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The last bell cut through the classroom like a guillotine blade. Wednesday closed her notebook with the kind of precision that would make a surgeon jealous, slipping her pen into its place as though she’d just completed a dissection rather than notes on combustion reactions. She stood, cloak swaying, and made for the door with her usual briskness.
She didn’t get far.
Enid was leaning against the wall outside the Chemistry lab, her rainbow nails tapping against the tiles in an irregular beat. She straightened the second she spotted Wednesday, her face lighting up in a way that could probably power the entire school.
“So,” Enid began, walking in step beside her. “I’ve decided. About the alliance thing.”
Wednesday kept her gaze forward, though her steps faltered for just a fraction of a second—enough for Enid to notice, because of course she would.
“And?” Wednesday asked, voice as flat as the lab counter they’d just vacated.
“I’m in.”
It shouldn’t have done anything to her, Wednesday decided. It shouldn’t have mattered. And yet something traitorous—warm, dangerous—unfurled in her chest. She tightened her grip on her bag to distract herself, and without thinking, tried to make a sharp turn toward the side corridor.
Enid was faster.
Before Wednesday could disappear down the escape route, Enid caught up and slid her fingers into hers. It wasn’t a grab—more like a quiet claiming. Their hands fit together in that infuriating way that made it seem… natural. Too natural.
Usually, this would be the moment Wednesday would glance down, make a dry remark, and remove herself from the contact. This time, she didn’t. Instead, she let Enid’s hand linger.
And—worse—she felt her lips curve.
“You’re smiling,” Enid accused, her tone a perfect blend of triumph and delight.
Wednesday’s head tilted slightly. “That’s a dangerous assumption.”
Enid grinned wider. “Danger’s kinda my thing now.”
They moved down the hall, students parting like a tide around them. Wednesday noticed—because she noticed everything—that Enid’s thumb made the faintest arc over the back of her hand. The gesture was so small it might have been accidental, but the way Enid’s gaze flickered toward her face said otherwise.
Wednesday filed it away for later interrogation.
“You should be aware,” Wednesday said, “that agreeing to this alliance will require constant effort. I don’t tolerate mediocrity.”
“Uh-huh,” Enid said, utterly unfazed. “And I don’t tolerate broody geniuses who pretend they don’t enjoy my company, so I guess we’re even.”
Wednesday allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch again. “You’re overestimating your value.”
“And you’re underestimating how much I like proving people wrong.”
The banter ricocheted between them with an ease that felt… practiced. Not rehearsed—just inevitable.
“You realize,” Wednesday said, “that now I’ll have to strategize for the both of us.”
“Cool. I’ll handle snacks,” Enid shot back.
Wednesday gave her a sidelong look. “If you attempt to bribe me with pastries again, I’ll—”
“Eat them anyway?” Enid interrupted, feigning innocence.
They walked past the display case of academic trophies, Wednesday’s gaze flicking to their reflection. She noted, with a certain satisfaction, how easily they occupied the same space—how Enid didn’t seem deterred by her presence but rather anchored by it.
Which is exactly why she asked, “Why do I sense there’s a secondary motive for your agreement?”
Enid hesitated just enough for Wednesday to catch it. “Okay, so… maybe there’s something else I wanted to bring up.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “Continue.”
“It’s Ajax. He’s been—uh—pestering me since… y’know. Earlier.”
Wednesday didn’t need clarification. The “earlier” in question was still fresh enough in her mind to play on loop. She adjusted her grip on Enid’s hand, just slightly, before letting it fall back to neutral.
“What exactly is he pestering you about?” Wednesday asked, her voice low, deliberate.
Enid sighed, a little too theatrically. “The kiss. He’s acting like it’s the end of the world. Like I committed some massive betrayal instead of—” She waved her free hand. “—having a moment.”
Wednesday’s expression remained unreadable, though the word “moment” lodged itself firmly in her thoughts. “And what does he propose you do about it?”
“Apparently? Apologize to him for ‘confusing signals.’” Enid rolled her eyes. “Which is insane, because I don’t owe him—”
“You don’t,” Wednesday cut in, tone sharp enough to slice through Enid’s frustration.
Enid looked at her for a beat, a slow smile forming. “Wow. That was fast. Usually you let me rant for at least twenty more seconds.”
“You waste oxygen when you already know the answer.”
Enid’s grin deepened. “Yeah, but I like hearing you say it.”
They’d reached the far end of the hall by now, where the foot traffic thinned. Wednesday was just about to steer them toward the courtyard when Enid exhaled and added, “There’s also Bruno.”
Wednesday’s brow arched. “The werewolf with the unfortunate tendency to overuse hair gel?”
“That’s the one.” Enid’s voice dipped. “He’s been trying to edge me out of the pack. Says I’m ‘not one of them’ anymore because of… well… you.”
Wednesday didn’t flinch, though she did come to a deliberate stop. The air between them went taut.
“And how do you intend to respond to this… banishment?” Wednesday asked.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Enid admitted. “Part of me wants to just walk away and not give him the satisfaction. But part of me—” She stopped, searching Wednesday’s face. “—part of me wants to fight for it. Even though, you know, I’m not sure I care as much as I used to.”
Wednesday studied her, dark eyes unblinking. “Why don’t you?”
Enid gave a small, lopsided shrug. “Because I think… I might already have what I was looking for. Just somewhere else.”
It was maddening, how those words managed to land directly in the part of Wednesday that she liked to pretend didn’t exist. She didn’t respond—not verbally. Instead, she let their hands stay intertwined, let Enid’s thumb resume that faint, rhythmic arc.
And for a brief, dangerous second, she allowed herself to think that maybe this alliance wasn’t going to be the calculated, detached arrangement she’d imagined.
Maybe—infuriatingly—it was already something else.
Wednesday glanced sideways at her. “You look like you’ve swallowed a small sun. Please refrain from emitting any actual solar flares in my vicinity.”
“It’s called being in a good mood,” Enid said, tugging her phone out of her skirt pocket. “You might want to try it sometime—oh wait, no, you’d combust.”
“I’d rather be burned at the stake than voluntarily participate in ‘good moods.’”
“Noted,” Enid said, smirking. “Still, you have to admit—our alliance is working out. I mean, Tyler backed off. And you didn’t strangle anyone in class today. Progress.”
Wednesday deadpanned, “Your bar for success is disturbingly low.”
“You’re welcome,” Enid shot back, hugging her books to her chest. She let the silence hang for a beat before her lips curved into a more deliberate smile. “Speaking of alliances… I think we should celebrate.”
Wednesday stopped mid-stride, the abruptness of it making a passing vampire underclassman bump into her and mutter something about “creepy traffic hazards.”
“A celebration,” Wednesday repeated, her tone flat enough to iron clothes on. “Do I strike you as someone who indulges in saccharine displays of festivity?”
“Yes,” Enid said brightly, “when it’s secretly your idea and you just want me to think it was mine.”
Wednesday’s brow twitched. “You are confusing me with someone whose primary love language is manipulation.”
“Uh-huh,” Enid said, rocking on her heels. “But seriously. It doesn’t have to be a big thing. No balloons or streamers—unless Thing wants to make balloon animals, because honestly, I’d pay to see that. We could just… hang out. Mark the official formation of the Wednesday-Enid Alliance.”
Wednesday began walking again, slower this time, as if deciding whether to entertain the idea or file it under “potential future regret.”
“What exactly would this ‘celebration’ entail?” she asked.
Enid bit her lip in thought. “Something that’s both you and me. Like… you pick the location, I pick the snacks.”
Wednesday’s gaze narrowed slightly. “Snacks suggest prolonged social engagement. Prolonged social engagement suggests forced small talk. Forced small talk—”
“—is just banter when you’re with me,” Enid interrupted, grinning.
Wednesday gave her a look that was half warning, half reluctant acknowledgment. “And if I refuse?”
“Then you’ll be proving Bruno right.”
That earned Enid a sharper look, the kind that made most people backpedal. She didn’t.
“Bruno claims,” Enid continued, “that you’re only in this for some grim master plan and that I’ll end up on the wrong end of it. If you won’t celebrate with me, maybe he’s right.”
Wednesday’s tone cooled another degree. “I don’t answer to Bruno. Nor do I care to validate his… lupine paranoia.”
“Then celebrate with me,” Enid said, leaning in just enough that their shoulders brushed. “One evening. No homework, no murder boards, no gory field trips—unless you really want one.”
Wednesday studied her for a long moment, the faintest flicker of something unspoken in her eyes.
“Fine,” she said finally. “But if this turns into an opportunity for you to subject me to ‘fun,’ I will consider it a breach of contract.”
Enid beamed. “Deal. You pick the place?”
“Yes. Somewhere you can’t fill the air with rainbow-colored noise.”
“Rude. But okay.” She slung her bag higher on her shoulder, already thinking out loud. “I’ll get the snacks. Something that won’t gross you out. Maybe… black licorice? Skull-shaped cookies? Oooh, I could make those little finger-shaped breadsticks—”
“Spare me the edible finger jokes,” Wednesday cut in.
“Why? You’d love them.”
“I’d love the authenticity. Not your bakery approximations.”
Enid rolled her eyes, but there was that warm flutter in her chest again—because underneath Wednesday’s verbal knives, she’d still said yes.
As they turned toward the quad, Wednesday caught Enid’s lingering smile. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re secretly fond of me.”
“I plead the fifth.”
Enid laughed, the sound bouncing against the stone walls. “See you at the alliance party, Addams.”
Wednesday didn’t reply, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the barest upward twitch—just enough for Enid to catch before she bounded off to her next class.
Wednesday watched her go, thinking—not for the first time—that if her mother knew what she’d just agreed to, she’d probably say, I told you so. The thought made her lip curl in disdain.
Her fingers tapped once against her book spine. This wasn’t over. Not the alliance. Not Tyler. Not Bruno. Not Ajax. And certainly not the unsettling warmth that seemed to creep in whenever Enid was within arm’s reach.
If anything, it was only beginning.
--
Wednesday stood in front of the full-length mirror in her dorm, assessing her reflection like she was preparing for trial. Black dress. Black tights. Black boots. Black expression. Perfect.
Thing drummed his fingers on her desk behind her — an impatient, judgmental little percussion. tap-tap-tap-tap.
“I’m aware you disapprove,” she said flatly without turning. “You can stop your amateur drum solo.”
Thing’s fingers shifted into a slow, exaggerated tsk gesture.
Wednesday finally turned, her eyes narrowing. “It’s not a date. Therefore, this ensemble is more than adequate for a celebration between comrades.”
Thing gave an expansive flourish with his index and pinky, the universal sign for you keep telling yourself that. Then, with deliberate movements, he mimed two people holding hands.
Wednesday’s tone dropped into that familiar razor-edged deadpan. “Enid will not be holding my hand tonight.”
Thing curled his fingers slowly, then pointed at her boots, then at the mirror, then wobbled his wrist like a seesaw — the pantomime equivalent of try again.
“You want me to… change?” she asked, incredulous.
Thing gave her an exaggerated thumbs-up.
“I dress for functionality, not spectacle,” she replied, pivoting back to the mirror. “And I fail to see how wearing anything outside of my usual monochromatic wardrobe will improve the efficiency of our so-called alliance celebration.”
Thing crawled to her bed, hopped up, and began rummaging — yes, rummaging — through a small stack of neatly folded black clothes at the foot. He yanked one particular garment out and tossed it toward her like a tiny, bossy stylist.
Wednesday caught it mid-air. It was a black blouse with subtly different tailoring than her usual choice — a softer collar, a faint sheen to the fabric.
“Too… modern,” she said, placing it on her desk with surgical precision.
Thing slapped the fabric with a decisive thwack, then pointed at her again.
“I said no,” Wednesday answered without looking.
Thing rolled dramatically onto his back as if this refusal had physically wounded him. Then, in an impressive show of finger gymnastics, he signed date again.
“It’s not a date,” Wednesday said, her voice dipping lower, as if repetition could somehow make it fact. “It’s an obligatory meeting to discuss future strategies.”
Thing made a heart shape with both his thumb and index finger.
Wednesday stared at him for a beat too long. “Your romantic delusions are concerning.”
Thing hopped down, went to her closet, and began dragging something else out — this time, a small black box. He pried it open with deliberate flair.
Inside lay an accessory — a thin, silver hairpin shaped like a wolf’s paw. Enid’s gift.
Wednesday froze. Her expression didn’t shift, but the tiniest flicker of awareness crossed her eyes.
“That,” she said, “is irrelevant.”
Thing pointed at the hairpin. Then at her hair. Then back at the hairpin. His insistence was practically vibrating off the desk.
“I’m not wearing it,” she said.
Thing slammed the box shut, then opened it again — a dramatic flourish that somehow communicated oh yes you are.
“I am immune to emotional manipulation,” she stated, voice clinical.
Thing simply crawled over, box in hand, and held it out. Persistent. Quiet. Unyielding.
Wednesday exhaled through her nose, a sound hovering somewhere between frustration and surrender. “It would be inefficient to waste the effort Enid put into selecting this.”
Thing perked up like a dog offered a treat.
“But,” Wednesday added sharply, “this is not an admission of anything beyond practicality.”
Thing signed sure with a little flick that screamed whatever you say.
Wednesday turned back to the mirror, hairpin in hand. She adjusted her hair — a touch looser than usual — and slid the silver wolf’s paw into place. Against the dark cascade of her hair, it glinted softly, subtle yet deliberate.
Thing made a low, approving finger roll, almost like applause.
“It’s still black,” she reminded him. “This minor deviation from standard attire will not—”
Her reflection cut her short.
She had changed.
Not drastically — the blouse she swapped into was still black, still severe in cut, but the fabric draped differently. The collar dipped into a subtle V instead of closing like a prison gate. The hairpin caught the light when she moved.
It was enough to notice. Enough to irritate her.
Thing hopped onto the desk, pointing from her to the mirror, giving her the slow nod of someone watching a plan come together.
Wednesday’s brow furrowed. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
Thing wiggled his fingers in a smug little dance.
“This attire,” she said, “does not alter the objective of tonight’s event.”
Thing raised one finger as if to counter, then deliberately pointed at the hairpin.
Wednesday tilted her head, meeting her own gaze in the mirror. “Enid will notice.”
Thing snapped his fingers — exactly.
“I don’t want her to think…” She trailed off, as though the sentence had wandered too close to forbidden territory.
Thing tilted his hand expectantly.
“I don’t want her to think I’ve changed my position on ostentatious displays of sentimentality,” she finished.
Thing signed too late.
Wednesday gave him the kind of look usually reserved for adversaries she was about to bury — metaphorically or otherwise. “If she mentions it, I will attribute it to meteorological necessity.”
Thing tapped the side of his palm like sure, sure.
Wednesday turned, picking up her satchel. “Let’s proceed before your theatrics extend further.”
But as she reached for the doorknob, Thing skittered ahead of her, gesturing wildly for her to stop. He pointed to the small black bottle of perfume on her dresser — unused, dust at the edges.
“I am not—” She cut herself off, catching the glint of stubbornness in his stance. “…Fine. One spray. For camouflage.”
Thing signed liar without even looking.
Wednesday ignored him, a single mist settling faintly over her collar. She picked up her satchel again.
At the door, Thing tapped her ankle lightly. When she looked down, he pointed once more at the hairpin.
Wednesday’s reply was soft, almost imperceptible. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
But the way she reached up — just once — to make sure it sat perfectly in place said otherwise.
And Thing knew it.
--
The agreed-upon “alliance celebration” wasn’t even supposed to be a thing. In Wednesday’s mind, it had been a perfunctory ritual to appease Enid’s constant need for closure and symbolic milestones. Yet here she was, stepping into the student lounge where Enid insisted they meet, the faint sound of pop music leaking from someone’s wireless speaker, and her boots clicking against the floor with an irritatingly self-conscious rhythm.
Enid was already there, waiting with her usual uncontainable sunshine expression. She was perched on one of the big couches, legs crossed, phone in hand — but she immediately tossed it aside the moment Wednesday approached.
And, of course, she noticed.
“Oh my gosh,” Enid gasped in mock slow motion, eyes widening like she’d just discovered a secret government conspiracy. “You’re… wearing it.”
Wednesday’s lips thinned. “I’m wearing an outfit,” she corrected, as though each syllable were a surgical strike.
“No. No, no, no.” Enid hopped up and walked around her like a detective circling a suspect. “You’re wearing the hairpin I gave you. The one you swore would ‘rot in a drawer until the end of days.’ And I quote.”
“It was either this,” Wednesday replied evenly, “or the municipal ball and chain they give prisoners. Both serve as ornamental shackles.”
“That’s so not what it is.” Enid grinned, clearly not buying the deflection. “You’re showing it off. Which is basically, like, emotional PDA for you.”
“Then consider it a tactical compromise,” Wednesday said. “A feint to lower your guard before I inevitably strike.”
Enid clasped her hands over her heart. “I knew you cared. You’re basically dressed for a—” she tilted her head— “nope, can’t say it. If I say ‘date,’ you’ll probably threaten me.”
“You’d be correct,” Wednesday deadpanned.
“Fine,” Enid said, leaning in just close enough for her voice to drop conspiratorially. “You look nice. Like, extra nice. And yes, I noticed you changed from your original black outfit, because Thing texted me a play-by-play from our room while I'm out shopping for nail polish.”
Wednesday’s gaze flicked to the coffee table, where Thing lounged with a smug air only a disembodied hand could manage.
“Traitor,” she muttered at him.
Thing tapped his fingers against the table in a rhythm that, to Enid, looked suspiciously like “you’re welcome.”
“And for the record,” Enid went on, clearly delighted with herself, “I also came prepared.”
She held up her hands, wiggling her fingers so the light caught on her nails — each painted glossy black, with tiny silver skull charms dangling from two of them.
“Let me guess,” Wednesday said, “this is your attempt at ‘matching’ me, as though I’m a purse or a seasonal shade of lipstick.”
Enid ignored the jab and smiled wider. “Yup. And guess what? The charms are from the official Wednesday Addams fanclub merch store.”
Wednesday blinked once. “The fact that such a store exists is both unsurprising and deeply disheartening.”
“You’re just mad because it means you’re famous,” Enid said, settling back onto the couch with theatrical satisfaction. “And because I went to all this trouble for our celebration.”
“I am not mad,” Wednesday replied, lowering herself into the seat opposite her with deliberate, almost ceremonial precision. “I am… mildly perturbed. Which is an improvement over my baseline reaction to public gatherings.”
Enid chuckled. “You know, for someone who swears this isn’t a date, you’ve spent a suspicious amount of time preparing for it.”
“Preparation is not limited to romantic pursuits,” Wednesday countered. “Generals prepare for battle. Surgeons prepare for operations. I prepare for events in which I am trapped with extroverts for extended periods of time.”
“Yet here you are, trapped with me on purpose.” Enid leaned forward, elbows on her knees, studying Wednesday’s face. “And wearing my gift.”
Wednesday met her gaze without flinching. “And here you are, mutilating your own nails in homage to my aesthetic. Shall we call it even?”
Enid smirked. “Not even close. This is clearly me winning.”
“That depends,” Wednesday said slowly, “on how you define ‘winning.’”
“Easy,” Enid said. “It’s when the girl who claims to hate sentiment wears your hairpin anyway.”
Wednesday’s only response was the faintest quirk of her eyebrow — which, from her, was practically a confession.
--
The so-called “celebration” took place at an outdoor terrace café on the far edge of Jericho — the kind of place that somehow managed to be rustic and overdecorated at the same time. Wrought-iron chairs, mismatched cushions, fairy lights strung along every post, and a staff that smiled too much.
The sky was bruised with sunset when they arrived, Enid taking the lead like she’d been here before (which Wednesday suspected she had — probably with people who were definitely not in “alliances”). Wednesday trailed two steps behind, hands clasped behind her back like she was visiting a crime scene, eyes flicking over every table, every exit.
“Stop casing the place,” Enid said over her shoulder, her curls bouncing with the movement. “It’s safe. No secret murder plots. Unless you count the dessert menu — the amount of sugar might actually kill you.”
“Sugar is not lethal unless ingested in quantities far greater than what your metabolism could tolerate,” Wednesday said, voice flat. “However, judging by your usual consumption, I suspect you’re dangerously close to discovering the threshold.”
Enid turned, walking backward now so she could look at her. “Oh my god, you’re in a mood tonight. Did Thing give you a pep talk before we left?”
“Thing doesn’t talk,” Wednesday replied, deadpan.
Enid grinned. “He communicates plenty with you. I bet he guilt-tripped you into that”—she gestured at Wednesday’s hair—“accessory situation.”
Wednesday’s gaze didn’t falter, but her fingers twitched infinitesimally toward the small silver brooch on her hair— a wolf’s head in sharp, minimalist lines, the one Enid had given her during some previous unprovoked gift-giving spree.
“I wear what I choose,” Wednesday said evenly. “This accessory is a tactical distraction.”
“Tactical distraction?” Enid echoed, laughter in her voice. “What’s it distracting from? Your resting ‘I’d rather be at a funeral’ face?”
“My face requires no distraction,” Wednesday replied, sitting down in the least sunlit corner of the terrace. “But people have an irritating tendency to underestimate individuals who allow sentimentality to appear in their presentation. This brooch invites that underestimation. It will be useful.”
Enid rolled her eyes and sat across from her. “Right. Because you definitely wore it for battle strategy and not because it’s cute and I gave it to you.”
Wednesday did not dignify that with an answer, instead lifting the menu as though it contained state secrets.
It was then that she noticed Enid’s nails. The glossy black polish caught the dimming light, and, on her right ring finger, there was a tiny white silhouette — a simplified outline of Wednesday’s head, complete with twin braids.
Her eyes flicked to it briefly, then back to the menu. “You’ve defaced yourself.”
Enid grinned so hard it could have been weaponized. “Nope. I accessorized myself for you. That’s dedication, by the way. Do you know how many pastel nail polishes are crying in our dorm right now?”
“I suspect they have no emotional capacity whatsoever,” Wednesday said.
“Ugh, you’re impossible.” Enid’s grin softened into something more conspiratorial. “So… what do you think?”
“I think your hands will draw unwanted attention.”
“Translation,” Enid said, leaning forward, “you noticed and you don’t hate it.”
Wednesday set the menu down, folding her hands. “Translation: if this is an alliance, we should limit our enemies’ understanding of our… internal dynamics.”
Enid’s eyes sparkled. “So you’re saying we have internal dynamics?”
Wednesday didn’t answer — but her gaze didn’t drop, either.
The waiter appeared, breaking the moment, and Enid ordered for both of them with casual authority, knowing full well Wednesday would make surgical adjustments to her dish anyway.
As the food arrived — roasted vegetables for Wednesday, a burger that looked like a structural hazard for Enid — their banter settled into something less barbed, more rhythmic. Wednesday made dry observations about the café’s décor (“These cushions look like they were stolen from a failing bed-and-breakfast”), and Enid volleyed back with teasing defenses (“That’s called ambience, Wednesday”).
Somewhere between the first course and the coffee Enid insisted they try, the light shifted — literally, with the fairy lights kicking on, and figuratively, with the air between them warming. Wednesday’s posture, though still impeccable, lost the sharpened edge of readiness. Her gaze lingered more, less on the exits and more on Enid’s animated expressions.
Still, neither of them named it.
They didn’t say “date.” They didn’t say “just friends,” either. They didn’t say anything that would tilt the balance.
Instead, Enid leaned back in her chair, hands laced behind her head. “So, alliance celebration verdict? Was it worth dressing up for?”
“I am not dressed up,” Wednesday said automatically.
“Uh-huh,” Enid said, eyes flicking to the brooch again. “Keep telling yourself that, Addams.”
Wednesday’s lips almost — almost — twitched. “Perhaps the next alliance meeting should be at a location with fewer twinkling lights. They’re distracting.”
“Distracting from what?” Enid asked, grinning.
Wednesday didn’t answer. But her eyes didn’t leave Enid’s — and Enid, for once, didn’t push.
“You know,” Enid said, tearing into the burger like it had personally offended her, “for someone who claims to hate social events, you’ve been… tolerable.”
“I’ll alert the press,” Wednesday replied flatly, but there was a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth. It wasn’t a smile, not really, but it wasn’t not a smile either.
Enid caught it and smirked. “Careful, Wednesday. If you keep that up, people might think you’re enjoying yourself.”
“That would be a catastrophic misinterpretation of reality,” Wednesday said. “I’m merely conducting a long-term study on human idiocy in celebratory contexts.”
“Oh? And what’s your conclusion so far?” Enid asked, leaning forward just enough to invade that personal space bubble Wednesday defended like a fortress.
“That you,” Wednesday said, spearing a cube of cheese from a tray without looking, “are particularly adept at making idiocy… tolerable.”
Enid blinked. That… almost sounded like a compliment. Almost. “Wow. You really do know how to make a girl feel special.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“Still counts,” Enid said, grinning wider. “Somewhere deep, deep, deep down, you like me.”
Wednesday didn’t answer immediately. She stared at the flickering light of the lantern on their table, the shadows it threw across Enid’s face. “Deep down,” she said finally, “is a dangerous place to look.”
The words should have been sharp. Instead, they landed with an odd softness, like she wasn’t warning Enid away so much as warning herself.
--
They walked side by side down the dimly lit path back toward Ophelia Hall, the air crisp enough to make Enid tuck her hands into her jacket sleeves. The gravel crunched under their shoes in sync, their steps unconsciously falling into rhythm.
“So,” Enid began, voice light but careful, “tonight wasn’t terrible, right?”
“I endured it without contemplating homicide. That’s a success in my terms.”
Enid laughed, the sound carrying in the night air. “You’re welcome.”
A silence settled, but not the uncomfortable kind. It was… layered. A little awkward, yes, but threaded with something quieter, heavier. Wednesday’s gaze kept flicking sideways, catching the way the lantern light haloed around Enid’s hair, the way her breath fogged in the cold air.
Enid glanced at her once, caught her looking, and for a moment neither of them looked away. Just a beat too long. Just enough for something unnamed to prickle between them.
“Thanks for coming with me,” Enid said finally, her tone almost casual. Almost. “Even if you’ll never admit you had a good time.”
“I accompanied you for research purposes.”
“Uh-huh,” Enid said, lips twitching. “And maybe because you like me.”
Wednesday’s brows twitched. “You are alarmingly persistent.”
“Yeah,” Enid said softly, “I know.”
They kept walking, the air between them taut like the string of a violin waiting to be plucked. Neither spoke for the rest of the path, as though words might snap whatever fragile thread had formed in the quiet.
After a few minutes of walking in silence, they reached their door at the end of the corridor, the hum of the hallways already winding down for the night. Enid fished out her keycard, the movement instinctive, but paused when she realized Wednesday hadn’t made any move to take hers out.
“You’re not coming in yet?” Enid asked, tilting her head, a small frown tugging at her lips. “Or is this one of those brooding walks where you stare dramatically at the moon?”
Wednesday’s expression didn’t shift, though her eyes held an unusual brightness. “I have an errand to attend to. A life-changing, important errand.”
Enid blinked. “Wow. That sounds… cryptic. And suspicious.” She unlocked the door but didn’t push it open yet. “Should I be worried? Do I need to alert the authorities?”
“No.” Wednesday’s voice was steady, even. “You would only distract me.”
Enid huffed a little laugh, leaning against the doorframe. “Fine. But before you disappear into the night like some—what’s the word—enigmatic crow of doom, can I ask you something?”
Wednesday gave the barest nod.
“Did you… actually enjoy tonight?” Enid’s tone was casual on the surface, but there was something else—something she didn’t quite want to name—threading through it.
Wednesday held her gaze. “Enjoyment is a pedestrian word.” She hesitated. “But… yes. In my own way.”
Enid’s smile softened, her eyes crinkling. “That’s all I needed to hear.” She stepped halfway into the room, then glanced back. “Don’t get arrested, okay?”
“I’ll try to restrain myself.”
For a heartbeat too long, neither moved. The faint sound of music still drifted from somewhere far off, the remnants of the night clinging to the air like static.
Enid finally disappeared inside, the click of the door latch breaking the moment.
Wednesday stood there, still as stone, feeling the echo of something she refused to identify—something that had been circling her all night, biding its time.
--
Her boots clicked against the cobblestone, the night air sharp and clean in her lungs. Wednesday allowed herself the rare indulgence of sifting through the evening’s images: Enid’s hand brushing hers when they both reached for the same plate, the offhand laughter that had followed, the warmth that had settled somewhere behind her ribs without permission.
She tightened her grip on her satchel.
She could still turn back. She could file it away as a temporary lapse in her usually ironclad focus. But instead, she kept walking—toward a door she hadn’t knocked on in months.
When it opened, her father stood there, a mixture of curiosity and mild alarm flickering across his face.
“Mi querida. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
For a moment, she simply stood there, watching him. Her father — the man who could charm and threaten in the same breath, who loved with the same intensity he wielded a blade. If anyone could understand, it would be him.
And yet… the words lodged in her throat.
He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his gaze. “You have the look of someone about to confess to a crime. Or a great passion. Perhaps both.”
Wednesday’s fingers curled at her sides. She stepped forward, the polished floor creaking under her boots.
“I must confess something,” she said finally, her voice low.
And for once, she felt the weight of the words in her mouth.