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Tyler had not intended to paint Wednesday Addams’s nails. The idea arrived the way most of his bad ideas did, unannounced and half-formed, born of a quiet afternoon and a bottle of black nail polish he had bought weeks ago because the color reminded him of her in a way he could not have articulated without sounding foolish. They were sitting at the small table in the back of the Weathervane, the air warm with the scent of burnt coffee and old wood, the hour slow enough to feel borrowed. Wednesday’s hands were folded neatly on the tabletop, pale and precise, fingers aligned as if they belonged to a diagram rather than a person. He mentioned it casually, barely looking at her, saying something like, “I could do it for you, if you want,” already preparing himself for rejection. Instead, she glanced at the bottle, then at his hands, then extended one of her own with grave finality. “Proceed,” she said. Tyler hesitated before taking it, surprised by the weightlessness of her hand in his palm, the coolness of her skin against the warmth of his. Her fingers were slender and smooth, lighter than he expected, resting there without tension, as if she had already decided he would not drop her.
He twisted the cap open and the smell of the polish bloomed immediately, sharp and chemical and oddly sweet, filling the small space between them. It clung to the back of his throat. “It smells kind of intense,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “It is tolerable,” Wednesday replied, watching him with focused interest. He dipped the brush carefully, scraping one side against the rim like he had seen done countless times, and brought it down toward her nail. His hand shook, just slightly, enough to make him curse under his breath. The first stroke went on too thick, pooling at the edge. He froze, heart pounding, waiting for commentary. None came. Her hand remained steady in his, fingers relaxed, the pad of her thumb brushing faintly against his wrist when he shifted. The sensation was distracting, the contrast between her cool skin and the heat of his palm making him acutely aware of where they touched. “You’re holding your breath,” she observed. “You may continue breathing. I will not expire if you falter.” He laughed softly and exhaled, trying again, slower this time, concentrating on the way the brush dragged lightly over her nail, the faint resistance as the liquid spread.
As he worked his way to the next finger, he noticed how small her nails were, neatly shaped, the cuticles clean and precise. The polish glistened wetly before dulling as it settled, leaving behind a faint tackiness that caught the light. He adjusted his grip, cradling her hand more securely, his thumb resting against the side of her finger. It felt intimate in a way that surprised him, not charged or overwhelming, just quietly close. “I’m sorry,” he said when the brush slipped again, leaving a smudge against her skin. “I’m really bad at this.” She glanced at the mark and shrugged. “The human body is rarely pristine. I find the obsession with flawlessness tedious.” He cleaned it up as best he could, the cotton pad rough against his fingertips, the smell of remover sharp enough to sting his eyes. Her hand remained still, compliant, though he could feel the faint pulse beneath her skin, steady and unhurried.
By the third nail, his movements had smoothed out. He was still careful, still hyperaware of every tremor, but the initial panic had faded into something softer, something like focus. Wednesday’s fingers rested easily in his palm, the bones delicate, the skin faintly cool even as it warmed where he held her. He noticed the contrast between them, how his hands looked too large, too clumsy around hers, how the pads of his fingers were rougher, marked by work and heat. “You are concentrating intensely,” she said. “Is this activity taxing?”
“A little,” he admitted. “I don’t want to mess it up.” “An admirable sentiment,” she replied. “Unnecessary, but admirable.” She watched him closely, eyes tracking each movement, but there was no judgment there, only attention. When he finished a finger, she lifted it slightly, inspecting it with a critical eye. “The coverage is uneven,” she noted. He winced. “I know.” Wednesday stared at his concentration as he spilled a drop of black onto the table. “However,” she continued, “it is clearly intentional.” He snorted. “It really isn’t.” He finally looked up, his gaze the colour of melted caramel. “Then I will attribute it to character,” she said, and returned her hand to his.
The scent of the polish grew stronger as they went on, mingling with the coffee and something faintly metallic from the table. Tyler’s fingertips were sticky now, a thin sheen of polish drying where he had accidentally brushed himself. The texture of the brush against her nails fascinated him, the way it glided and then dragged, the way the liquid smoothed itself out if he left it alone long enough. He found himself breathing in time with his movements, slow and deliberate. Wednesday’s hand felt increasingly familiar, the shape of it fitting into his as if it had always belonged there. When he reached her last nail, he hesitated. “Almost done,” he said. “Good,” she replied. “Your posture is beginning to concern me.” He laughed again, finishing the final stroke with exaggerated care. It came out slightly crooked. He grimaced. “I’m really sorry.” She tilted her head, studying it. “It is acceptable,” she said. “You appear to have tried.”
When he was finished, he held her hand up gently, careful not to smear anything, inspecting his work with a squint that suggested effort might improve the outcome retroactively. The nails were black, glossy in places, uneven at the edges, unmistakably painted by someone inexperienced. “They’re not great,” he said. “They are sufficient,” she replied. “And they smell faintly of acetone.” “Sorry about that.” “It is not unpleasant.” She instructed him to blow on them, and he did, too hard at first. “You are not extinguishing a candle,” she said dryly. He adjusted, softer this time, the air cooling the wet polish, carrying the scent back toward him. For a moment, they stayed like that, her hand hovering between them, his breath warm against her fingers. The closeness felt deliberate, contained, a small pocket of shared stillness.
When the polish had dried enough, she withdrew her hand slowly, flexing her fingers once, examining the result with measured consideration. “I will allow this,” she said finally. “Under supervision, you may repeat the experiment.” Tyler smiled, something light settling in his chest. “I’ll practice,” he said. She arched an eyebrow. “I doubt repetition will yield improvement. Still, the effort was… notable.” She stood, gathering her things, and paused. “If anyone remarks upon the quality,” she added, “I will inform them that it was a collaborative endeavor.” He watched her go, the faint smell of polish lingering on his hands, his palms still warm where she had rested, and thought that it might be a very long time before he forgot how perfectly her hand had fit in his.