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If anyone had asked Enid Sinclair what extracurricular she'd join at the start of the semester, “Debate Club” would’ve been dead last on her list. Below “Competitive Taxidermy” (which, horrifyingly, was a real thing—don’t ask). Below “Cryptic Crosswords Club,” which, in Enid’s opinion, was basically Wednesday Addams’s idea of a beach party. By any stretch of the imagination, it was not the “stand up in front of a crowd and argue pointlessly until your vocal cords shrivel” type. Her comfort zone was more like colorful nail polish, wolf pack podcasts, and making sure her Spotify playlists rotated seasonally.
So naturally, when Principal Weems had pulled her aside last month with that smooth, knowing smile—the one that made you feel like you were already guilty of something—Enid panicked. Weems said, “Miss Sinclair, I’d like to see you participate in an extracurricular that sharpens rhetorical strategy.” If translated from Principal-ese, this meant: “You talk too much, channel it productively.”
Enid braced herself for something predictable—yearbook, pep squad, maybe a club that involved pom-poms or glitter glue. But then Wednesday, of all people, volunteered for the Debate Club. Well—“volunteered” was kind of generous. Enid had overheard the conversation. Weems suggested it might help Wednesday with “future career ambitions,” and Wednesday replied, “If you mean vigilante justice, then yes. I’ll participate. Every predator must practice studying weaknesses.”
So, yeah. Once Wednesday signed up, there was no way Enid was letting her go alone. Someone had to run interference when Wednesday inevitably brought medieval punishment into a discussion about, like, recycling or curfews. That someone, apparently, was Enid Sinclair—Debate Club cheerleader, unofficial damage control, and soon-to-be expert in logical fallacies. Yay.
The club met every other Wednesday (yes, the irony was suffocating), which was how Enid found herself sitting in the second row of the small auditorium with a binder on her lap. The room buzzed with voices—literally, in one case, since a vampire kid was warming up with echolocation. Most of the debaters were exactly the type you’d expect: Ravenclaw-adjacent overachievers who knew the difference between “utilitarianism” and “deontology” and were weirdly excited to use them in sentences.
And then there was Wednesday. Sitting with perfect posture at her table, hands folded like she was about to preside over a trial. She didn’t even blink when her opponent, Milton Thatcher, smoothed his blazer sleeves as if auditioning for the cover of Prep School Monthly.
Ugh. Milton. Enid had heard him brag before about how “rhetoric is ninety percent charisma,” which was basically siren code for “I don’t need my amulet to charm people out of logic.” And honestly? He wasn’t wrong. He was good-looking in that generic, toothpaste-commercial way, with a voice smooth enough to probably get someone’s social security number just by discussing the weather. But the moment he smirked at Wednesday, Enid felt her hackles rise. (Did werewolves even have hackles in human form? Probably not. Metaphorical hackles, then. Sparkly pink hackles.)
“Today’s resolution is,” the faculty moderator announced, “Vigilantism is morally justifiable.”
Of course. Of course.
Because why not throw gasoline onto a bonfire? Nevermore Academy had debates about everything—whether curfews improved productivity, whether pumpkin spice was overrated (answer: no), whether outcasts deserved equal representation in pop culture (that one had gotten messy fast). But “Is vigilantism morally justifiable”? That was like tossing a shark into a fish tank and politely asking the fish to swim away before it got hungry.
The moderator, Mr. Kaplan—a nervous teacher who always looked like he’d misplaced his inhaler—gestured toward Milton. “The negative position will begin. Mr. Thatcher, you have the floor.”
Milton strutted up to the podium. When he leaned on it casually, letting his smirk spread across the audience, Enid swore she heard at least three separate dreamy sighs.
Disgusting.
“Ladies, gentlemen, esteemed… creatures,” Milton began, dragging out the pause like he was the funniest person in the room. “Tonight, we discuss vigilantism: a phenomenon as dangerous as it is tempting. But let me be clear—vigilantism is not justice. Vigilantism is anarchy in a mask.”
His words flowed smoothly and sweetly, slipping around syllables like warm honey. Every other sentence, he flashed that grin—carefully designed to make people nod before he’d even landed his point.
“What separates a civilized society from a jungle?” he continued. “Laws. Structure. Accountability. The moment you allow one individual to take the law into their own hands, you erode that structure. You create a world where personal vendetta replaces justice, power replaces fairness, and fear replaces trust.”
Yeah, yeah. He was good. Enid would give him that. He tossed out phrases like “rule of law” and “slippery slope” and even quoted some philosopher whose name she couldn’t pronounce. The audience nodded along, pens scratching. And maybe—if she hadn’t noticed Wednesday’s expression sharpening with every breath—she might’ve been swayed, too.
But Enid could see what he was doing. He was trying to get under Wednesday’s skin. And if there was one thing she’d learned after a year of being Wednesday Addams’s roommate, it was that trying to rattle her was like trying to outstare her: pointless. And potentially life-threatening.
Milton ended with a flourish. “So, I ask you—do we want a world ruled by reason, or a world ruled by raw, unchecked vengeance?” He spread his hands, the smirk back in place, and a few overeager claps broke out prematurely.
Then, it was her turn.
Wednesday rose, shoes clicking against the stage floor. She adjusted the microphone slightly, folded her hands, and scanned the audience with a look that could freeze blood.
Enid swore the temperature dropped five degrees.
“Mr. Thatcher makes an imprisoned plea for the sanctity of the law. I commend his devotion to a system that has failed more people than it has ever protected.”
Oof. One sentence in, and Wednesday had already sliced his argument wide open.
“There is a naïve comfort,” she continued, “in imagining that laws are inherently just, that those sworn to uphold them are inherently noble, that the machinery of society runs smoothly if only we submit ourselves to it. But history is littered with counterexamples. Laws once defended slavery. Laws once denied women the right to vote. Laws have persecuted outcasts for centuries, branding us monsters for existing. Shall we call such laws ‘justice’?”
A ripple passed through the audience. Enid leaned forward, clutching her binder, heart thudding because—holy hell. Wednesday was just getting started, but her eyes had that strange gleam again, alive in the way they only were when she was dissecting a murder case or plotting vengeance against Pugsley’s bullies. She wasn’t just debating; she was savoring it.
Milton shifted in his seat, his smirk faltering just enough to make Enid grin.
Wednesday pressed on. “To dismiss vigilantism outright is to dismiss the reality that institutions fail. That people suffer while those in power turn away. Vigilantes are not born from boredom or vanity, as my opponent implies. They are born from necessity. When justice is denied, the moral responsibility to act falls upon those who refuse to be silent.”
The words landed. It wasn’t just what she said—it was how she said it. Her cadence was strategic, her pauses weaponized, forcing the audience to sit in the unease she conjured. And through it all, she never looked at Milton. Neither did she have to. He was already bleeding out from her first sentence.
And Enid? Her pulse was in full-on techno-rave mode. She knew she should have been unsettled—Wednesday was talking about vigilantes like they were saints with machetes—but instead, her stomach swooped. Her palms tingled. Her heart stumbled over itself, trying to decide whether to cower or clap.
She was… impressed.
Impressed, and also—uh. Distracted. By the curve of Wednesday’s mouth tightening in satisfaction, her eyes locked on the audience, and the quiet command she wielded over the entire room without ever raising her voice.
It was a little terrifying.
And…
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
It was ridiculously attractive.
Wednesday’s tone dropped. “My opponent insists that vigilantism erodes trust. I contend the opposite. Trust is not eroded by those who act when the system fails—it is eroded by the system that forced their hand. If a mother seeks justice for a murdered child and the courts dismiss her, who is truly guilty of undermining trust? The vigilante who acts, or the system that abandoned her?”
Gasps erupted from the audience. Literal gasps.
Milton blinked, clearly recalibrating.
Enid blinked too, because—wow. Wednesday wasn’t just dismantling his points. She was burning them alive.
And Enid couldn’t look away.
“Mr. Thatcher speaks of anarchy,” Wednesday continued. “But what is more anarchic—one seeking justice when the system fails, or a system that systematically fails the vulnerable? What breeds more chaos—swift action against corruption, or allowing corruption to fester until it poisons everything it touches?” She tilted her head slightly, and a smile ghosted. “Perhaps my opponent believes that suffering should be endured politely. Victims should wait patiently for institutions to evolve, care, and act. How very… convenient for those who benefit from the status quo.”
Ouch. That one hit like a slap. Milton’s jaw tightened; his perfect posture cracked. He was trying to hold his composure, but Wednesday had just called him privileged to his face without ever using the word.
And God help her, Enid was into it.
Not just impressed anymore—actually, genuinely, embarrassingly turned on by watching her roommate dismantle someone’s worldview. Which was… new. And alarming. It was also thrilling, making her want to crawl under her chair, or stand up, or cheer.
What was wrong with her?
“In closing,” Wednesday said, her voice dipping just enough to make the entire room lean forward, “vigilantism is not about revenge. It is about responsibility. When society abandons its duty to protect the innocent, it falls to those brave or desperate enough to shoulder it. The question is not whether vigilantism is moral. The question is whether we are moral enough to act when action is required.”
She stepped back from the podium.
“Thank you.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Time was called a moment later, but it was over before Milton even stood up for his closing statement. He tried—something about “faith in democracy” and “reform from within”—but the air had already shifted. Everyone in that room had chosen a side, which wasn’t his.
Wednesday had won from her first sentence, and everyone knew it.
When the judges deliberated and finally announced her victory (to nobody’s surprise), polite applause rippled through the audience. Wednesday accepted the result with the same impassive calm she’d maintained all evening, gathering her notes like they were case files from a crime she’d just committed.
Enid stayed glued to her seat as students began filing out, trying to process what had just happened. Not the debate—that part was clear. Wednesday had annihilated him. No, what Enid was really trying to process was how watching her had made her feel… things. Complicated, dangerous things that definitely went beyond “wow, my roommate is brilliant” and drifted into “oh no, I might actually be in trouble” territory.
Because it wasn’t just Wednesday’s intelligence that got to her; it was how she’d owned her power. The way she’d been utterly, unapologetically herself—dark and sharp and scary—and somehow made everyone else adjust to her frequency instead of softening hers to match theirs. It was the slight curve of her mouth when Milton faltered, the way her eyes sparked just before she delivered another devastating line.
Wednesday Addams in her element… God, it was like watching lightning strike in slow motion.
And apparently, Enid had a thing for lightning.
“Enid.”
She startled, blinking to find Wednesday standing a row behind her. “Oh! Hi. You were—that was—” Enid scrambled to her feet, clutching her binder like it was holy protection. “Wow. You destroyed him. Like, obliterated. There’s probably not enough left of his ego to fill a shot glass.”
One eyebrow lifted. “That was the goal.”
“Right. Obviously. I mean, duh.” She laughed, but it came out breathy and weird. “You were amazing up there. Truly terrifying. In the best way. Not that terrifying is always good, but in this case—”
“Enid.”
She shut up instantly.
They left the auditorium together, and Enid did her best to act normal. Which was harder than usual, considering that “normal” between them typically meant her rambling about nail polish while Wednesday plotted someone’s demise—and right now, Enid couldn’t trust herself to form a coherent sentence about anything except maybe marriage proposals.
“You seem distracted,” Wednesday observed as they crossed the quad.
“Distracted? Me? No, I’m fine. Totally fine. Just… processing. You know. All those big words and philosophical concepts. Very process-heavy stuff.”
Wednesday stopped walking.
Enid managed two more steps before realizing she was suddenly alone and turned. Wednesday was watching her with that look—the one that made Enid feel like she could see straight through every layer of deflection and nervous chatter to whatever chaos was actually spinning inside her head.
Which, considering what was actually going on in there right now, was horrifying.
“Enid,” Wednesday said, her voice softer than usual. “Are you alright?”
The concern caught Enid off guard. Wednesday didn’t do concern. She did mild interest, vague fascination, and occasionally homicidal protectiveness—but actual, genuine worry? That was new.
And it was the exact wrong moment for her to be sweet, because Enid’s brain was already scrambled, her heart still doing that stupid fluttery thing, and now Wednesday was looking at her like she cared, and—
“I’m impressed,” Enid blurted.
Wednesday blinked. “Impressed?”
“Yes. By you. By that. What you did in there.” The words tumbled out unchecked, unfiltered. “You were incredible, Wednesday. Like, scary incredible. You didn’t just win that debate—you owned it. You made everyone hang on your every word, and Milton looked like he wanted to crawl under his table and die, and you did it all without even raising your voice or breaking a sweat, and it was just—”
She stopped, mid-gesture, realizing that her free hand was flailing.
“It was just?” Wednesday prompted.
Hot. It was ridiculously hot, and I think I might be having some kind of sexual awakening about your terrifying competence, and also I can’t stop thinking about the way your mouth curved when you demolished his argument about due process.
“Impressive,” Enid finished instead, her voice a little too high.
Wednesday studied Enid’s face for a long moment. Something flickered across her expression—amusement, maybe? Or recognition. Like she was piecing together a puzzle, Enid hadn’t realized she was presenting.
“I see,” Wednesday said slowly.
The way she said it made Enid’s stomach flip. Like Wednesday saw more than Enid wanted her to. Like she could read the chaos spinning in Enid’s head and was finding it… interesting.
They stood in the hallway, unmoving. And then everything hit Enid at once—the distance, the way Wednesday’s dark eyes stayed locked on her, the slight analytical tilt of her head, the fact that Enid’s pulse was racing and her palms were sweaty, and fuck, she could not stop staring at Wednesday’s mouth.
Oh God.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
This was not good. This was the opposite of good. This was a full-blown disaster wrapped in sparkly pink paper and tied with a bow made of poor life choices. Because Enid was pretty sure she’d just realized something about herself that she was not ready to deal with.
And Wednesday was looking at her like she’d realized it too.
“Enid,” she said evenly. “You’re experiencing an emotional crisis.”
“What? No! I’m not—I mean, I wouldn’t call it a crisis exactly. More like a… realization. A tiny, totally manageable realization that doesn’t need to be discussed or analyzed or—”
“You found it arousing.”
Enid choked on air. “I—what—no! That’s not—I mean—”
But Wednesday kept watching her, those dark eyes gleaming with definite amusement now. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in what might have been—God help her—the beginning of a smile. It was so rare, so unexpected, that Enid’s brain short-circuited on impact.
“It’s fascinating,” Wednesday murmured, stepping closer. “I’ve never seen you quite so… flustered. Usually, your nervous energy manifests as excessive talking about frivolous topics. But this is different.”
“Wednesday, I—”
“You’re attracted to competence,” she continued, like she was presenting criminal evidence. “Specifically, you’re attracted to intellectual dominance. The systematic dismantling of weak arguments. The application of superior logic to—”
Enid kissed her.
She didn’t think—didn’t even decide. One second, Wednesday was psychoanalyzing her budding sexuality, and the next, Enid had dropped her binder, grabbed Wednesday’s face in both hands, and pressed her mouth to hers.
For a moment, Wednesday went utterly still. And in that suspended second, Enid had time to think, Holy shit, I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Until Wednesday kissed her back.
Her lips were softer than Enid had imagined—which was insane, because when had she started imagining Wednesday’s lips?—and she tasted faintly of black coffee. Wednesday’s hand came up to rest at the back of Enid’s neck, fingers threading through her hair, and the sound that left Enid’s throat was absolutely not dignified.
When they finally broke apart, Enid was breathing hard, pulse hammering. Wednesday was watching her with an expression Enid had never seen before—not quite a smile, but something close. Something warmer.
“Perhaps you’re more interesting than I thought, Sinclair.”
How she said Enid’s last name—like it was worth savoring—made her knees weak. And suddenly she was grinning, probably like an idiot, but she didn’t care. Wednesday Addams had just kissed her back and called her interesting, and there was still that tiny curve to her mouth that meant she was pleased.
“You have no idea,” Enid said.
Wednesday tilted her head, studying her again. “I believe I’m beginning to.”
Enid bit her lip, trying—and failing—not to smile too obviously. “And you’re okay with… learning?”
“Enid, you just kissed me in the middle of a public hallway after having what appears to be a revelation about your sexual preferences. If I were not okay with it, you would know.”
Fair point. Wednesday wasn’t exactly subtle about her displeasure.
“Besides,” Wednesday added, stooping to pick up Enid’s dropped binder and handing it to her, “I find your newfound appreciation for intellectual brutality… intriguing.”
Heat pooled in Enid’s stomach. “Oh. Good. That’s… good.”
“Indeed.” Wednesday started walking again, and Enid fell into step beside her, still dazed and grinning. “Though I should warn you. If you expect me to temper my natural inclinations for your comfort, you will be disappointed.”
Enid thought of how Wednesday had dismantled Milton’s arguments, the gleam in her eyes, the command she’d held over that room.
“Wednesday?”
“Yes?”
“I really don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”
This time, Wednesday definitely smiled.