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Winter Nights
The snow at Nevermore didn’t fall in delicate flakes so much as it drifted in long, thin curtains, as though someone had sliced the sky open and let the cold bleed through. By the time Enid Sinclair left her therapist’s office, her boots were already crusted with half-melted slush, and the grey light from the tall arched windows made the hallway feel even colder than it probably was.
Her session had ended three minutes early — which, under any other circumstance, might have felt like a blessing. But today, it just meant there was more time to walk back to Ophelia Hall and think about the one comment her therapist had made and then promptly moved on from: Maybe your constant need to fill silence says more about you than the people you’re talking to.
She had smiled politely in the moment, like she always did, but her mind kept circling back to it. By the time she reached the end of the hall, she was scowling — not because she was mad, exactly, but because it was easier than letting the unsettled feeling show.
The office door creaked open again behind her, and Wednesday Addams stepped out with the measured, unhurried gait of someone leaving a courtroom after a trial they didn’t particularly care about winning. Her black wool coat swayed faintly at her knees as she closed the door with a soft click.
Enid glanced over her shoulder. “Let me guess. Yours was just riveting?”
“Riveting implies novelty,” Wednesday said, brushing a flake of snow from her shoulder. “We covered the same questions as last week, which were identical to the questions from the week before. A tedious ritual masquerading as progress.”
Enid gave a half-smile despite herself. “So, a success.”
Wednesday fell into step beside her, boots tapping steadily against the old stone floor. “If success is defined as endurance in the face of meaningless repetition, then yes.”
They reached the outer doors, and the cold met them immediately — a dry, biting cold that turned breath into pale clouds. The courtyard was still, and the students who might otherwise have lingered outside having retreated to common rooms and study halls. Snow gathered in uneven piles along the stone benches, and the skeletal branches of the trees cast thin, black shadows across the white.
For a few steps, they didn’t speak. Enid was used to talking — filling space, keeping energy in the air — but lately she found herself matching Wednesday’s silences more often. Not because she liked them, necessarily, but because sometimes it was just easier to walk without trying to bridge whatever gap sat between them.
“You look,” Wednesday said suddenly, “as though you’re deciding whether to set something on fire.”
Enid snorted. “I’m just thinking.”
“That explains the dangerous expression.”
Enid shook her head, snow catching in the ends of her hair. “My therapist said I talk too much. Well, she didn’t say it exactly like that, but… basically.”
“I could have told you that without charging you an hourly rate,” Wednesday replied.
“Wow. Thanks.”
“It’s not an insult. Observation is neutral. The interpretation is yours to decide.”
Enid tightened her scarf, partly against the wind, partly because she didn’t have a better response. “What did yours say?”
“That I seem resistant to introspection,” Wednesday said flatly.
Enid laughed once. “You? Resistant to introspection? You’re practically its poster child.”
Wednesday’s gaze stayed ahead, fixed on the snow-lined path. “There is a difference between observing oneself and allowing someone else to examine you. One is a strategy. The other is vulnerability.”
Enid slowed slightly, boots crunching in the snow. “And vulnerability is bad because…?”
“Because it invites interference.”
They reached the shadow of Ophelia Hall, its tall windows lit with the warm gold of firelight inside. Enid wanted to push the conversation further, but the air between them had settled into that quiet, unspoken space again — not awkward, exactly, but careful.
When they stepped inside, the warmth of the hall hit them all at once, along with the faint scent of woodsmoke. A few students were curled in armchairs near the fire, their murmured conversations blending into the sound of the crackling logs. Enid peeled off her gloves and flexed her fingers, feeling the warmth seep back in.
Wednesday, still gloved, didn’t pause on her way toward the stairs. Enid followed, tugging at her scarf as they climbed. Her therapist’s words still lingered, threading through her thoughts in a way she didn’t want to admit was bothering her. And when she glanced at Wednesday, she thought she caught the same kind of distraction in her expression — a slight tightening around the eyes, a stiffness in her shoulders.
She almost said something. Almost.
Instead, they reached their dorm, and the moment passed.
Enid tossed her scarf onto her bed as soon as they stepped inside, the bright knit landing in a messy coil against her pillow. The dorm was warmer than the hallways, but only because the radiator beneath the window clanged every few minutes, as if reluctantly admitting it had a job to do. Outside, the snow kept drifting down in slow, steady lines, and the glass had fogged slightly at the corners.
Wednesday crossed the room with her usual economy of motion, removing her coat and hanging it with exact precision on the hook by her desk. She didn’t immediately sit; instead, she adjusted the sleeves of her black sweater until they lay flat against her wrists.
“You’re in one of your moods,” Enid said, collapsing onto her bed.
“Which one?”
“The one where you’re thinking very loudly but not saying anything.”
Wednesday tilted her head slightly, as if considering whether the accusation was worth addressing. “I fail to see how thinking qualifies as a mood.”
“It does when it’s that obvious.”
Enid reached for the blanket at the foot of her bed, pulling it up around her legs. It was patterned in pastel stripes — a sharp contrast to Wednesday’s half of the room, which was a monochrome study in restraint. Sometimes Enid wondered if Wednesday’s furniture arrangement was as intentional as her outfits: not just an aesthetic choice, but a deliberate act of distance.
“Anyway,” Enid went on, “my therapist said I use talking as a distraction. Like, instead of dealing with stuff, I just… keep the conversation going so no one notices what’s really going on. Which is ridiculous, because—”
“It’s true,” Wednesday interrupted.
Enid stared at her. “You could’ve at least pretended to think about it first.”
“I did. Last semester. Multiple times.”
Enid groaned and flopped backwards, her hair fanning across the blanket. “You’re supposed to, I don’t know, sugarcoat it or something.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re my friend.”
Wednesday’s expression didn’t change, but she stepped closer to her desk, placing her journal carefully on top of it. “If the truth is harmful, perhaps. But in this case, it’s a matter of accuracy.”
Enid rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. “And what about you? Your therapist said you’re resistant to introspection, right? That’s just… hilarious.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, but only slightly. “It’s an oversimplification. I am selective about when and how I engage in self-reflection.”
“Which is a fancy way of saying you don’t like letting other people in.”
“Precisely.”
Enid gave her a look — the kind that said See, you just proved my point. Wednesday ignored it and began unbuttoning her cuffs with meticulous care.
The radiator clanged again. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windowpanes. Enid sat up, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
“You ever get that… I don’t know, that feeling like something bad’s gonna happen? Not like, in a specific way, but just… in general?”
Wednesday paused mid-motion, her gaze shifting briefly to the window. “You mean a premonition?”
“No, not like a vision or anything,” Enid said quickly. “Just… that low, heavy feeling. Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, even if there’s no reason for it.”
Wednesday resumed fastening her cuff. “I have felt that since birth. It’s called being realistic.”
Enid gave a short laugh, but it didn’t stick. “No, I mean… lately it’s worse. I thought it was just me being… me. But after the whole Hyde thing last semester, I keep expecting something else to happen. Even though there’s nothing going on. It’s like… the calm is suspicious.”
Wednesday finally turned toward her. “You assume that peace is merely the prelude to catastrophe.”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
They looked at each other for a moment, the quiet stretching between them. Enid wasn’t sure if Wednesday understood in the same way she felt it, but there was something in her stillness that made Enid think she did.
Wednesday crossed the space between them and sat in her desk chair, turning it slightly so she faced the bed. “Most people find comfort in the absence of conflict. We, apparently, do not.”
Enid let out a breath. “Guess that makes us… What, pessimists?”
“Realists,” Wednesday corrected.
The radiator hissed softly now, its earlier clanging subsiding into a steady hum. Enid shifted on the bed, tucking her legs under the blanket. “It’s weird, though. I thought I was the only one feeling like this.”
“You’re not.”
There was no comfort in Wednesday’s tone, but the words themselves carried a strange kind of reassurance. Enid let them settle in the air, warm in their own blunt way.
Enid eventually slid off the bed, her blanket still wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. The kettle on their small electric hot plate sat cold in the corner, surrounded by a few mismatched mugs and a half-empty tin of cocoa mix.
“You want something warm?” she asked, already filling the kettle from the pitcher they kept on the desk.
Wednesday didn’t look up from the journal she had just opened. “Define warm.”
“Hot chocolate,” Enid said. “Or tea. Or, I guess, just hot water if you want to keep being Wednesday about it.”
“Tea is acceptable.”
Enid smirked and set two mugs on the desk, their clink echoing faintly in the quiet room. Steam began to curl from the kettle after a minute, and the sharp, metallic scent of heating water mingled with the faint sweetness from the cocoa tin.
Outside the window, the snow had grown heavier, the flakes thicker now. They spun in the wind before landing against the glass, where they clung for a moment before melting into tiny rivulets.
Enid poured the water into the mugs, stirring hers into a cloud of brown sweetness while Wednesday dropped a neat sachet of loose-leaf tea into hers. The scent of chamomile drifted into the air.
They both settled — Enid back on her bed, knees drawn up under the blanket, mug warm in her hands; Wednesday at her desk, cup placed on a coaster as if to preserve the exact order of things.
For a while, the only sounds were the radiator’s low hum, the occasional pop from the wood in the fireplace downstairs, and the faint whine of the wind outside. It wasn’t uncomfortable silence, not exactly, but it carried the weight of things neither of them had put into words.
“You ever think…” Enid began, then stopped, frowning into her mug.
“Dangerous habit,” Wednesday murmured.
Enid rolled her eyes. “I mean, you ever think maybe this whole… waiting-for-something-to-happen feeling isn’t just because of last semester? Like, maybe it’s just… how we’re wired now?”
Wednesday didn’t answer immediately. She took a sip of her tea, setting the cup down with careful precision. “The mind adapts to patterns. If chaos becomes familiar, stillness can feel unnatural.”
“That’s… exactly it,” Enid said. She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “I keep thinking if I just do enough — keep busy, talk enough, whatever — it’ll go away. But it doesn’t.”
“And yet,” Wednesday said, “you continue.”
“Because if I stop, then I’ll have to sit in it. And that’s… worse.”
Wednesday regarded her over the rim of her teacup, expression unreadable. “Avoidance is a common coping strategy. Ineffective, but common.”
Enid gave a dry laugh. “Thanks, Dr. Addams.”
They lapsed into quiet again. The snow outside thickened, softening the edges of the trees and benches until the world beyond the glass looked almost unreal. The kind of quiet that settled over Nevermore in winter wasn’t just an absence of noise — it was a presence in itself, something you could feel pressing against your ears.
Enid shifted, tucking the blanket tighter around herself. “It’s not just the feeling, though. It’s… I don’t know. Like, if I start talking about it, then it becomes real. And if it’s real, I have to deal with it.”
Wednesday’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before she returned it to her tea. “Acknowledgement is the first step toward resolution.”
“Or the first step toward realising there is no resolution,” Enid countered.
Wednesday’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. “You’ve been paying more attention than I thought.”
The warmth from the mug seeped into Enid’s fingers, grounding her. She glanced toward the window again, the snow blurring the outlines of the world outside. “You’re not freaked out by it, though. This feeling. You just… live with it.”
“I’ve always lived with it,” Wednesday said simply. “It’s less unsettling when it never leaves.”
Enid thought about that for a long moment. Maybe that was the difference — Wednesday had grown up with her dread, like a background note in every song. Enid had only learned the tune recently, and she still didn’t know the words.
Downstairs, the fire popped again, the sound faint through the floor. The warmth in the room felt heavier now, as though the air itself had settled in around them.
Neither of them mentioned it, but they stayed like that for longer than usual — Enid curled under her blanket, Wednesday at her desk — sharing the same quiet, each with her own drink, neither asking the other to fill the space.
And in that silence, Enid realised that maybe she didn’t have to.
The kettle on the desk had long gone cold, and the light outside had shifted toward late afternoon — that dim, silvery quality winter brought to Nevermore, when the snow reflected what little daylight was left and made it feel later than it was.
Enid had abandoned her cocoa somewhere on the nightstand, the last half of it gone lukewarm, while Wednesday’s tea sat nearly untouched beside her. She’d been writing for the better part of an hour, her pen moving in deliberate, steady lines across the page.
It was the sound of the wind that drew Enid’s attention — a low, rising whistle that threaded itself between the window frames and made the glass vibrate faintly. She got up, dragging her blanket around her shoulders, and went to check the latch.
Wednesday’s voice followed her. “It’s secure.”
“Yeah, but it sounds like it’s about to blow the whole building over.” Enid pressed a palm against the cold glass, peering out into the white blur beyond. The courtyard had disappeared completely into the storm; even the dark shapes of the trees were barely visible.
She shivered and pulled the blanket tighter, but the draft still found its way under the edges. When she turned back toward her bed, Wednesday was watching her with the same unblinking focus she gave everything she chose to notice.
“You’re cold,” Wednesday said.
“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”
Rather than reply, Wednesday closed her journal, stood, and crossed to her bed. Without a word, she took the thick black blanket folded neatly at the foot and walked it over to Enid.
Enid blinked at her. “What’s this?”
“A temporary solution to your shivering.”
“You’re… offering me your blanket?”
“I’m not using it.”
Enid hesitated, then took it, the weight of it immediately noticeable. The fabric was softer than she expected — heavy, warm, and faintly scented like the cedar sachet Wednesday kept in her trunk. She pulled it around herself on top of her own, the double layer almost too warm but in the best way.
“Thanks,” she said, quieter this time.
Wednesday didn’t answer. She returned to her desk, but instead of reopening her journal, she sat with her hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed briefly on the storm outside.
Enid climbed back onto her bed, sinking into the new cocoon of warmth. The contrast between the cold glass moments ago and this heavy, layered comfort was almost dizzying. She found herself glancing toward Wednesday, half expecting her to have gone back to writing — but she hadn’t.
They stayed like that for several minutes, the space between them filled with the muffled rush of wind and the occasional groan of the old radiator. The warmth from the blanket seeped deeper, pulling at Enid’s tension in a way she hadn’t expected.
“You always this generous?” she asked finally.
“Only when I have something to gain.”
“And what exactly do you gain from me not freezing to death?”
“A quieter roommate,” Wednesday said without missing a beat.
Enid laughed — a short, genuine sound that seemed to pull the corner of Wednesday’s mouth upward, just barely. “I think you’d get quiet either way.”
Maybe. Wednesday just preferred her alive. Not that she’d admit it.
The draft rattled the window again, and Enid instinctively tucked the blanket closer. This time, it wasn’t just for warmth; there was something grounding about the weight of it, about the faint scent of cedar and whatever laundry soap Wednesday used.
For reasons she didn’t fully understand, she didn’t give it back.
The room had grown darker as the day bled toward evening, the pale winter light slipping away in favour of the dim amber glow from the single desk lamp. Shadows stretched across the walls, elongating the neat edges of Wednesday’s side of the dorm into angles that seemed sharper than they were.
Enid was still curled under the blankets, tracing patterns idly on the fabric with her fingertips. The storm outside had settled into a low, steady hum now, like an invisible heartbeat in the world. She glanced toward Wednesday, who was at her desk, hunched slightly over her journal, the tip of her pen catching the lamp light with every deliberate stroke.
“You ever feel like… things are just waiting?” Enid asked, breaking the quiet. “Like, life isn’t happening yet, but it’s about to?”
Wednesday didn’t look up immediately. When she finally did, her expression was calm, measured. “Everything is always waiting, if you define ‘everything’ as the inevitable sequence of consequences. It’s a fundamental rule of cause and effect.”
“That’s… not comforting.”
“Comfort rarely correlates with accuracy.”
Enid snorted, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. “Of course. Accuracy first, warmth second. That’s you.”
There was a pause, the kind where the hum of the storm outside and the soft breathing of the two of them filled the room completely. Enid noticed that the weight of the blankets was almost too warm now, like it was pressing her down just enough to make her still. She realised that she hadn’t even considered giving it back to Wednesday — and that she didn’t want to.
“You’re very still,” Wednesday observed, without judgment.
“I’m… thinking,” Enid said, her voice quieter than she intended.
“About the waiting?” Wednesday asked.
Enid nodded. “And about how… maybe we’re just… the same in that way. Even if we don’t want to be.”
Wednesday’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary, and then she turned back to her journal. But there was a shift — a subtle one — in the angle of her shoulders, in the way she leaned slightly toward the edge of her desk, almost as if the unspoken acknowledgement between them had weight.
Enid let out a slow breath, realising that the tension she hadn’t been able to name was finally loosening, just a little. She wanted to speak, to say something that might capture it, but the words felt too fragile.
The lamp flickered softly, and Enid’s eyes drifted to the window. The snow had thinned, leaving only faint swirls against the dark night. The world outside looked still, but she could feel the weight of it pressing in through the glass.
“Do you ever get scared?” she asked quietly.
Wednesday didn’t answer right away. Her pen hovered over the page, and for a moment, Enid thought she might have ignored the question entirely. Then, without looking up, she said, “Not in the way most people do. Fear is… a signal, not a state.”
Enid nodded, understanding more than she could articulate. “Yeah. I think I feel it the same way. But… It’s easier when someone else does too.”
The statement hung in the air, heavier than the blankets around her. Wednesday’s hand stopped moving over the journal for a fraction of a second. Then she placed her pen down carefully, as if the act itself were deliberate.
For the first time that evening, she crossed the small space between desk and bed. She didn’t sit, didn’t speak — she merely stood there, the lamp casting her shadow long across the room. Enid felt the closeness before she saw the intention, a subtle shift in energy that was almost magnetic.
“You’re… quiet,” Enid murmured, half to herself.
“I’m observing,” Wednesday replied. “And processing.”
Enid let the words settle, the warmth of the blankets, the hum of the storm, and the presence of Wednesday all combining into something that felt like a fragile tether — holding her steady against the waiting she had felt all day.
The silence returned, but it wasn’t the same as before. It was charged, subtle but unmistakable. Enid’s heart thumped quietly in her chest, a rhythm she couldn’t entirely explain. She realised she wanted to say something — anything — to bridge the invisible line between them, but the words caught in her throat.
Wednesday tilted her head slightly, a faint acknowledgement of the unspoken, then stepped back toward her desk. Her movements were deliberate, but there was an ease now that hadn’t been there before, as if the small moment of shared presence had altered the atmosphere.
Enid pulled the blanket closer once more, breathing in the faint cedar scent she hadn’t noticed until now. It wasn’t just warmth — it was a signal of care, of attention, of an unspoken bond forming in the quiet.
The lamp flickered again, and the shadows shifted. Outside, the wind whispered against the dorm walls, and inside, the room felt suspended in a kind of fragile calm. Enid realised that the waiting wasn’t just outside — it was within her, too, and somehow, Wednesday was there with her, steady and unyielding, a quiet anchor against the uncertainty.
And then the door creaked slightly — a reminder that the world beyond their dorm still existed, still moved. Enid shivered slightly, not from cold but from the awareness that whatever was coming — whatever “waiting” meant—she wouldn’t have to face it alone.
She glanced at Wednesday, who was still at her desk, pen poised again over the journal, but now her posture was relaxed in a way that made the air between them feel softer, less like a gulf and more like a shared space.
The room was quiet, the storm softened, and the snow outside had stopped swirling. Everything seemed paused on the edge of something, a fragile moment that neither of them needed to define, yet both felt deeply.
And in that silence, Enid realised something that she couldn’t put into words yet: the waiting didn’t feel so heavy anymore. Not completely.
Not as long as Wednesday was there.
Enid shifted under the blanket, suddenly aware of the warmth radiating not just from the layers around her, but from Wednesday’s presence a few feet away. Her fingers tingled where they had brushed the fabric when she adjusted it, and a strange flutter rose in her chest.
She tried to shake it off. It’s just warmth. It’s just blankets. Stop overthinking.
Wednesday, meanwhile, noticed a tightening in her own shoulders, a quickening of breath that seemed oddly amplified by the quiet. She told herself it was the storm outside — the cold, the wind — anything but the proximity of Enid’s form on the bed.
Enid’s eyes flicked to Wednesday’s face, sharp in the lamp light, the calm mask she always wore slightly softened. Something about the way Wednesday had handed over the blanket, the almost imperceptible pause before returning to her desk… it made her stomach twist in a way she didn’t like, and yet didn’t want to stop noticing.
“You’re… different,” Enid said finally, voice low, more to herself than to Wednesday.
Wednesday’s pen paused mid-stroke. “Different?”
“This… being here,” Enid said, gesturing vaguely with one hand, the blanket pooling around her. “I don’t… I can’t explain it. My brain feels… off. Like it’s buzzing in places it shouldn’t. And my chest—my chest feels… weird.”
Wednesday tilted her head slightly, studying her. “You mean the physiological response to perceived safety in an unpredictable environment?”
“Maybe,” Enid said, cheeks heating. “But it’s more than that. It’s… It’s not just safe. It’s… I don’t know. Something else.”
Wednesday’s gaze flicked down briefly, then back to Enid. She noted a similar dissonance within herself — a tension that was neither fear nor discomfort, but something else entirely. Her mind catalogued the sensation: the quickened pulse, the sudden awareness of every small sound, the faint ache of wanting to lean just slightly closer.
“I feel it too,” Wednesday said softly, startling herself as much as Enid. “This… reaction. It is anomalous, but undeniable.”
Enid’s heart skipped. “You… you mean it’s not just me?”
“No,” Wednesday said simply, leaning back slightly, letting the words linger in the quiet room. “It is mutual.”
For a moment, the world outside the window, the hum of the radiator, even the soft shadows on the walls — none of it mattered. There was only the awareness of the other, and the strange, unnameable pull that neither of them had prepared for, yet both felt.
Enid swallowed hard, blanket tightening around her. “So… we… we’re affecting each other. Mentally, physically. And we don’t know why.”
Wednesday’s lips twitched faintly, the closest she came to a smile. “Correct. And that uncertainty… is… noteworthy.”
Enid’s pulse thrummed louder in her ears, and for the first time, she allowed herself to think the thought she had been avoiding: I don’t just like her being here. I… want it.
Wednesday shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, her shadow falling closer to Enid’s bed than before. She acknowledged the thought in the same way, silent but undeniable: This matters. More than it should.
And in that moment, suspended in the dim lamp light with the snow still falling outside, both of them realised something that made the quiet room feel suddenly too small and impossibly intimate:
They weren’t just roommates. They weren’t just friends.
And something fundamental had already begun to change. And they both wanted to explore it.
The storm outside hadn’t eased — if anything, it pressed harder, the wind turning sharp enough that the windows rattled in their frames. The lamplight trembled each time the glass shuddered, throwing shadows that seemed to lean across the floor and walls.
Enid pulled Wednesday’s blanket tighter around her shoulders, pressing her back into the headboard. The cedar scent lingered faintly, grounding her, though her pulse still felt like it was trying to climb into her throat. She couldn’t tell if it was from the storm or from Wednesday — the way she sat at her desk, so perfectly composed, like even the wind howling against the tower walls had to ask permission before disturbing her.
“You don’t ever get nervous, do you?” Enid blurted.
Wednesday’s pen stopped mid-stroke. Her gaze slid toward her without turning her head, slow and precise. “Define nervous.”
“You know. Heart racing, stomach doing weird flips, can’t stop thinking about something. That.”
Wednesday placed her pen down deliberately, folding her hands. “That isn’t nervousness. That’s anticipation.”
Enid blinked. “Okay… so you do feel it.”
“Occasionally.” Wednesday’s tone was even, but there was something in the slight pause — a deliberate calculation, as if she were deciding whether to reveal more. “It is a… physiological inevitability. Nothing more.”
Enid hugged the blanket closer. “Feels like more sometimes.”
The silence stretched again, broken only by the wind. Wednesday’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary before shifting back to the journal. But the pause had weight.
The radiator gave another groan and sputtered quietly, and the room seemed to lose a thin layer of warmth. Enid shivered, pulling her knees up under the covers. Wednesday noticed. She always did. Without a word, she rose, crossed the small space, and adjusted the edge of the heavy blanket higher over Enid’s shoulders.
The touch was brief — her fingers brushing the wool where it met Enid’s collarbone — but it jolted through her like a spark.
Enid looked up quickly, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “You do that a lot.”
Wednesday tilted her head. “Do what?”
“Take care of me. Even when you pretend you’re not.”
Wednesday’s eyes were dark, steady. “Observation requires action, sometimes. If one notices a flaw, one corrects it.”
“That’s not what this is,” Enid whispered.
Wednesday didn’t move her hand immediately. The silence grew heavy, charged. Finally, she drew back, retreating toward her desk. But her steps were slower than usual.
The storm’s howl grew louder, rattling the walls as if something outside were trying to get in. The sound pressed close, and Enid instinctively tightened the blankets around herself.
“You’re staring again,” she said softly, not looking up.
“Correct,” Wednesday replied. No hesitation. No denial.
Enid’s breath caught. She dared to lift her gaze — and found Wednesday still standing halfway between the desk and the bed, eyes fixed on her with a kind of deliberate intensity that pinned her in place.
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t cold. It was… something else.
“What?” Enid asked, voice small.
Wednesday’s head tilted slightly. “You said earlier that your chest feels… strange. As though something is pressing against it.”
Enid blinked. Heat rushed to her cheeks. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything.”
Enid opened her mouth, then closed it again. The storm roared louder outside, but in here, everything narrowed down to the space between them — just a few feet of wooden floor, suddenly impossible to cross.
“Wednesday,” Enid whispered, because it was the only word she could manage.
Wednesday didn’t answer right away. Her gaze flicked down — to the blankets gathered at Enid’s chest, to her hands knotted tightly in the wool — and then back up. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than Enid had ever heard it.
“I feel it too.”
Enid’s breath stopped. The words hit harder than the storm ever could, sinking straight through her and anchoring somewhere deep.
“You… you do?”
Wednesday stepped closer. One pace. Then another. Each one deliberate, measured, as if she were crossing a courtroom floor. She stopped just beside the bed, the lamplight cutting sharp angles across her face.
“It is inconvenient,” she said evenly. “Unpredictable. Disruptive. And yet—” She broke off, her eyes narrowing faintly as if annoyed by her own hesitation.
“And yet what?” Enid whispered.
Wednesday studied her a moment longer. Then, with deliberate precision, she reached down and adjusted the blanket again, tucking it lightly at Enid’s shoulder — but this time her fingers brushed skin. Bare, brief, but enough.
The contact was electric. Enid’s breath stuttered, her chest tightening.
“And yet,” Wednesday said quietly, “I don’t want it to stop.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the storm outside seemed to hold back, its howl dimming to a low hum. Enid’s heart hammered in her ears. She wanted to speak, to joke, to defuse it, but the words were gone. Her mind was a blur of heat and storm and the simple weight of what Wednesday had just admitted.
When she finally found her voice, it cracked. “So… what do we do about it?”
Wednesday’s lips twitched, the faintest curve — not quite a smile, but dangerously close. “That depends. What do you want to do about it?”
Enid swallowed hard, fingers gripping the blanket tight. She couldn’t answer right away. But when she finally did, the words came out almost too soft to hear:
“I don’t… want it to stop either.”
Wednesday’s eyes darkened, the lamplight catching in them like flint. She didn’t move closer — not yet — but the space between them felt charged, fragile, like one wrong breath could shatter it completely.
That was when the kettle clicked again, cooling in the silence. The sound was ordinary, grounding, but it barely registered. Because the real storm was no longer outside. It was right here. And neither of them wanted to run from it.
Enid could barely hear the storm anymore. Not over the sound of her own pulse, steady and loud, filling the space between them. Wednesday hadn’t moved back. She was still standing there, dark eyes fixed on her with a gaze that felt like it could cut through every flimsy layer of bravado she had left.
The blanket suddenly felt too heavy, too warm. Enid pushed it down just enough to breathe, only to realise how exposed that left her. Wednesday’s eyes flicked to her collarbone, then back up again, as precise and deliberate as every other motion she made.
Enid’s breath hitched. She wasn’t imagining it. Wednesday had admitted it, said it aloud. She wanted it too. That should have made it easier, should have let her laugh and say something silly to break the tension. Instead, she sat frozen, because the air between them was trembling with something fragile and enormous.
Wednesday took another small step closer, the wood creaking softly under her shoe. The bed dipped as she leaned, not quite sitting, but close enough that Enid could feel the faint brush of her sleeve near her hand. It wasn’t a touch, but it was close enough to spark.
Her voice, when it came, was lower. “I don’t usually indulge in uncertainty.”
Enid tilted her head, throat dry. “And this… is uncertain?”
Wednesday’s gaze was unwavering. “This is… unprecedented.”
Their eyes locked, neither of them moving, and Enid suddenly realised that her face was tipped up, lips parted without thinking. The space between them was shrinking, unbearably small. She could feel Wednesday’s breath now, faint and cool against her cheek.
And then she felt it — the almost-touch of her nose brushing Wednesday’s. Barely there, feather-light, but enough to set every nerve alight.
Her lips trembled forward, so close that the next breath would have closed the gap.
But Wednesday stopped. A hair’s breadth away, frozen like a statue carved in the moment before surrender.
Enid’s heart lurched, confusion crashing in. “W-what is it?” she whispered.
Wednesday’s jaw tightened. Her eyes flicked down to Enid’s lips, then back up, as if torn between instinct and reason. “There is a possibility,” she said carefully, “that what you’re feeling is not… this. That it is an echo of last semester.”
Enid blinked, the words cutting through her haze. “What?”
“The trauma,” Wednesday clarified, her voice clinical but strained around the edges. “The danger we endured. Heightened emotion. Shared survival. It is not uncommon for… misplaced attachments to arise under such circumstances.”
Enid’s stomach twisted, not with rejection but with the raw, terrible thought that maybe Wednesday was right. Maybe this was just the storm, the cold, the dark pressing them together. Maybe her heart was mistaking comfort for something deeper.
Her voice cracked when she said, “You think this is just… left over fear?”
Wednesday didn’t answer immediately. Her hand hovered, as if she wanted to reach out but couldn’t allow herself the indulgence. “I think,” she said finally, “that it deserves caution. If it is genuine, it should be approached deliberately. And if it is not…” Her eyes softened, a fleeting fracture in her armour. “I would not wish to harm you by mistaking it.”
The words lodged deep in Enid’s chest. That was what this was — not coldness, not rejection, but restraint. Care.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The storm pressed against the glass, but inside the room, everything was still.
Enid swallowed hard. Her lips still tingled from how close they had been. She wanted to close the distance, wanted it more than anything, but she forced herself to breathe instead.
“Then maybe we don’t have to figure it out all at once,” she whispered. “We can… take it slow. See what this really is, without rushing.”
Wednesday’s gaze flickered, a shadow of something unreadable moving across her face. Then, slowly, she inclined her head. “A gradual unravelling. Acceptable.”
But Wednesday didn’t move away. She stayed there, close enough that their shoulders brushed when the bed shifted under Enid’s weight. Her presence was steady, grounding, even as it left Enid’s skin alive with tension.
For the first time since the storm began, Enid leaned back into the pillow and let herself breathe. The almost-kiss still hummed in the air between them, suspended like a thread.
And for the first time, she didn’t feel afraid of the storm outside.
Because the one inside had already claimed her.
Her lips still tingled from how close they had been, and Enid’s heart was pounding so hard she was sure Wednesday could hear it. They’d stopped just shy of something irreversible, and the space between them was so charged it almost hurt.
Wednesday’s jaw tightened. She didn’t retreat, but she also didn’t close the last fraction of an inch. Her dark eyes stayed fixed on Enid’s, unflinching, but there was a strain in them — something sharp, fragile, and uncharacteristically uncertain.
Finally, her voice came, quieter than before. “I am… not practised in this.”
Enid blinked, thrown by the words. “Not practised?”
Wednesday’s throat bobbed with a swallow. Her gaze wavered for the first time, dropping briefly to Enid’s lips before forcing itself back up. “Emotion. Attachment. Desire. They are not matters I’ve entertained… or tolerated. Not until you.”
Enid’s breath caught. The admission was so raw, so unlike the Wednesday she knew, that she almost didn’t trust she’d heard it right. “Wednesday…”
“I may not… navigate this correctly,” Wednesday pressed on, as though afraid she would lose the words if she hesitated. “I may falter. I may make errors that wound you, without intent. My instincts lean toward severity, not softness. And yet…” Her voice wavered, the barest fracture, before she steadied it. “And yet, with you, I find myself wanting softness. I find myself—” She stopped, jaw clenched, the words caught like barbs in her throat.
Enid’s chest ached. She’d seen Wednesday fight monsters and mysteries without blinking, but here she was, unravelling in the face of something far simpler, far scarier: her own heart.
“You don’t have to be perfect at it,” Enid said gently. Her hand moved almost without her realising, resting lightly on Wednesday’s sleeve. “You don’t have to… know everything right away.”
Wednesday looked at the hand, then back at Enid, her expression unreadable but her stillness telling.
“I just…” Enid swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady. “If you’ll let me, I can help. We can figure it out together. You don’t have to carry it all on your own. You never did.”
For the first time, Wednesday exhaled, slow and deliberate, as though conceding something to the air between them. Her shoulders eased, only slightly, but it was enough. “Guidance,” she said at last. “From you.”
Enid smiled softly, heart swelling. “Yeah. From me.”
Wednesday’s eyes lingered on her then, searching, calculating, but softer than Enid had ever seen them. She gave the faintest nod, not of dismissal but of surrender.
“I will require patience,” she admitted. “And possibly… indulgence.”
Enid laughed under her breath, not mocking but warm. “Lucky for you, I’ve got a lot of both.”
The storm outside groaned again, but neither of them looked toward it. Their world had shrunk to this small circle of lamplight, to the fragile, tentative bond stretched between them.
Wednesday didn’t move closer — not yet. But she also didn’t pull away. And for Enid, that was enough. Because Wednesday Addams, who trusted almost no one, had asked for her guidance.
And Enid had every intention of giving it.
The storm eased sometime in the night, tapering into a steady rain that pattered against the windowpanes. It was softer now, a curtain of sound rather than a weapon against the glass. Enid wasn’t sure when her eyes had finally closed; the memory was a blur of warmth, exhaustion, and the strange but steadying weight of presence at her side.
When she woke, grey morning light seeped through the curtains, washed-out but gentle. For once, waking didn’t feel like tearing herself out of a dream. Her body wasn’t coiled with the leftover stress of nightmares, her heart wasn’t jackhammering from something half-remembered.
Instead, she felt… safe.
Her cheek was pressed against something solid, not quite soft, not quite a pillow. Blinking slowly, Enid rubbed against the fabric and realised what it was: the sleeve of Wednesday’s blazer.
Every nerve in her body jolted awake.
She froze, barely daring to breathe. Wednesday was still there — perched in the same chair by the bed, one leg crossed neatly over the other, her back so straight it looked uncomfortable just to look at. Her head leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, but her stillness was not the lax sprawl of someone asleep. It was too precise, too deliberate.
Enid stayed still for a moment, torn between awe and terror at finding her like this. She’d half-convinced herself that Wednesday would vanish by morning, retreating into the cold armour she always wore as though nothing had happened the night before. But she hadn’t. She was here.
“You stayed,” Enid whispered, her voice as thin as the light through the curtains, like a secret not meant to travel far.
Wednesday’s eyes opened at once, sharp and unblinking. She turned her head slightly, studying Enid as though she’d known she’d been awake all along. “Yes.”
That single syllable landed with the weight of an entire speech.
Enid pushed herself upright, the blanket sliding down her shoulders, though she clutched it quickly around herself for the warmth. She looked at Wednesday, still pressed into her perfect lines of posture, and let a smile creep across her face.
“Comfortable?” she asked, voice light, a little teasing. She nodded at the rigid set of Wednesday’s spine.
Wednesday’s dark gaze narrowed. “I am accustomed to discomfort.” She spoke as if the concept of a cosy chair or bed was beneath consideration. “Besides, the point was not my ease.”
Enid’s chest gave a tight, dangerous squeeze. She blinked quickly, covering it with a laugh that came out softer than she expected. “Well, mission accomplished then.”
Wednesday tilted her head slightly, assessing her, though not with the cold scrutiny she usually reserved for everyone else. There was something quieter in it. Thoughtful.
The rain thickened against the glass for a moment, filling the silence between them. Enid pulled the blanket tighter around herself, not because she was cold but because she didn’t know what to do with her arms.
“You weren’t kidding last night,” she said finally, her voice low but steady. “About not being used to this.”
Something flickered across Wednesday’s expression — a tightness in her jaw, the faintest twitch at her mouth. Her eyes held steady on Enid’s face. “It remains… unfamiliar,” she admitted after a long pause. “Disorienting.”
Enid’s heart did another dangerous flip. For Wednesday, the queen of precision and control, to confess to disorientation was monumental.
“But not unwelcome,” Wednesday added, and the words were quieter, as though admitting them cost her something.
Enid bit down on her bottom lip, trying to stop the grin tugging at her mouth. “That’s good. Because I was worried I’d, you know… scared you off or something.”
Wednesday’s eyes sharpened immediately. “You did not.”
The blunt certainty of her voice warmed Enid from the inside out.
She shifted a little, pulling her knees up beneath the blanket, and dared to let her hand rest openly on the quilt between them. Not reaching, not asking — just… there. Close enough that if Wednesday wanted, she could bridge the gap.
Wednesday’s gaze dropped almost imperceptibly, catching the motion. She stilled. Seconds ticked by, each one heavy enough to fill the entire room. Then, deliberately, she extended her hand and laid it over Enid’s.
The touch wasn’t romantic in the storybook sense — no sudden intertwining of fingers, no dramatic swoop. It was a weight, cool and steady, pressing gently over her warmth. A simple, deliberate choice.
Enid’s breath hitched, and for a second, she was afraid the sound had given away too much. But then she felt the faintest increase of pressure, a subtle squeeze, as though Wednesday had heard it and chosen to answer anyway.
“You’re already doing fine,” Enid whispered, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to keep it steady.
Wednesday’s gaze shot up to hers, sharp as a blade. But there was something underneath it — not irritation, not pride. Something quieter. She didn’t speak, but the tiniest twitch ghosted at the corner of her lips. Not quite a smile, but close enough that Enid’s heart gave out a little sigh.
“I am… attempting,” Wednesday said finally, her voice clipped but softer than usual.
Enid let herself squeeze back, careful, cautious. “That’s all I need.”
For a while, neither of them moved. The only sound was the rain against the window, steady and constant. The radiator clinked softly in the corner, and the smell of wet earth drifted faintly in from outside.
Enid leaned her head back against the headboard, closing her eyes for a moment. She could feel Wednesday’s hand against hers — cool, deliberate, grounding — and let it anchor her the way the storm had the night before.
When she opened her eyes again, Wednesday was still watching her.
“What?” Enid asked softly, self-conscious under the intensity of that gaze.
Wednesday’s head tilted, the slightest shift. “You are… disarmingly persistent.”
Enid laughed lightly, though her cheeks burned. “Yeah, well. Somebody has to be, or you’d just brood yourself into a crypt somewhere.”
Wednesday didn’t bristle at the jab. Instead, she blinked once, slowly, and Enid could’ve sworn the faintest glimmer of amusement passed through her eyes.
They sat in silence again, but it was a silence that felt… alive. Charged, but not suffocating. Every drop of rain outside seemed to measure the space between them, marking time that neither wanted to end.
Finally, Wednesday broke it. “You will need to correct me.”
Enid frowned. “Correct you?”
“When I err,” Wednesday clarified, her tone matter-of-fact but softer than her usual clinical detachment. “When I speak too sharply. When I… miscalculate. This is not terrain I know. Guidance will be necessary.”
Enid’s heart twisted, the words lodging in her chest. She wanted to cry, laugh, and throw her arms around Wednesday all at once. But she kept her voice even, tender. “I don’t need to correct you. I just… need you to try. And if you get something wrong, we’ll figure it out together.”
Wednesday studied her for a long moment, eyes unblinking, as though testing the strength of the promise. Finally, she nodded once, a decisive tilt of her chin.
“I will hold you to that.”
Enid grinned, unable to help herself. “Good. Someone should.”
Wednesday’s hand stayed on hers, cool and steady, as the morning stretched around them. The rain softened again, tapering into a faint drizzle, and a weak shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, painting a stripe of gold across the edge of the bed.
Enid glanced at it, then back at Wednesday. “Guess the storm’s over.”
Wednesday didn’t look toward the window. Her eyes stayed fixed on Enid. “Not entirely.”
Enid blinked, confused.
“There are storms that linger,” Wednesday said, voice low and measured. “But sometimes they are… survivable. With the right anchor.”
Enid’s throat closed up, heat stinging behind her eyes. She squeezed Wednesday’s hand again, harder this time, and felt the pressure return, cool and unyielding but present all the same.
She didn’t need to say anything. Not right now. The morning had already spoken enough for both of them.
“Looks like classes will still be commencing.”
The only reply the wolf could muster was a frustrated groan.