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Harper.
A name seared into Wednesday’s mind like a particularly cheap curse — the kind cast by someone with no talent and even less sense. Harper, the girl who genuinely believes she has the audacity to flirt with Wednesday’s boyfriend.
Her boyfriend.
Tyler Galpin. The Hyde.
He is rough, ruthless, a monster and a killer. But mostly?
He is hers.
And no one flirts with what belongs to her.
So when Wednesday walked into the Weathervane the next Monday morning before school, during Tyler’s shift, no one questioned it. It was normal.
At least for everyone else.
Not for Wednesday — not today.
She entered the café the very second the sign flipped to OPEN, her gaze as icy as a morgue drawer sliding shut. She moved toward the counter with her usual silent, deliberate precision, where her boyfriend stood behind it.
She usually didn’t show up this early.
In fact, she typically avoided Mondays entirely, as the Weathervane was infested with people at the start of the week — a swarm of desperate, caffeine-dependent souls clinging to their lattes as if that would save them from the misery of their own existence.
But today, Wednesday Addams was here.
And she had a reason.
A very… specific one.
It didn’t take her long to reach the counter — the man in front of her only wanted his black coffee and practically bolted the second he paid, nearly knocking her over in his frantic escape attempt.
Yes, being this short has its disadvantages.
People tend to overlook her… sometimes quite literally.
But it also allows her to disappear into shadows with an efficiency that borders on supernatural — an advantage she exploits whenever she’s investigating.
A trade-off she considers more than acceptable.
“Wednesday,” she hears Tyler say — his usual smile appearing the moment he sees her. Wednesday would never admit it aloud, not even under psychological torture she would consider mildly entertaining, but she likes that smile.
Perhaps it’s because she has seen it so often, that particular expression that twists her stomach into something she cannot name — or refuses to name. But she likes it. In her own unsettling, unspoken way.
Her eyes meet his.
She doesn’t say a word. She never has to.
He has remembered her order since the day they met.
A quad over ice — four shots of espresso poured over ice. She gives a stiff nod, her face as emotionless as ever, nothing betraying her true intention. The reason she is here this early, on this particular week, remains locked behind her blank expression.
But of course Tyler notices.
It isn’t even his usual shift today — he only stepped in for his coworker, Bryan, who suddenly couldn’t make it because his daughter fell sick.
“You’re very early today,” Tyler says as he begins preparing her quad, his eyes focused on the espresso machine.
Wednesday watches him — the way the Weathervane shirt clings unforgivably tight around his biceps, how the muscles in his arms shift each time he moves. Her eyes are practically glued to him, her lips parting ever so slightly. Her breathing grows uneven. Her chest tightens, and a sudden heat settles deep in her core.
Get a grip, Wednesday.
You are not here to lust over him.
You are here to see it with your own eyes.
“I’m waiting in my booth,” she says — softer than usual, barely above her standard monotone. He simply nods.
She turns sharply and walks to her usual booth, sitting down with practiced rigidity, her gaze angled toward the counter. From her bag, she pulls out her botany book. They have a new teacher now, after the accident in which Marilyn Thornhill “accidentally” lost her life.
It wasn’t an accident.
It was planned, down to the last meticulous step.
After their first kiss in the Weathervane — the moment she received her vision and discovered that he was the monster she had been searching for — she wanted to tear him apart for lying to her. She had told him before they kissed, before the vision came, that it forced her to re-evaluate things: who she could trust, who she couldn’t. And he still betrayed her.
Then she saw how Thornhill — Laurel Gates — had manipulated him, how she had unlocked his Hyde and twisted him into her weapon.
So Wednesday chose him.
He was the normie boy in a small town with a dark secret — a secret so deep, so exquisitely dangerous, that it captured her attention immediately. And it made her fall in love with him even more, though she would never say it aloud. Sentimentality was a weakness she could not afford.
She was angry with him and confronted him, fully expecting him to shift into the Hyde and lash out. But he didn’t. Instead, he tore himself apart in front of her and told her everything.
From the moment he first met Laurel,
to the moment she unlocked his Hyde,
to the moment she planned to use Wednesday for her own purposes.
And what did Wednesday do?
She crafted a plan of her own — precise, meticulous, final.
She killed Laurel Gates with the very beast Laurel herself had unleashed.
It had been easy to unleash the Hyde in Tyler — all it took were a few well‑placed cruel words, each one hitting exactly where she intended. It was even easier to get him onto the Nevermore grounds… and easier still to bring him near Laurel.
Laurel, who spoke to him in that nauseating baby‑talk voice.
Wednesday’s hands curled into fists at the memory, her nails digging sharply into her palms. The woman cooed about how much she “loved” him, and Wednesday’s expression had twisted into something colder than disgust.
She listened as Laurel whispered to Tyler that no one wanted him, that no one had ever loved him as truly as she did. That was the moment Wednesday wanted to tear Laurel apart herself — limb by limb, with great care and patience.
But Tyler was faster.
His claws tore straight through Laurel’s chest, ending her life instantly.
Efficient. Brutal. Final.
Had Wednesday done it, she would have dragged it out — let Laurel suffer, let her feel every ounce of the pain she’d inflicted on others before granting her the release of death.
But the way Tyler killed her…
It was what he needed.
And Wednesday accepted that.
It didn’t take her long to bring Tyler back to his human self. She looked into the Hyde’s eyes and said what needed to be said: Laurel was the monster. He never was.
Then she pressed her hand to the Hyde’s cheek and whispered that he was beautiful — as the Hyde, and as himself. That alone made him transform back.
What Wednesday hadn’t expected was that he was completely nude. She could have anticipated it, but the thought never crossed her mind. Seeing him in his eyes, witnessing the power he had finally embraced, made her body respond. Her hands tangled into his hair, pulling him down into a second, urgent kiss. But it wasn’t enough. She needed more. She wanted more.
That day, when she kissed a boy for the first time — a boy who also happened to be a psychotic, serial-killing monster — she lost her virginity. She didn’t mind at all. Yes, there was a little pain, but it faded quickly. Tyler was gentle… until she told him to be rougher. After two rounds, they were forced to pause to deal with Laurel’s body.
Wednesday, of course, had her own… fun with the corpse. Using her favorite dagger — a gift from Uncle Fester on her fifth birthday — she carved a few more wounds into Laurel’s lifeless body. They didn’t bury her. The body remained in the quad, a grim warning for every Nevermore student.
Afterwards, Wednesday took Tyler to her dorm. Thankfully, Enid wasn’t there; she was out with Ajax. Tyler took a shower while Thing retrieved a pair of sweatpants and a shirt for him. Once he was dressed,- Wednesday snapped back to the present because a voice cut through her thoughts.
A female voice.
“Hey, Tyler! I didn’t know you were working today!”
Harper. The girl who thought she could flirt with him so effortlessly. Her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, a few strands framing her face. Her skirt far too short for school, her blouse unbuttoned in three careless places. Pathetic.
Wednesday’s eyes rolled at the bright, insufferable smile, but her gaze stayed fixed on Tyler’s face.
He smiled politely and nodded. “Just helping out a co-worker.”
Why was he telling her that?
Wednesday’s emotionless face lifted a single eyebrow.
“I’m kinda glad you’re here—your coffee is the best in the whole town,” the blonde says, blinking far too much.
“I’m glad you like it,” Tyler answers, and Wednesday notes—annoyingly—that he sounds genuinely polite.
Then he finally brings the quad over ice to her table and sets it down in front of her.
“You’re gonna pay today, cockroach?”
The same grin he’d worn when she first walked in today is back on his face—infuriatingly warm, annoyingly charming.
Wednesday simply stares at him. “No.”
Her voice is sharp, icy, low.
“Mhm, I thought so,” Tyler mutters with a grin before heading back behind the counter.
Wednesday’s eyes never leave him.
“So, Ty…” the girl is still smiling.
Ty?
Wednesday’s eyes narrow to thin, lethal slits.
Who, exactly, allowed this over-bleached normie to call her boyfriend Ty?
If looks could kill, the girl would already be sprawled across the pastry case.
“Tyler,” he corrects her, and Wednesday watches the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—the one that means he knows she’s watching.
“Oh, but I think Ty is way more fitting for you—” Harper begins, flipping her ponytail with disgusting confidence.
She doesn’t finish.
A cup slides onto the counter with a sharp, clean sound—like the prelude to violence.
“It’s cold.”
The voice slices through the air.
Harper turns, blinking, and finds herself face-to-face with a much shorter girl in a long black skirt and a Nevermore blouse. Her hair is parted into two severe braids, and her skin is pale enough to look carved from moonlight.
Wednesday Addams stares up at her.
Expressionless.
Unblinking.
Positively homicidal.
“It’s a quad over ice.” Tyler raises one eyebrow as he looks at his girlfriend, a slight smile tugging at his lips.
Wednesday just stares back—flat, emotionless, unimpressed.
“This is colder than your usual. I didn’t think that was possible.”
Her tone is a razor blade.
Tyler’s smile deepens, that infuriating mix of affection and amusement.
“A nun-cold quad over ice coming directly to your booth, cockroach.”
He’s already reaching for a new cup, moving with that calm confidence he only ever gets around her.
“Excuse you?” Harper snaps, finally daring to look at Wednesday—who looks anything but pleased.
Wednesday slowly turns her head toward the blonde, eyes dark and devoid of anything resembling mercy.
“You are excused,” she says flatly. “From this conversation. Permanently.”
Harper blinks. “W-What? I was talking to Ty—”
“Tyler,” Wednesday corrects, voice cold enough to frost glass. “And only individuals with functional brain activity may address him in my presence. That excludes you.”
Harper’s mouth falls open.
Tyler continues making Wednesday’s drink, utterly unbothered, a tiny smirk betraying how much he’s enjoying the impending homicide.
“Tyler! Do you let that Nevermore bitch really talk to me like that?” Harper snaps, planting her hands on her hips as if she suddenly owns the place.
Tyler stops mid–drink prep.
For a second, it looks like he genuinely wishes he were literally anywhere else—buried alive, stuck in detention with Weems, locked in a coffin—anything.
Then he glances at Wednesday.
And the grin comes back.
“Nevermore bitch?” he echoes, wiping his hands on a towel. “She doesn’t look like a bitch to me.”
He throws Wednesday a quick, playful look—clearly thinking he’s being clever.
Wednesday rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t detach.
That’s the comeback?
Pathetic.
He can gut normies in the woods but the best he has is that?
Harper scoffs. “You’re seriously siding with her?”
Tyler lets out a breathy laugh, leaning his elbows on the counter.
“I’m siding with the girl who didn’t call someone a bitch in the middle of a café.”
Then, more quietly, with that infuriatingly warm humor:
“And the girl who will definitely kill me if I don’t.”
Wednesday’s deadpan stare shifts to him for just a moment—silent, cold, but unmistakably possessive.
She doesn’t deny it.
Harper throws her hands up.
“Unbelievable.”
“No,” Wednesday says softly, icily. “What’s unbelievable is your delusion that he was ever interested.”
Tyler chokes on a laugh.
Harper looks ready to explode.
“You hate Nevermore students,” Harper blurts, as if she’s making some brilliant point.
Tyler shuts his eyes for a slow, controlled second.
A breath in.
A breath out.
When he opens them again, Wednesday sees it—the tiny shift in his jaw.
Most people wouldn’t notice.
But she knows the tells of his temper like scars on her own hands.
“Hated,” he says, voice too calm. Too calm for Tyler.
“I hated them. Not anymore.”
Harper looks utterly lost.
Clueless.
Like someone handed her a book upside down.
“And what could possibly have changed that!?” she demands louder, voice rising enough that a few customers turn their heads.
Wednesday is just preparing to shut her down—with something sharp, elegant, and permanently scarring—when:
“WEDNESDAY!”
A blur of pastel and glitter bursts into the café.
Enid.
Overexcited. Loud. Entirely oblivious to the tension thick enough to strangle someone.
She bounces over, grin stretched wide.
“How often have I told you not to flirt with your boyfriend while he’s supposed to be working??”
Wednesday blinks once.
Harper’s jaw drops.
Tyler coughs like he’s trying not to laugh.
Enid continues—because of course she does.
“But it’s also kinda romantic! Like—ugh—imagine it! You two in your little gothic bubble while everyone else waits forever for their coffee. No, actually not! I can’t wait. I need caffeine. Tyler, pleeeease a white—”
“You don’t need to finish,” Tyler says, sliding Wednesday her newly remade quad with a flicker of a smile reserved only for her.
“It’s coming right up.”
He immediately starts Enid’s order.
Enid beams at Wednesday, completely unaware of Harper’s furious stare.
“I love your dynamic today. It’s, like… murdery. Aesthetic. Very you.”
Wednesday just takes her quad, lifts it to her lips, and—without breaking eye contact with Harper—sips.
Slow.
Cold.
Deadly.
If looks could kill…
…Harper would be on the floor.
Harper’s eyes widen, voice pitching up in disbelief.
“So that chick is your girl? How—she’s short, way too pale, and literally looks like a child!”
Wednesday doesn’t flinch.
She simply stares.
Harper’s insult lands about as effectively as a feather hitting concrete.
Wednesday doesn’t blink.
She simply watches Harper with the flat, cold stare of someone deciding where to hide the body.
Tyler, in a moment of catastrophic stupidity, blurts out:
“And she’s… extremely good at… everything.”
Dead.
Silence falls like a dropped guillotine.
Wednesday freezes mid-breath.
He did not just imply that.
In public.
Where she cannot legally skin him alive.
Enid is the first to regain motor function.
“YOU TWO ARE DOING THINGS AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME!?” she shrieks, betrayal dripping from every word.
“WEDNESDAY ADDAMS! Best friends SHARE LIFE-ALTERING INFORMATION!”
Wednesdays decision is made, Tyler Galpin is going to die tonight. Under her.
Harper stands there, mouth open like a broken vending machine.
“So this is just… what then?” she finally snaps.
“Some… some weird physical thing?”
Wednesday turns to her slowly—so slowly it’s almost gracious.
Her voice comes out like frost biting skin.
“No.”
Tyler swallows.
“No?” Harper repeats.
“No,” Wednesday continues.
“It is not ‘just’ anything. It is deliberate. And mutual. And none of your concern.”
Harper blinks in rapid disbelief.
“So you’re actually dating him?”
Wednesday’s eyes narrow, lethal.
“I don’t date. I claim.”
Tyler chokes on air.
Enid squeals.
“Oh my god this is so much better than caffeine“
The bell over the door jingles as Harper storms out, her scoff sharp enough to cut glass.
Finally.
The Weathervane exhales with her departure.
Tyler finishes steaming milk for Enid’s drink, sets the cup on the counter, and Enid immediately slaps a twenty down like she’s paying for a crime scene cleanup.
“It’s on the house,” Tyler insists, pushing it back toward her.
Enid shoves it right back.
“You need it. After what you just said, you’re gonna die today, anyway.”
Tyler grimaces.
He knows she’s right.
Enid turns, waving her freshly acquired caffeine like a victory flag.
“Don’t come late to class!” she calls to Wednesday.
“I’m not getting detention again for lying for you. I actually have plans with Ajax later!”
And with a bright, bouncy exit utterly unfit for the murderous atmosphere she leaves behind, the werewolf disappears out the door.
Leaving behind:
A raven.
A Hyde.
And a room full of normies who are now pretending very hard not to eavesdrop.
Silence stretches.
Tyler finally clears his throat.
“…So,” he says carefully, slowly drying a cup that absolutely does not need more drying,
“How mad are you? On a scale from ‘mild disapproval’ to ‘you’re digging my grave tonight?’”
Wednesday lifts her cup, takes one slow sip of her quad, and lets the ice clink against the sides—a deliberate sound.
Her eyes rise to him, flat and dark.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Tyler nods.
“That’s… honestly worse.”
A beat.
“You implied I am ‘good at everything,’” Wednesday says quietly, voice as calm as a closed door hiding something horrible behind it.
Tyler winces.
“I was trying to defend you.”
“Defend me?”
Wednesday leans back, one eyebrow arching.
“By announcing private matters in a crowded establishment full of people who gossip more than they breathe?”
Tyler opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Tries again.
“…she called you a child.”
“And your response,” Wednesday says, “was to tell her—publicly—that I am not.”
Tyler shuts his eyes.
“…Yeah. That sounds really bad when you say it like that.”
She sips her drink again.
He watches her like she might launch the straw at his jugular.
“You will be punished,” Wednesday says simply.
Tyler’s heart stops.
“…define ‘punished’?”
She stands, book in hand, adjusting her skirt with terrifying calm.
“You’ll find out after school.”
Tyler swallows so hard he might choke.
“That’s… worse than defining it.”
Wednesday’s lips twitch—maybe a smirk. Maybe a threat. Maybe both.
She turns, heading toward the door.
“Don’t be late,” she says without looking back.
“Or I’ll make it worse.”
The bell jingles as she leaves.
Tyler grips the counter with both hands.
A normie sitting nearby mutters, “Dude, run.”
Tyler shakes his head.
“No,” he whispers, staring at the door she vanished through.
“She finds me either way.”
As Wednesday walks back to Nevermore, her mind churns.
Yes, she wanted the blonde girl gone from Tyler—but she didn’t want him announcing their private matters to the entire café. That little lapse of judgment was going to cost him. He would regret it.
She plans to think more on how to make him pay, but a voice slices through her thoughts.
“Cockroach!”
Tyler. Apparently, he hadn’t embarrassed her enough today.
She spins to face him, death in her gaze.
“You forgot your backpack and book,” he announces, holding them out to her like an innocent gift.
“Thank you,” she says, her tone softer now that they’re alone.
He smirks, the way he always does when he knows he’s gotten under her skin.
“What was that back there? Jealous much?”
Her eyes narrow, her jaw tightening.
“I’m not jealous,” she replies, voice low, sharp, and entirely lethal.
Tyler chuckles under his breath, shaking his head.
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
She takes her backpack from his hand, slipping it onto her shoulder without breaking eye contact.
Five long, silent seconds.
Then she finally looks away.
“I have to get back in,” Tyler says with a sigh. “Luke’s already annoyed that I left to bring you your things.”
“That is simply his problem.”
“Wednesday. Don’t.”
She stares at him flatly.
“What?”
“Don’t be like that.”
“She flirted with you.”
“So you were jealous.”
“I—…” She stops, her jaw tightening. Then, with a huff of irritation:
“Yes. Fine. I was jealous. And?”
“It’s hot,” he says immediately. “Seeing you all jealous and possessive. Calling me yours.”
“Because you are mine,” she says quietly. “Just like I’m yours.”
Her hand lifts, steady and deliberate, pressing against his chest.
She rises onto her tiptoes to look him directly in the eyes.
“You are very small,” he murmurs, grinning.
“Oh, thank you, mister,” she deadpans. “I can transform into an eight‑foot‑tall beautiful monster.”
“You find the Hyde beautiful?”
She gives no verbal answer.
Her silence is the answer.
Tyler’s smile softens, just a fraction.
“You know what? My dad has a late shift. After school, I’m coming to pick you up, okay?”
“Fine,” she says—sharp, clipped, final.
Tyler heads back into the café, resuming his shift with the practiced ease of someone who knows exactly how to handle normies.
Wednesday, on the other hand, walks toward Nevermore, her steps deliberate, precise, unhurried.
She keeps her thoughts to herself, letting the afternoon sun catch the sharp angles of her pale face.
Maybe—
Just maybe—
It is tolerable to think about feelings.
Sometimes.
Rarely.
And always alone.