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The Addams family had always treated dinner as a kind of ritual.
Candlelight dripped wax down iron sconces, the long table gleamed like a coffin lid, and somewhere in the distance, Thing scuttled with the wine. For Wednesday, it was background noise. For Tyler, it was the first night he would face the full force of her lineage.
She hated it already.
Her parents had insisted, of course. “It is tradition,” Morticia had purred over tea, her black smile curling like smoke. “A man who intends to marry into the family must be… evaluated.”
Gomez, meanwhile, had slapped Tyler on the back so hard the boy nearly swallowed his tongue. “A duel of spirits, my dear boy! Nothing to fear—unless you fail!”
Wednesday, sitting between them, had stabbed her fork into a muffin. “This is idiotic.”
But now it was happening.
The door creaked open as Lurch ushered Tyler in. He looked unfairly good in black—Wednesday would never admit it aloud, but the dark shirt clung in just the right way to his broad shoulders, scars faintly visible along his collarbone. His hair was longer now, brushing his temple, and when his eyes found hers across the room, she felt the familiar spark ignite low in her chest.
“Galpin!” Gomez boomed, sweeping forward. “You’ve come! Enter the lion’s den!”
Tyler managed a crooked grin. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “I told you this was unnecessary.”
“It’s fine,” he murmured as he passed her, his hand brushing her hip under the table where no one could see. A private reassurance. “I’ve got this.”
The gesture softened her scowl only fractionally.
They sat. Morticia, luminous and languid, poured herself a glass of deep red wine that could easily have been blood. “Tyler,” she began, “you’ve stolen our daughter’s heart. No small feat, as Wednesday’s affections are notoriously… barbed.”
Wednesday stiffened. “Mother—”
Morticia waved her off, eyes glinting. “We must be sure you’re worthy. Family is sacred.”
Tyler straightened under the weight of her gaze. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t serious.”
“Good answer!” Gomez cheered, carving into something that looked disturbingly like roasted vulture.
Pugsley grinned from further down the table, a knife twirling between his fingers. “So when’s the torture portion start?”
“Patience, mi pequeño verdugo,” Gomez said with pride. “First, we eat!”
The meal was grotesque by any normal standard—charred meats, blackened vegetables, a centerpiece that might once have been alive that morning. Tyler didn’t flinch. He ate what was served, even complimenting Morticia’s seasoning, which earned him a rare, pleased smile.
But Wednesday knew the real games were yet to come.
Sure enough, halfway through dessert (a bubbling black pudding), Fester leaned across the table with manic glee. “So, Tyler,” he rasped, “ever handled explosives?”
Tyler blinked. “Not… recreationally.”
“Oh, you’ll learn,” Fester promised, producing something that sparked faintly in his palm. Wednesday kicked him under the table before he could light it.
Pugsley piped up, “We could always test his pain tolerance. See if he can handle a little branding iron.”
“Not at the table,” Morticia chided, though her smile said she wasn’t entirely opposed.
Gomez leaned forward, eyes glittering. “A duel, then. Fencing! Tyler, do you fence?”
Tyler glanced at Wednesday. She gave him the smallest shake of her head: don’t embarrass yourself.
“A little,” he admitted.
“Splendid!” Gomez leapt up, throwing a sword across the room with such force it embedded in the wall an inch from Tyler’s ear. Tyler didn’t flinch, just pulled it free and balanced it in his hand.
Wednesday’s lips curved—not quite a smile, but dangerously close.
The room hummed with energy, the family circling, judging, waiting for him to falter. Tyler didn’t. He met every gaze evenly, his focus always coming back to her. Not once did he look away from Wednesday for long, as if to remind her: this isn’t for them, it’s for you.
And she felt it—the silent vow threading through every move, every word. He would endure whatever farce they devised because he loved her.
And though she’d never admit it aloud, that knowledge lit her veins hotter than any flame.
The duel began the way all Addams traditions did: with excessive drama.
“En garde!” Gomez shouted, flourishing his blade. The firelight caught on its edge, making the steel gleam like lightning.
Tyler lifted the sword he’d pulled from the wall. It was heavier than anything he’d handled before, but he adjusted his grip, keeping his stance firm. He wasn’t trying to win; he was trying to prove he wouldn’t fold.
Wednesday sat, arms folded across her chest, her gaze hawkish. She despised her father’s antics but knew resisting would only prolong the ordeal. Tyler’s jaw tightened, and she caught the flicker of determination in his eye.
The clash of metal rang through the dining hall. Gomez moved with shocking grace, a blur of black suit and enthusiasm, his mustache bristling with delight. Tyler blocked, parried, his movements less refined but solid.
“Not bad!” Gomez crowed, lunging. Tyler stumbled, recovered, forced Gomez back a step with a swift swing.
Wednesday’s pulse spiked—not with fear, but pride. He was holding his ground.
Morticia leaned her chin into her hand, watching like a cat amused by a mouse that refused to die. “He has spirit, darling. A rare trait.”
“Indeed! Magnificent!” Gomez laughed, feinting left before twisting right. Tyler caught it, their blades locking, inches from his face.
The stand-off stretched. Tyler’s teeth grit, muscles straining, and for a moment, Gomez’s grin faltered. Then, with a grand bow, he stepped back.
“Enough! You fight not with skill, but with love. The most dangerous weapon of all.” Gomez clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. “You have my respect.”
Tyler exhaled slowly, lowering the sword. His gaze flicked to Wednesday. She gave nothing away, but beneath the table, her boot brushed lightly against his ankle—a silent acknowledgment.
Fester bounded forward before Tyler could catch his breath. “Now it’s my turn!”
“Dear brother…” Morticia sighed.
Fester ignored her, dragging Tyler by the arm toward a corner where an alarming contraption of wires and lightbulbs sat smoking. “We’ll test his resistance to electricity. Can’t have a weakling fainting at family dinners.”
“Uncle Fester,” Wednesday warned, her voice sharp enough to cut.
Tyler squeezed her hand briefly as he passed. “It’s okay,” he said, though his eyes said: please kill me if this goes wrong.
Fester gleefully strapped metal clamps onto Tyler’s hands. The machine buzzed ominously. “Ready?”
“Not really,” Tyler muttered.
“Perfect!” Fester cranked the lever. Sparks erupted, the bulbs flashing violently. Tyler’s body jerked, his teeth clenched—but he didn’t cry out. He rode it out, muscles taut, refusing to break.
The machine sputtered and died, a curl of smoke rising. Tyler slumped forward, breathing hard, hair sticking up at odd angles.
“Beautiful!” Fester cackled, patting his shoulder. “You didn’t combust. That’s rare.”
Wednesday’s lips twitched, the closest she would come to laughing.
As Tyler staggered back toward the table, Pugsley stood, folding his arms. “My turn.”
Wednesday arched a brow. “This circus has gone on long enough.”
But Pugsley shook his head. “If he’s going to be my brother-in-law, I need to know he won’t wimp out when things get messy.” He pulled out two knives, tossing one at Tyler, handle first. “Game?”
Tyler caught it, his expression unreadable. “What kind of game?”
“Target practice.” Pugsley pointed to the wall where a painted outline of a body waited, peppered with scars from years of stabbing. “Closest to the heart wins.”
Wednesday’s throat tightened. She wanted to tell Tyler to walk away, but she didn’t. This was Pugsley’s language—violence and loyalty intertwined.
Tyler weighed the knife in his hand, inhaled, and threw. The blade buried itself dead center in the heart.
Pugsley’s grin widened. He threw his own, landing just shy. “Not bad,” he admitted. “Guess you’re not useless.”
Tyler nodded, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks… I think.”
Wednesday’s gaze lingered on him, dark and piercing. He’d just won her brother’s approval without flinching. That mattered more than anything Gomez or Fester could throw at him.
The trial seemed to ebb after that. Gomez raised his glass in a toast, Morticia’s sly glances grew softer, Fester hummed with contented menace, and Pugsley no longer looked like he was plotting Tyler’s murder.
But it was Wednesday who burned with the quietest intensity. Every test, every ridiculous challenge—Tyler had endured them all, not because he cared about their approval, but because he cared about hers.
And that, more than anything, unsettled her.
Because it meant he knew her in ways no one else did.
The meal wound down at last. Candles guttered, plates scraped clean of their morbid offerings. Gomez recounted past duels with theatrical hand gestures, Morticia laughed like silk unraveling, Fester hummed with residual static, and Pugsley sharpened his knife for no reason other than habit.
Tyler had survived. More than that—he had won them.
Wednesday hated how relieved she felt.
When they rose from the table, Gomez clasped Tyler in another suffocating embrace. “Welcome to the family, my boy! You are as mad as the rest of us!”
Morticia leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial purr. “She chose well.” Her gaze slid toward Wednesday, smirking.
Wednesday’s jaw tightened. “We’re leaving.”
She seized Tyler’s hand, tugging him toward the shadowed hallways before anyone could protest. He stumbled after her, still flushed from wine, electricity, and adrenaline.
“Wednesday—”
“Do not speak,” she snapped, though her grip on his hand softened.
The corridors swallowed them in silence, broken only by the creak of floorboards and the rustle of her skirts. She did not stop until they reached her bedroom. She shut the door firmly, the lock clicking into place like a final verdict.
Tyler leaned against it, exhaling. “Well. That was… something.”
She turned, black eyes glinting. “You could have died three times tonight.”
He smiled faintly. “Yeah. But I didn’t.”
Her chest tightened. She despised how much his resilience pleased her. She despised more the warmth coiling low in her belly at the sight of him—rumpled, scarred, alive. Hers.
Without a word, she crossed the room and pressed her mouth to his.
It wasn’t gentle. It was hunger sharpened into steel, her hands fisting in his shirt as if daring him to ever leave her. Tyler responded instantly, kissing her back with equal force, one hand sliding into her loose hair. He’d seen her without braids so many times now—always here, in private—and every time it undid him.
She bit his lower lip, pulling a groan from his throat. “You passed their trial,” she murmured against his mouth. “But now you face mine.”
“Yours?” His voice was husky, amused.
Her eyes narrowed. “Surviving my family proves nothing. Surviving me is the true test.”
He laughed, low and rough, before she shoved him onto the bed. He landed on his back, grinning up at her, chest heaving.
Wednesday climbed over him with predatory precision. “Do not misunderstand, Galpin. This is not affection. This is… relief. A silent acknowledgment that you are not a complete disappointment.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, his hands already skimming her waist. “Totally not affection.”
Her glare dared him to laugh. He didn’t. He knew better.
Instead, he let her set the pace. She straddled him, grinding down slow enough to make his eyes flutter shut. For Wednesday, it was the closest she came to confession—this relentless need, this wordless claiming of him where no one else could see.
Her fingers traced the scars along his chest. “They could have killed you,” she whispered, barely audible.
“But they didn’t.” He caught her hand, kissing her knuckles. “I’m still here. With you.”
Her throat worked, but no words came. So she kissed him again, deeper this time, and let her body speak the truths she’d never voice aloud.
The clothes came off in fragments, his shirt tugged over his head, her dress pooling around her hips. Tyler rolled them suddenly, pinning her beneath him, and her eyes flashed with challenge rather than fear.
“You’re mine,” she said, blunt as a blade.
“I know,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to hers. “Always.”
He thrust into her, slow at first, then harder when her nails dug crescents into his back. Her breath hitched, sharp, but she refused to close her eyes. She wanted to see him—every flicker of devotion, every ounce of surrender.
Their rhythm built, the bed creaking beneath them. Wednesday wrapped her legs tight around him, dragging him deeper, her lips parting with a gasp she would deny later.
“Wednesday,” he groaned, his voice breaking.
“Do not stop,” she ordered, though her own voice trembled.
She arched beneath him, every movement a contradiction: ruthless and vulnerable, commanding and undone. And Tyler matched her perfectly, as he always did—meeting her force with his own, but never overwhelming, never retreating. Just there. Just hers.
When she finally shuddered, clutching him like a lifeline, it was not weakness. It was victory. He had passed every trial, even this—the one no one else would ever know about.
After, they lay tangled in silence, her head resting against his chest. The steady thump of his heart irritated her. It also soothed her more than she would ever admit.
Tyler brushed a strand of hair from her face. “So. Did I… pass?”
She tilted her chin up, expression unreadable. “For now.”
He smirked. “I’ll take it.”
Her lips brushed his collarbone, a fleeting, secret softness. No one else would ever see it, but Tyler did. Always.
And that was her real confession.