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They settled into the high-backed chairs facing the hearth, where a fire crackled low, throwing long, dancing shadows across the walls. Gomez Addams poured two glasses of something crimson that was definitely not wine, handing one to Wednesday without comment.
She let the glass sit untouched, instead folding her hands in her lap.
"I am experiencing…" Her voice caught slightly—just slightly. "…an unfamiliar and frankly unwanted sensation."
Her father leaned forward like a man about to hear the opening notes of his favorite tragic opera. "Describe it to me."
"I would rather not."
"All the better! That way I can guess." He rubbed his hands together, delighted. "Your heart races in her presence? Your breathing grows shallow? You imagine the two of you—"
"Stop talking."
Her father grinned, entirely unfazed. "—sharing a moonlit gallows, whispering your final words before the rope—"
"Do you practice making this insufferable, or does it come naturally?" she asked.
He leaned back, the cigar smoke curling in lazy spirals above him. "It’s instinct, mi querida. The Addams men are romantics to the bone. We live for the grand, the doomed, the unwise—especially in matters of the heart."
"I do not live for this," Wednesday replied. "It feels… parasitic. Distracting. It makes me hesitate at moments when I should act decisively."
"Then it must be love," Gomez said again, softly this time, like it was a diagnosis. "Nothing else has such power."
Her brow twitched. "You leap to conclusions based on insufficient data."
"Perhaps. But I’ve seen the way you look at her."
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed to lethal slits. "Her?"
Gomez smiled knowingly, leaning back in his chair like a man savoring his victory. "The colorful one. The wolf. The one whose smile you pretend not to notice. Enid Sinclair."
"I notice nothing of the sort," Wednesday said, voice cool and precise.
"Of course you don’t," Gomez said, with the same tone he might use for a child insisting the guillotine was just a particularly large bread slicer. "Mi corazon, you may fool others. You will not fool me."
Wednesday’s fingers tightened around the armrest, willing her pulse to steady. "If it were… that… what would one do to… eradicate it?"
He chuckled, shaking his head. "You cannot. You must embrace it, cultivate it, suffer beautifully in it."
"That sounds grotesque."
"It is!" He looked genuinely thrilled. "And yet—so intoxicating. If you want my advice—"
"I don’t."
"—notice her patterns. Listen more than you speak. Find what delights her and place it before her without fanfare."
"That sounds manipulative."
"That sounds like courtship," He corrected warmly.
She gave him a long, flat look. "That is absurd."
She then stared into the fire, her expression unreadable. "But, this is different. She is… different."
"Ah." Her father sat forward. "Then you are already lost."
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of the fire. Wednesday could feel his gaze on her, heavy with both curiosity and paternal knowing. She refused to meet it.
"I fear," she said finally, "that she will change me."
Gomez’s face softened, his voice gentling without losing its fervor. "And what if she does? What if you change each other? That is the truest dance of all."
She looked up at him then, dark eyes unblinking. "And if she leaves?"
"Then you will write her name in your blood and curse her with your dying breath," Gomez said with almost tender conviction. "But until then—live as though she never will."
Wednesday almost scoffed. Almost. Instead, she took the glass from the table and studied the deep red liquid. Her reflection wavered in it, the glint of Enid’s little accessory at her collar catching the firelight. She set the glass down again, untouched.
"You are unbearable," she said at last.
"And you are in love," He countered.
Her silence was not quite a denial.
She stood abruptly, pulling her coat back over her shoulders. "I must think."
"Do not think too long, mi amor," Gomez called after her. "Overthinking kills passion faster than poison."
Wednesday didn’t answer. She moved through the familiar halls, the echo of his words sticking like burrs in her mind. She hated that part of her—some treacherous, microscopic part—was considering them.
She stood in the shadow of the Addams family’s front hall, the lamplight pooling like a sluggish spill of amber on the polished floorboards. Her bag was slung over one shoulder, the strap taut against her black coat. She paused before the threshold, turning back toward her father—who was still leaning on the bannister with the posture of a man preparing for a ballroom waltz, not an emotional inquisition.
“One more thing,” she said, voice flat but edged. “Under no circumstances are you to repeat any part of our conversation to Mother. Not a syllable, not a dramatic pause, not an off-hand sigh that might suggest something has been said.”
Her father pressed a hand over his heart with mock injury. “Mi corazon, have you so little faith in your father’s discretion?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
His smile only widened, infuriatingly. “Then you wound me twice—first with mistrust, second with accuracy. But your secret is safe. For now.”
Wednesday narrowed her eyes. “For always.”
He made a zipping motion over his lips, then locked it with an invisible key and tossed the imaginary object over his shoulder. “You have my word.”
Satisfied—or as close to it as her nerves allowed—she turned on her heel and stepped out into the gloom. The air was damp and cool, the kind of night that felt like it had been pre-soaked in melancholy.
As she stepped into the cold night air again, she adjusted her coat and touched the accessory at her collar, her fingers lingering there longer than necessary.
She could still hear Enid’s voice from earlier. The way she had noticed. The way she had smiled.
She told herself it was only data for observation. That she was merely cataloguing her own reactions for strategic purposes.
And yet, in the dark quiet of the walk back to Nevermore, she knew she was lying to herself.
–
By the time she returned to Nevermore, her father’s parting advice still echoed in her head like the dull, stubborn ring of a bell. Notice her patterns. Listen more than you speak. Find what delights her and place it before her without fanfare.
Wednesday loathed every word. Not because they lacked logic, but because they implied she was to willingly participate in something bordering on… affectionate manipulation.
This was not an experiment she’d planned to conduct. And yet, here she was—pen and notebook ready, the heading written in her precise, ink-dark scrawl:
Observation Study: Sinclair, Enid — Behavior Under Varied Conditions
–
The first opportunity arose at breakfast in the quad. Enid was halfway through an overcomplicated coffee order—extra oat milk, one pump of hazelnut, two pumps of caramel, foam art if the barista had the patience—when Wednesday appeared at her side, silent as the dead.
Enid didn’t startle anymore when Wednesday materialized; she just smiled into her coffee sleeve. “You’re early.”
“I have been awake for hours.”
“Yeah, but you don’t usually grace the morning sunlight unless bribed.”
“I am here for data collection.”
Enid blinked over the rim of her cup. “What?”
“Nothing.” Wednesday slid a muffin—blueberry, her father’s suggestion—across the table toward her.
Enid’s entire face lit up exactly as Gomez had predicted. “Wait, you brought me this? Did you… actually go to the café?”
“Yes.”
“Voluntarily?”
Wednesday tilted her head, as if parsing a dialect she found faintly insulting. “Why would it be voluntary? I was already there interrogating the barista about their sanitation practices. The muffin was… incidental.”
Enid snorted, tearing off a piece of muffin and popping it into her mouth. “Uh-huh. And was it also ‘incidental’ that it’s my favorite?”
“I fail to see how your personal preferences are relevant to public health.”
“They’re relevant to me.” Enid grinned, leaning her chin into her palm. “Which, by extension, makes them relevant to you.”
Wednesday’s pen was already moving under the table, the scratch of ink faint against the hum of the quad. “Blueberry muffin — positive response, visible increase in serotonin levels. Eyes crinkle when smiling. Possible vulnerability in cheek dimples.”
Enid raised a brow. “Are you… writing about me right now?”
“Not about you specifically. More about… subjects.”
“Subjects.” Enid’s grin widened. “Plural? Should I be jealous?”
“That would be illogical,” Wednesday said flatly.
“Still not a ‘no,’” Enid teased, nudging the muffin closer to herself. “You know, if this is your way of trying to woo me, you might want to work on the whole ‘public health interrogation’ thing.”
“I am not attempting to woo you,” Wednesday said without looking up. “I am studying your behavioral patterns in response to stimuli.”
Enid gave her a long, slow once-over, like she was trying to decide whether to laugh or roll her eyes. “Wow. That’s so thoughtful of you. Am I supposed to feel flattered?”
“That was not the intention.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” She took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Well… for what it’s worth, you’re not terrible at it.”
Wednesday paused mid-scribble, a flicker of something—curiosity, possibly annoyance—crossing her features before she returned to her notes. “Observation: subject displays unwarranted satisfaction in response to minimal effort.”
“Observation,” Enid countered, “Wednesday Addams brought me breakfast. In daylight. Without a threat attached. Definitely a red-letter day.”
“I could attach a threat if it would make you feel more at ease.”
Enid laughed again, and Wednesday noted the subtle shift in her breathing, the way the sound reverberated in the space between them like an uninvited warmth.
Her father’s advice echoed uncomfortably in her head: Start small. Give her something that’s just for her.
It was infuriating how correct he seemed to be.
The rest of the day unfolded like a series of controlled detonations. She calibrated her approach the way one might disarm a stubborn explosive—slowly, deliberately, with the faintest anticipation of catastrophe.
At lunch, she timed her questions to coincide with moments when Enid was distracted mid-bite, just as her father had suggested. The logic was sound: if the subject’s mouth was occupied, her verbal responses would be less guarded. It was simply a tactical advantage. Nothing more.
“So… if you had to pick, moonlit picnic or… haunted carnival?” Enid was halfway through a forkful of pasta salad. “Haunted carnival, obviously. Are you kidding? Rides, games, ominous fog—perfect date night.”
Wednesday’s pen scratched under the table: Prefers environments with atmospheric foreboding. Possible compatibility point.
She allowed herself to sit in silence beside her during study hall, resisting—barely—the instinct to fill the air with cutting remarks about Enid’s choice of highlighter colors. She catalogued instead: the way Enid’s hair shifted when she leaned over her notebook, catching the lamplight in strands of gold and purple; the way her brow furrowed when she concentrated, creating a small crease that Wednesday found… symmetrical. Symmetry, she reminded herself, was scientifically proven to be aesthetically pleasing.
At one particularly low point in her self-respect, she adjusted her walking pace so they reached the dormitory door at the same time. She told herself it was simply efficient—why waste the kinetic energy of two separate trips? And yet, when Enid smiled and said, “Oh hey, perfect timing,” Wednesday’s chest felt the tiniest flicker of… something. Likely indigestion.
Every small observation went into the notebook:
She hums when she’s pleased. Volume inconsistent, melody improvised.
Her nails are chipped; she paints them when anxious. Color choice erratic.
She laughs harder when she thinks no one else is listening—possibly an unguarded vocal reflex.
By late afternoon, Wednesday found herself trailing Enid’s side profile in the quad while Enid chatted with a group of friends. She wasn’t eavesdropping. She was monitoring speech patterns in varying social contexts. Her father would have been proud of such dedication to “romantic reconnaissance,” but she refused to dignify it with that label.
When dusk fell and they sat on the dorm steps, Enid nudged her shoulder lightly, a brief, careless gesture. Wednesday should have recoiled. Instead, she made a note—physical contact threshold lower than anticipated—then closed the notebook without looking at the page.
By evening, she had nearly convinced herself of the lie she’d been telling all day: This was forensic work. Emotional anthropology at best.
It was not sentiment.
It could not be.
–
At the door to their dorm, Enid leaned against the frame like she had all the time in the world, one ankle crossed over the other, eyes scanning Wednesday’s face as if searching for an invisible seam.
“You’ve been… different today,” Enid said slowly, the words lilting upward like she was trying to bait a confession. “Not in a bad way. Just… different.”
Wednesday shifted her weight but didn’t look away. “Do you object to my adjusted behavior pattern?”
Enid narrowed her eyes playfully. “Nope. Not at all. I just want to know if I should get used to it.”
“Don’t.” The answer was sharper than intended, so she tacked on, “Variables are unpredictable.”
Enid tilted her head. “Right. Variables. Got it.” She paused, then leaned in just slightly, like a cat testing a patch of sunlight. “So… where were you disappearing to all day? You’ve been popping up and vanishing like some kind of goth cryptid. Even Thing doesn’t know where you’ve been going, and that’s saying something.”
“Thing is on a need-to-know basis,” Wednesday said flatly.
Enid gasped in mock offense. “Oh my god. Are you—wait—don’t tell me you’re hanging out with Agnes.”
Wednesday’s brow twitched at the name. “I have no reason to consort with your… nemesis.”
“Arch-nemesis,” Enid corrected primly. “And you didn’t deny that you were with her.”
“I did, in fact, deny it. Just now.”
Enid’s grin widened, shameless. “So, what then? You joining a secret club? Midnight gardening? Extra-credit taxidermy?”
“I’m compiling data,” Wednesday said, before realizing she might have revealed too much.
“Again? Data about…?”
Wednesday’s eyes flickered down to her notebook tucked under her arm. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
“Please,” Enid said, pushing off the doorframe to stand directly in her path. “You know, you’re terrible at hiding things. For someone so ‘mysterious,’ you’re actually the most obvious person I’ve ever met.”
Wednesday stared at her, expression blank. It was not a denial.
Enid softened, the teasing melting into something gentler. “Well… whatever you were doing today… I liked it. I liked you today.”
Wednesday’s pen hand itched, the urge to transcribe immediate: Subject expresses preference for adjusted interaction. Potential— She stopped herself before completing the thought.
Inside her skull, her father’s voice was maddeningly triumphant: Find what delights her… and place it before her.
She turned the key and stepped inside the dorm without answering, but her pulse betrayed her—quickened, unruly, and entirely unscientific.
--
The next day, Wednesday decided the next logical variable to test was response to environmental manipulation.
It was purely pragmatic—no different than testing plant growth under various lighting conditions. Controlled setting, measurable reaction, minimal external interference.
Except her subject was currently eating a blueberry muffin in a shaft of morning light, hair catching gold where it should have been yellow, while the purple and pink streaks melt like sad and Wednesday found herself… irritated by the way the crumbs clung to the corner of Enid’s mouth. Irritated not because of sloppiness—Enid was many things, but she was not a savage—rather because Wednesday could not look at anything else until it was gone.
“Hold still.”
Enid froze mid-chew. Wednesday reached over with a folded napkin, brushing the crumb away with the kind of precision a surgeon would envy. Her fingers grazed the warm curve of Enid’s cheek before withdrawing.
“Uh… thanks?” Enid said, blinking at her as though she had just been handed a diamond.
“A simple intervention,” Wednesday replied. “I was preventing ants.”
“You’re so weird,” Enid murmured—but her grin was faintly dazed, eyes lingering on Wednesday in a way that suggested the napkin had not been the most important part of the encounter.
By mid-morning, Wednesday had escalated the testing without consciously acknowledging it. During fencing club, she claimed the spot beside Enid on the bench. Not close enough to invite suspicion—just close enough that their knees touched whenever Enid shifted. She told herself this was optimal positioning to monitor her subject’s recovery rate after exercise. She did not note—could not note without risk of corrupting the data—that Enid’s heartbeat visibly jumped each time contact occurred.
On their walk to the next class, Wednesday deliberately adjusted her stride to match Enid’s. The result was a slow, occasional brush of shoulders that seemed too insignificant to register. Yet she caught the fractional lightness in Enid’s step after each touch, as if she were storing up the contact like a squirrel with acorns. Wednesday, naturally, attributed this to psychosomatic coincidence.
Purely anecdotal data. Nothing more.
By lunch, she had devised what she termed sensory saturation testing. She leaned in—not dramatically, just enough to point at a suspicious ingredient in Enid’s salad.
“That tomato is mealy. You should avoid it,” she murmured. Her breath skimmed Enid’s ear.
Enid shivered. Wednesday marked it down mentally: Significant physiological reaction to proximity + low vocal register.
For accuracy, she did it again. This time under the guise of warning her about the soup. The shiver repeated. Conclusion: the variable was consistent.
She should have been satisfied. She wasn’t.
The rest of the afternoon passed in the same low-grade, insidious drift toward something that felt distinctly unlike research. In the library, Wednesday was reading. Or, she was meant to be reading. Her eyes kept tracking over the same sentence, each word bleeding into the next while her peripheral vision catalogued the way Enid’s mouth curved when she concentrated.
She wasn’t staring. She was… observing. Meticulously.
And then Enid glanced up. Their eyes locked for half a second too long.
Wednesday’s stomach did something illogical. The kind of drop one experienced when missing a step on a staircase—an anticipatory lurch with no visible threat.
She sat back sharply, spine a perfect line, but she could still hear her father’s voice echoing in her head, smug as a cat with cream:
You’re learning.
Learning, yes. But the data was starting to feel dangerous.
–
By the next morning, Wednesday had resolved to correct her methodology. She would dial back proximity, tone down contact, and resume the cold, clinical detachment that had made her interpersonal studies so effective in the first place.
Her “subject” would experience a level of professional distance so stark that any accidental romantic inference would suffocate before it could take root.
At least, that was the plan.
Unfortunately, reality had other intentions—and they arrived in the form of Agnes, who intercepted them outside the quad like a heat-seeking missile.
“Well, well,” Agnes said, stopping before them with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Didn’t think I’d see you two at something as… spirited as this.”
The quad had been transformed into a theatrical ode to the annual Celebration of Outcast Heroes . Purple-and-black banners rippled in the wind, each embroidered with names of rebels, inventors, and infamous troublemakers who had “pushed the boundaries of acceptable deviance,” as Principal Weems put it once in her opening speech before. A large banner for the 1893 Phantom Resistance fluttered directly above Wednesday and Enid’s bench.
Enid beamed, slotting herself automatically against Wednesday’s side. “Well, duh. We’re dating. We thought we’d make today a… non-date.” Her voice dripped with faux sweetness at the phrase.
Agnes’s gaze flicked down at their linked arms before snapping back to Enid. “A non-date . How… quaint. You must be very… accommodating, Enid. I can’t imagine you keeping up with Wednesday’s conversational style.”
“Oh, it’s not hard,” Enid replied breezily. “I just let her talk and then take notes on how I’m going to brag about her later.”
Agnes’s lip twitched. “Right. Well, some people prefer a… sharper intellect in their partners.” She angled that at Wednesday, a thinly veiled offering.
Wednesday looked directly at her and deadpanned, “Enid’s wit is perfectly honed. You’d be surprised how effectively she can dismantle an opponent while smiling at them.”
Enid’s grin grew slow and satisfied, like a cat about to knock a glass off a table. “Yeah, it’s a gift.”
Agnes tried again, voice honeyed with spite. “And here I thought you didn’t enjoy public displays, Wednesday. This is… different.”
“Research,” Wednesday replied without missing a beat.
“For what?” Agnes asked.
“Human nature.” Wednesday’s eyes stayed on Agnes until the other girl finally blinked first.
Enid squeezed Wednesday’s arm just a fraction tighter, enough to make Agnes notice. “Don’t worry, Agnes,” Enid said sweetly. “We’re very thorough in our research.”
Agnes’s expression didn’t falter, but the tension in her jaw betrayed her. “Well. Enjoy your study .” She spun on her heel, the green scarf snapping in the breeze behind her.
Enid leaned in just enough for Agnes—now halfway across the quad—to catch it and smirked over her shoulder. The look was pure victory. Agnes’s face tightened before she turned away entirely.
By the time she left them alone, Enid still pressed against her side, Wednesday had abandoned all hope of regaining scientific neutrality.
And she was very aware that her hand had somehow—without conscious authorization—found the small of Enid’s back.
For stability. Obviously.
But Wednesday’s plan is intended to maintain clinical detachment. This was supposed to be controlled escalation —to track and log Enid’s reactions like data points. And yet, somewhere between Agnes’s failed attempts at verbal evisceration and the warmth of Enid’s arm looped through hers, Wednesday had discovered a concerning variable: she liked it.
She liked watching Enid smirk at a defeated opponent. She liked the way Enid’s fingers lingered against her sleeve. She even liked—no, appreciated as an observation —the chaos it caused.
The realization struck like a sudden, unwelcome chord in a minor key: Her father might be right.
Which meant she, Wednesday Addams was in imminent danger of losing control.
–
Wednesday’s eyes were locked, not on Enid, but on the unassuming silverware between them — as if the gleam of the fork was more pressing than the rapid tempo of her pulse. This was not panic.
Panic was illogical. This was… a tactical reassessment.
Yes. That.
Except her tactical reassessment involved cataloging the bizarre rise in her own internal temperature. It began in her chest, radiated to her hands, and made her collarbone feel as if someone had lit a candle there. An Addams does not overheat. She could walk barefoot over molten glass and remain cool to the touch. Yet, here she sat, on a perfectly ordinary bench beneath Nevermore’s garish “Heroes of the Past” banners, feeling as if she’d been forced to stand too close to a forge.
She did not look at Enid directly. She was not about to give her the satisfaction. But her peripheral vision was irritatingly efficient — catching every little bounce of Enid’s knee, the way her hair swayed when she leaned in to read the inscription carved into the marble plaque they’d been staring at for the past two minutes.
And then it happened.
Enid’s hand shifted on the bench. Not dramatically — no grand romantic gesture, no overt grab. Just a small movement that brought her pinky so close to Wednesday’s that the gap between them seemed to hum with static.
Wednesday’s mind snapped into a violent flurry of observation.
Distance: approximately three centimeters.
Temperature differential: negligible to the untrained, but palpable to her.
Effect: elevated heart rate, approximately twenty-five percent above baseline.
Her heart rate’s pace is not certainly from a causal effect from above’s events, as she would like to believe. It can be caused by:
- Fever (unlikely; no symptoms of infection).
- Sudden onset cardiac abnormality (possible, but deeply inefficient timing).
- Emotional interference caused by one Enid Sinclair.
She disliked option three most of all.
Wednesday tightened her jaw, determined to regain control—when Enid moved.
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re crowding my personal space,” she said, voice flat as a scalpel.
Enid’s lips quirked — infuriatingly smug. “Am I?”
And instead of pulling back, she let her pinky brush Wednesday’s knuckle. Just once. A feather-light pass, like the beginning of a spark.
It was… devastating.
Wednesday’s breath caught — a microscopic hitch, but enough that Enid’s smile sharpened in triumph.
Across the courtyard, Agnes had frozen mid-step. Her expression was a mess of forced indifference and the kind of envy that could corrode metal. Wednesday caught her in her peripheral vision, noting the slight tightening of her jaw, the way her eyes darted to the near-touch of their hands. A petty, predictable reaction. Normally, Wednesday might have found it amusing to stoke further.
But Enid was already doing that for her — without even acknowledging Agnes. She turned her head toward Wednesday, as if Agnes didn’t exist, and leaned in just a little further. Not enough to be obvious. Enough that her perfume — something faintly citrus and maddeningly clean — hit Wednesday square in the senses.
Wednesday was certain her internal organs had rearranged themselves in protest.
“You’re awfully twitchy today,” Enid murmured, her tone all casual curiosity but her eyes dangerously bright. “Didn’t think marble statues could fluster you.”
“I am not flustered,” Wednesday replied instantly. “Merely… compiling data.”
“Oh?” The smile widened. “Still? I bet it’s about me again.”
Wednesday should have said “the average distance in which a werewolf violates spatial boundaries.” She should have said “your incessant fidgeting.” Instead, what came out was: “Your effect on ambient temperature.”
Enid blinked — and then grinned in a way that told Wednesday she’d just handed her a live grenade. “So… you’re saying I make you feel warm?”
Wednesday’s jaw tightened. “No. I am saying you generate unnecessary heat through excessive proximity.”
“Mhm.” Enid shifted even closer, close enough that their knees brushed — a contact so subtle, yet to Wednesday, it might as well have been an electric shock.
Her heartbeat spiked again. She could hear it in her ears, could feel the heat crawling up the side of her neck. If this was some physiological malfunction, it was poorly timed.
An Addams does not warm . An Addams chills. An Addams freezes. An Addams does not sit in the middle of Nevermore’s courtyard with a pulse that behaves as if it’s trying to launch itself out of her ribcage because a werewolf has decided to weaponize casual touch.
She turned her head — finally meeting Enid’s eyes, determined to regain control. “You are remarkably adept at misinterpreting empirical observations.”
“And you,” Enid countered softly, leaning just enough for their shoulders to graze, “are remarkably bad at hiding when you’re enjoying yourself.”
The graze burned in the most irrational way.
Across the courtyard, Agnes’s mouth flattened into a thin, brittle line. But Wednesday barely clocked it this time. Her focus was a vortex — narrowed entirely to the maddening, infuriating, utterly chaotic creature beside her.
For one alarming second, Wednesday realized she didn’t just tolerate the chaos. She liked it.
Which was unacceptable.
“Enid!”
The voice sliced in like an off-key violin note, shattering Wednesday’s precarious mental spiral.
Bruno.
Of course.
If the universe ever decided to manifest an interruption specifically engineered to be both inconvenient and repulsive, it would look like him — all self-satisfied grin, overly familiar tone, and the faint scent of whatever drugstore cologne he thought made him interesting.
He was already striding toward them through the crowd, his chest puffed out just enough to suggest he thought he owned the ground beneath his feet. The way he said her name — too loud, too eager, too… familiar — scraped across Wednesday’s nerves like sandpaper on porcelain.
Enid brightened instinctively, because of course she did. The girl’s terminal niceness was as incurable as it was infuriating. She turned halfway toward him, lips quirking in polite acknowledgment, but Wednesday saw the flicker in her eyes — that quick, almost imperceptible glance toward her, like she was checking for… what? Permission?
It didn’t matter. Wednesday’s expression had already flattened into a look that could have withered fresh flowers.
Bruno stopped just short of them, flashing that grin that made Wednesday want to catalog every historical case of unexplained poisoning. “Hey, wolfie,” he said, leaning in just a fraction too close to Enid. “Haven’t seen you around much. Guess you’ve been busy with…” His gaze flicked to Wednesday — deliberate, lingering — “…your girlfriend.
If his smirk got any smugger, it would qualify as a structural hazard.
Wednesday’s fingers itched for her dagger.
“Yes,” she said, voice smooth as polished obsidian. “She has been busy. With me. Constantly.”
The implication landed exactly where she wanted it to, because Bruno’s grin faltered for half a heartbeat before he tried to recover.
Enid gave a nervous little laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We’ve just had a lot going on, y’know?”
“Oh, I know,” Bruno said, still angled toward her like Wednesday wasn’t even there. “But maybe later, you and I could—”
“No,” Wednesday cut in, tone slicing clean through his sentence. “We couldn’t.”
Bruno’s mouth twitched like he was biting back another comeback, but instead he exhaled through his nose, lifting both hands in mock surrender.
“Alright, alright, relax. I’m not here to start… whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely between them, like he was motioning to an exhibit in a museum he didn’t quite understand. “I actually came over to invite you—both of you—to a little thing at my place tonight. Just some music, drinks, fire pit. Whole pack’s welcome. I’m cool, really.”
He glanced at Enid with something softer than his usual swagger. “You’ve moved on, that’s fine. I just don’t want it to be weird. We’re all part of the same pack, right?”
Enid’s ears all but perked. “That’s… actually really nice of you,” she said, smiling in that way she did when someone was holding out an olive branch she couldn’t resist taking.
Wednesday’s jaw tightened. The “nice” part was debatable, but the “branch” was more like a vine, the kind that tangled around your ankles and slowly pulled you under.
“I mean,” Enid went on, clearly warming to the idea, “it might be good for everyone to, y’know, hang out without… drama?”
“I’m always without drama,” Wednesday deadpanned. “It’s the rest of the world that insists on theatrical intrusion.”
Bruno chuckled, like she’d just told a joke instead of a factual statement. “See? That’s exactly the kind of vibe we need tonight.”
Enid looked between them — the eager ex and the glaring current — and her lips pressed into a small, hopeful smile. “Okay, fine. We’ll stop by.”
The “we” landed like a gavel in Wednesday’s ears. She had not voted. She had not been consulted. She had certainly not given informed consent to spending an evening on Bruno’s turf.
Meanwhile Bruno, standing across them, perked up instantly. His posture straightened, his eyes lighting in a way that was—if one was paying attention—less about the prospect of a party and more about the blonde werewolf at Wednesday’s side. It was the kind of look that lingered a beat too long, brushed just shy of wistful.
Wednesday noticed.
Of course she noticed.
People passing by might miss the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth when Enid laughed, but Wednesday’s brain logged it like a data point in an experiment she hadn’t meant to run. He looked at Enid as if she were a constellation only he could see, and the faint pull in his gaze told her he didn’t care if anyone noticed.
She had no interest in this dynamic—at least, not in the romantic sense—but she catalogued it anyway. Not because she was jealous. Certainly not. But because observing a moth fly into a flame is still fascinating, even when one knows the ending.
Her scientific reasoning could also catalogue precisely why most human social gatherings were a waste of time. It could even trace the neurological impulses responsible for irritation.
What it could not explain was why the thought of Enid laughing at one of Bruno’s stories tonight made something coil low and hot in her chest.
She would find the explanation. Eventually.
Preferably before she committed an actual crime.
“I won’t be going.”
Enid pouted, her voice dipping into that singsong lilt she used when she knew Wednesday was teetering on the edge of conceding. “Weds…”
Bruno’s eyes slid to Enid again, his expression softening in that unspoken, lingering way that was almost intrusive in its persistence.
Wednesday turned her head just enough to meet Enid’s gaze. It was a calculated glance—controlled, clinical. Or at least it was supposed to be. Unfortunately, Enid’s eyes were unfairly… glowy. Like she’d stolen the northern lights and shoved them into her irises.
“I have no interest in loud, pointless gatherings full of sweaty people attempting to ‘vibe’ to music they cannot dance to,” Wednesday replied crisply.
Enid tilted her head. “But it’ll be fun to watch them fail.”
That earned her a pause.
“And…” Enid’s grin edged into dangerous territory, “…you can stand in the corner judging everyone while I make sure they all know my girlfriend’s cooler than them.”
Bruno glanced between them at the word girlfriend . His jaw ticked, but he smiled anyway—tight, a little too bright.
Wednesday’s mouth pressed into a thinner line. “Flattery is an inferior form of persuasion.”
Enid leaned forward, chin in her hands, lashes low and fluttery in a way that might have been entirely accidental but Wednesday doubted it. “Please?”
Wednesday told herself she was immune to this. That she could withstand even the most artfully deployed ocular assault. That she, an Addams, was forged in the fires of discomfort and social disdain, and would not—would never —capitulate to something as shallow as pretty eyes.
She inhaled slowly. And then exhaled. And then said, with deliberate stiffness, “…Fine.”
Enid’s grin exploded across her face, smug and sunlit. “Knew it.”
Bruno slapped the table with a loud thwack . “Awesome! I’ll text you the address—wait, I don’t have your number.”
“You never will,” Wednesday said, standing.
“Enid will text it to me,” Bruno replied cheerfully, completely unfazed. “Cool. See you lovebirds tonight!”
As he ambled away, Wednesday adjusted her bag strap with the sort of precision one might expect from someone cleaning a murder weapon.
Enid bumped her shoulder. “You love me.”
“I agreed to attend a party,” Wednesday corrected. “That is not love. It is… anthropological research.”
“Mhm.” Enid’s smirk could have powered a small city.
Wednesday didn’t respond, mostly because she was still trying to ignore the fact that she had, in fact, just been defeated by two imploring blue eyes and a smile sharp enough to cut through all her defenses.
And, worse—she wasn’t entirely sure she minded.
Enid leaned in as they walked, her tone sly. “Since we’re going to a party, you know there’s alcohol, right?”
Wednesday didn’t even turn her head. “Like there’s a fork in the kitchen.”
Enid’s eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “Right.” She drew the word out like she was filing it away for future evidence. “So… will you be drinking?”
“No,” Wednesday replied flatly. “I will not be an irresponsible teenager willingly impairing my judgment for the sake of fermented fruit juice or carbonated grain water.”
Enid grinned. “Aww, c’mon. I think it’d be cute.”
Wednesday finally looked at her, brow arching as if Enid had just suggested she try on a ruffled bonnet. “Cute? You think it would be cute for me to experience the rapid neural misfiring that renders the average human incapable of basic motor function?”
“Yes,” Enid said without hesitation. “Mostly because I’d get to take care of you.”
Wednesday’s expression did not change, but the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth threatened mutiny. “In your dreams.”
“Oh, they’re very vivid,” Enid said brightly, stepping ahead to walk backwards so she could face Wednesday. “And in at least three of them, you’re leaning on me while I’m helping you up the stairs.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, though her stride didn’t falter. “Your subconscious is disturbingly codependent.”
“Your subconscious likes me back,” Enid shot back, wagging her eyebrows.
Wednesday’s gaze sharpened like a scalpel. “My subconscious is irrelevant. The conscious part of me is keenly aware that putting myself in a state of helplessness in your vicinity is tantamount to handing you a loaded weapon.”
Enid clasped her hands together with exaggerated sweetness. “And you don’t trust me with that weapon?”
“I’m not convinced you wouldn’t use it for your own amusement.”
“Guilty,” Enid said, beaming. “But I’d make sure you were safe and cozy first. I’d even bring you water.”
Wednesday allowed a beat of silence, studying her as though calculating exactly how much of that offer was genuine and how much was Enid simply enjoying herself at Wednesday’s expense. “I’ll keep that in mind. And never allow it to happen.”
Enid sighed dramatically, spinning back to walk beside her again. “Party pooper.”
Wednesday’s lips almost— almost —curved. “Better that than a party casualty.”
The walk back to their dorm was a slow one, mostly because Enid insisted on matching her pace to Wednesday’s methodical, almost funereal stride. The cobblestones were still slick from the morning drizzle, and Enid kept her hands jammed into the pockets of her jacket, clearly restraining herself from swinging them toward Wednesday.
“So,” Enid began, voice lilting with that suspiciously casual tone that meant nothing good for Wednesday’s peace of mind, “if we’re going to this party, I think it’s only fair we pick out our outfits now. You know, so there’s no last-minute… disasters.”
“I am confident in my ability to put on clothing without incident,” Wednesday replied flatly, eyes locked on the path ahead.
“That’s not the point,” Enid countered, bouncing a little on her heels. “The point is… it’s a party. Which means effort. Which means you can’t just wear something that says, ‘I was buried in this once.’ ”
“I have already told you: no.”
Enid made a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Even if I let you pick my outfit? We could… play dress-up back at the dorm.”
Wednesday turned her head just far enough to give her a look that could sterilize surgical instruments. “No. Never in my lifetime. Nor in the unfortunate extension of yours.”
“That’s harsh,” Enid pouted, though her eyes sparkled, because she knew a challenge when she heard one. “I mean, c’mon, it’ll be fun. We can even coordinate. You wear something dark and mysterious—”
“I am dark and mysterious.”
“—and I wear something bright and sparkly. You know, to contrast. It’s basically science.”
Wednesday said nothing, but her silence was the kind that hummed, the kind that meant she was filing away an irritating truth she’d rather not acknowledge.
They turned down the hall toward their room. Enid kicked lightly at the floor. “Okay, but… what’s our game plan for the party? Lurk in a corner? Glare at strangers? Occasionally threaten someone who looks at me too long?”
“That would be the ideal outcome, yes.” Wednesday’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
“Well, I’m dancing,” Enid announced. “With or without you. Preferably with, but I know you and dance floors have… a complicated relationship.”
“I have no relationship with dance floors.”
“Exactly.” Enid’s grin widened. “Which is why tonight’s the perfect time to start one. Imagine it: you, me, some questionable lighting, and music loud enough to drown out your commentary.”
Wednesday gave her a look sharp enough to cut glass. “If I am coerced into moving rhythmically, it will be to ensure someone else trips in the process.”
“Hot,” Enid said immediately.
Wednesday stopped walking for half a second, blinking at her like she’d just been handed a dead raven wrapped in pink ribbon. “That was not intended as a compliment.”
“Too late. Claimed it.” Enid bumped her shoulder again. “So, you’re definitely going, you’re not drinking, you’re dressing however you want, and you’re absolutely pretending you’re not going to have fun.”
“That’s an accurate summary.”
“And I’m definitely dancing, possibly getting you to dance, and absolutely making sure we leave together.”
Wednesday’s gaze lingered on her, cool and assessing, though there was the faintest, treacherous flicker of warmth beneath. “That last part is non-negotiable.”
Enid’s smile softened into something that wasn’t quite smug—more like quietly victorious. “Good.”
“But what if people… try to get us to, y’know… kiss?” Enid asked, her tone airy but with a mischievous curl at the edge.
“I will not be pressured,” Wednesday replied without hesitation. “I am not a people-pleaser. In fact, I take active steps to be the opposite.”
Enid tilted her head, chewing her lip like she was picturing something. “Yeah, but hypothetically… if they really pushed it?”
Wednesday’s eyes slid toward her. “I have already explained to you the terms of our alliance. If a display of false affection becomes strategically necessary, I will carry it out. Efficiently. Without fanfare.”
Enid’s grin bloomed. “Even if it’s something like, say… you and me, alone in a closet for a few minutes?”
Wednesday’s brow arched. “Why would anyone voluntarily be in a closet?”
“It’s a game,” Enid explained, clearly relishing the fact that Wednesday didn’t know. “They lock you in there with someone and… you’re supposed to do something. Usually kissing.”
Wednesday stared at her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “That sounds like an ill-conceived social experiment devised by people with substandard coping mechanisms.”
“Yeah,” Enid agreed cheerfully. “But would you do it?”
“If it served our fabricated narrative,” Wednesday said evenly, though her gaze flickered to the side, “I suppose I could tolerate your proximity for a finite amount of time.”
Enid beamed as though Wednesday had just declared undying love instead of reluctant tolerance.
They reached their door. Enid immediately headed for her half of the room, rifling through her wardrobe like a general preparing for battle. “Okay. I’m thinking something short and flowy. Or maybe sequins.”
“I am thinking you are wasting your time,” Wednesday replied, hanging her coat with meticulous care.
“Pfft. You’ll see.”
Within minutes, Enid had a dress in hand — a shimmery thing that caught the light in a way that almost made Wednesday squint. “Just… help me zip it up? I want to see if it fits.”
Wednesday’s mouth opened, prepared for a refusal, but Enid was already turning her back, blonde curls spilling over her shoulders, the zipper’s tiny pull tab winking in the light.
It was ridiculous how close she had to stand. Her fingers caught the zipper and began pulling it upward in a slow, deliberate motion, the smooth sound of metal teeth clicking together somehow louder than the steady drum of her heartbeat. It got stuck somehow.
And it did not help that her eyes, against her better judgment, caught the curve of Enid’s neck, pale and warm, and for a brief, horrifying moment Wednesday thought she could feel heat radiating off her own skin. It was absurd. It was intolerable. It was—
—something she could not name without surrendering entirely.
Enid stilled under her touch, a quick intake of breath giving her away.
The sound lodged somewhere in Wednesday’s chest like a splinter. She pulled the zipper up again in one smooth motion, maybe a little faster than necessary, and stepped back a fraction—only to realize they were still much too close.
Enid turned, the movement slow, almost testing. Now they were face-to-face, close enough that Wednesday could count every freckle dusting Enid’s nose, could feel the faint hum of her warmth radiating across the inches that separated them.
Neither moved.
It was absurdly quiet, except for the faint, steady thump of Enid’s heartbeat—or maybe Wednesday’s own, amplified and ricocheting in her ears.
Enid’s smile softened, lips parting just slightly as though she might say something.
Wednesday’s mouth worked before she could stop herself. “If you’re waiting for me to compliment you, I hope you’ve already drafted your will.”
That broke the moment—sort of. Enid laughed, but it was quieter than usual, laced with something else entirely. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” Wednesday replied, stepping back with deliberate composure, “you continue to impose yourself in my vicinity.”
Enid’s grin widened. “Guess I’m a glutton for punishment.”
Wednesday’s fingers twitched at her sides. She ignored the impulse to tuck a loose strand of Enid’s hair behind her ear. Instead, she turned toward her own wardrobe, voice level. “We should finish getting ready before I regret agreeing to this party.”
Enid’s eyes lingered on her for just a second too long before she bounced toward her bed, rummaging for accessories. “Fine. But for the record, If you keep zipping me up like that, we’re going to be late on purpose.”
“Mm-hmm,” Wednesday replied, face almost flushed.
Enid sees this and smiles before spinning in front of the mirror once, the skirt swishing. “Your turn.”
“I don’t recall consenting to participate.”
“You didn’t. I’m making you.”
Wednesday’s gaze sharpened, though she didn’t move. “Do you make a habit of dressing people against their will?”
“Only the ones I like.” Enid beamed, then flitted over to her own wardrobe like a magpie with a mission. “Okay—dark dress, obviously. It’s a party, not a funeral, so maybe… ooh—what about this?”
“That is funeral attire,” Wednesday deadpanned, eyeing the sleek black number Enid held up.
“Yeah, but a hot funeral,” Enid countered, holding it under Wednesday’s chin for visual effect. “Come on. You wore black for our… not-date. At least make an effort for this.”
“I am making an effort. I agreed to leave the dormitory.”
Enid rolled her eyes, clearly unconvinced, and then seemed to remember something. “Oh! And this.” She darted to her jewelry box and pulled out a thin silver chain, a small charm dangling at the end. “My necklace. Wear it.”
Wednesday blinked, her expression making it very clear she was weighing the pros and cons of immediate refusal. “Why?”
“Because it’ll look good on you,” Enid said, tone half-pleading, half-challenging. “And because I want you to.”
The directness of it gave Wednesday an uncomfortable pause. Her brain ran through a dozen rebuttals before settling on the only acceptable one. “…Fine. Temporarily.”
Enid stepped closer, the necklace pooled in her hands. Wednesday held still as Enid swept her hair over one shoulder, the pads of her fingers grazing the back of Wednesday’s neck. Her skin prickled—not unpleasantly—and she swore she could feel every breath Enid took while fastening the clasp.
“There,” Enid murmured, leaning back to admire her work. “Perfect.”
Wednesday’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, the air between them charged and still. For a beat too long, neither moved.
Enid’s grin softened into something warmer, almost teasing in its gentleness. “Careful. Someone might think we are as romantic as your parents now.”
“Then we’ll have to disabuse them of the notion,” Wednesday replied, voice lower than intended.
They broke apart then, almost in sync, and moved through the rest of their preparations with the mechanical efficiency of people pretending the moment hadn’t happened.
By the time they reached the party, the bass was thudding through the walls, colored lights spilling onto the grass outside the house. Enid bounced ahead, scanning the crowd for familiar faces, while Wednesday trailed behind with her usual deliberate pace.
And then—midway through the crowd—Wednesday’s gaze snagged on a familiar figure across the room. Tyler. Standing by the drinks table. Watching her.
But it wasn’t the watchful boredom of someone at a party they didn’t want to be at. No, there was something sharper there. His posture was stiff, shoulders set in a way that looked almost predatory. The muscles in his jaw worked, tightening, like he was biting back words—or worse. Even from across the room, she could see it in his eyes: a heatless glare, pupils dilated too much for the dim light to excuse.
It was Tyler, but not quite. The expression belonged to something wearing his face. Something that was calculating. Angry. Possessive. The sort of look predators get when they’ve decided the hunt has already begun.
And though his features were still arranged in their human form, Wednesday recognized the shift—like the Hyde was pressing its palms against the glass of his mind, smirking through the cracks.
Enid eventually noticed Wednesday’s silence and followed her gaze, lips parting in the beginning of a question—a frown tugging at her mouth. When she spotted him, her smile faltered—just a flicker, barely there. Her ears tipped back, shoulders pulling in like she’d stepped into a colder draft. Her fingers curled against her own forearm, nails grazing lightly, like she was resisting the urge to bristle.
“What the fuck is he doing here?”