monsters, only the girl who zealously explored her mouth with curiosity reminiscent of sugary cereal and salty tears.
The gentle hands that once cupped her face shifted into something else entirely. A jumble of dainty fingers tangled themselves in her raven tresses, wriggling through to her neck and pulling her even deeper into the kiss. The girl who harbored feral instincts could only stay tamed for so long.
Wednesday found her attempts to match Enid’s ferocity to be woefully pale in comparison. She’d nibble on Enid’s lower lip, and Enid would sink her incisors into Wednesday’s lip, sending shockwaves throughout her entire being. She tugged on the collar of Enid’s sweater to gain a semblance of control, so Enid, in turn, hoisted Wednesday by the waist with ease and onto her lap.
Enid parted, leaving a pool of her saliva on Wednesday’s chin in her wake. Wednesday found stability in wrapping her arms around Enid’s neck. Enid stared up at her with a satisfied smirk, gripping Wednesday’s hips, and confining her to her thighs. Their panting filled the space between them.
“God, Wednesday,” Enid said, biting down on her own swollen lip. Her gaze no longer carried any vestige of sorrow, but a ravenous gleam that promised to devour Wednesday whole. “I need you, like, so bad,” she said, pressing Wednesday closer. “I swear, if you ever let him get that close to you again, I—”
Wednesday pounced, her teeth clanking with Enid’s as she reclaimed her mouth, silencing her instantly. A muffled moan escaped Enid, vibrating within Wednesday’s mouth. And Enid’s body went limp as she collapsed backward onto the bed, bringing Wednesday down with her into the chaos of colorful blankets.
This was it; Wednesday had the upper hand. She gripped Enid’s shoulders, pinning her down as she savored the conquered werewolf. Impelled by her ever-increasing confidence, she brought a hand to Enid’s neck, wrapping her fingers firmly around her throat. A furious pulse throbbed against her thumb. Was it fear? Enid must have been dreading her imminent demise. Enid’s carotid artery was safe—for now—but as long as she feared Wednesday in this moment, everything was perfect.
Enid giggled into her mouth, a reaction that indicated anything but fear. And before Wednesday knew it, she found herself beneath Enid, her wrists pinned to the bed by Enid in the blink of an eye. “Take a girl out on a date first, you deranged lunatic,” Enid teased with a quick peck on Wednesday’s lips. “Then you can strangle your girlfriend all you want,” she winked. “No crypts,” she concluded with a tap of her finger on Wednesday’s nose.
Wednesday had been too nonplussed by the rapid chain of events to even process the ‘girlfriend’ label. But as she stared up into Enid’s celestial eyes, into the eyes of her conqueror, she knew that girl deserved not only the world, but the definitive right of tormenting her for the rest of their miserable lives, starting tonight.
“The quad,” she began, her breath still eluding her. “You– we could potentially scrutinize the downfall of American cinema… together.”
Enid gasped, followed by the screeching sound of a delighted yelp, reverting to her default state of sanguine teenager. “Oh my god, is Wednesday Addams asking me to watch Twilight with her, as a date?!” she asked as a grin widened on her lips. “Because I've played out this scenario in my head in at least fifty different ways last night, and the six nights before that, and my answer was always the same: YES!” she said, planting a flurry of quick, wet kisses across Wednesday’s face.
Wednesday weathered the storm of affection until Enid decided it was enough. She helped Wednesday off the bed, already chattering about what unhealthy snacks they’d ingest, or whether one or two blankets would be enough to curl up under.
And as Enid turned back to Wednesday after gathering blankets, she offered her free hand, wiggling her fingers, daring Wednesday to take it. Her smile returned in full, protruding canines and all. Wednesday analyzed the outstretched limb and then met Enid’s expectant gaze, and without further hesitation, she reached out and interlocked their fingers.
Despite Enid’s apparent poise, her hand was clammy and trembled slightly—a telltale sign of nerves, or fear, preferably fear. At least, she hoped, but that ship had long since set sail. So she let Enid guide her away from Ophelia Hall, hand-in-hand.
*
When they reached the quad, a few heads turned towards them. The sight of Nevermore’s solitary storm cloud intertwined with the sunbeam that was Enid Sinclair surely provided more of a spectacle than the film itself.
“They’re gawking,” Wednesday observed, her voice low, only meant for Enid’s ears.
“Let them,” Enid replied, squeezing her hand. “They’re just jealous they don't get to make out with Wednesday Addams every night.”
“Every night?”
“Yes, did you think we were done? We aren’t sleeping tonight, or tomorrow,” Enid vowed with a whisper, poking Wednesday’s lower lip. Then came the sudden heat on her cheeks, a reaction only Enid can evoke from her.
Once they claimed their reserved seats, Thing added himself to the list of curious onlookers, scuttling onto Wednesday’s shoulder for an optimal view of their clasped hands.
He turned toward Enid, gestured a thumbs-up, four fingers, and pointed at her. Good. 4. You.
Then he faced Wednesday and figuratively slit her throat with his index finger, vowing to spill blood on the werewolf’s behalf should harm befall her.
“Aww, our first shipper, Wens!” Enid exclaimed, high-fiving Thing.
“If he can ship us anywhere that isn’t Jericho, tell him I hear the Paris Catacombs are morbidly splendid this time of year.”
“You wanna take me to Paris?!” she squealed, loud enough to drown out whatever Edward Cullen had to say.
Heads swiveled, and a chorus of shushes ensued. Enid shrank into Wednesday, hiding her flushed cheeks against her shoulders and pulling the blanket higher.
Wednesday found it absurd how invested her peers were in a fictional romance. Especially when the girl beside her was real, and her affection, as illogically captivating as it may have been, was oh so real. Why even suspend disbelief when you can have the real thing?
With her head resting on Wednesday’s shoulder, Enid snuggled closer, her hair tickling Wednesday’s cheeks, and she whispered, “I love you, Wednesday.”
Wednesday’s heart had never been more disturbed.