Chapter Text
Enid Sinclair hated sleeping.
Not sleep itself.
Sleep was great.
The whole being-unconscious-for-eight-hours thing? Fantastic.
Getting there was the problem.
The dorm room was quiet in that heavy, late-night way that made everything feel louder than it should. The building creaked. The wind brushed the window. Even Enid’s blanket sounded personally offended by her existence.
She lay there, staring at the ceiling while her mind ran its usual nightly highlight reel of embarrassment and impending doom.
Why did I say that to Bianca?
Why did I wave at someone who wasn’t waving?
Did I leave my straightener plugged in?
What if I burn down Nevermore and become a cautionary tale?
She groaned into her pillow, trying not to wake Wednesday.
Across the room, Wednesday was already asleep.
Of course she was.
Wednesday Addams could probably fall asleep during a fire alarm and a marching band simultaneously.
Enid peeked over.
Wednesday lay perfectly still beneath her blankets, hands folded neatly like she was in a very tasteful coffin display. No scowl. No judgement. Just unsettling, peaceful stillness.
”Must be nice,” Enid whispered.
She tried again.
And again.
Time stopped meaning anything useful.
Eventually, she gave up on pretending she was going to fall asleep alone.
She sat up, then carefully swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold. She shivered, then immediately tripped over something solid.
Wednesday’s shoes.
“—ah!”
Enid stumbled forward, catching herself on Wednesday’s bed just in time. The mattress creaked.
Wednesday stirred.
”Enid?”
”Sorry,” Enid whispered.
One eye opened slowly. “What are you doing?”
”Nothing.”
”You’ve fallen over.”
”I know.”
A pause.
”Why?”
“Your shoes attacked me.”
”They’re shoes.”
”Hostile shoes.”
”…Go to sleep, Enid.”
”I can’t.”
”Tragic.”
Wednesday closed her eyes again, already done with existence.
Enid should have gone back to her own bed. That would have been logical. Sensible. Emotionally regulated.
Instead, she sat on the edge of Wednesday’s bed.
Just for a minute.
Wednesday didn’t react.
So Enid, against all better judgement, lay down beside her.
Carefully. Respectfully. With an unnecessary amount of space between them.
She stared at the ceiling.
Nothing changed.
Her thoughts tried to resume their usual chaos, but the room felt… quieter. Less sharp.
She shifted slightly.
Her shoulder brushed Wednesday’s.
Barely anything. An accident.
But something in Enid loosened anyway, like a knot she hadn’t known she was carrying had finally given up.
She blinked.
That was weird.
She shifted again, slower this time.
Her head ended up resting against Wednesday’s shoulder.
Better.
Much better.
And then she noticed it.
A faint rhythm beneath the fabric of Wednesday’s shirt.
Thump.
Enid went still.
Thump.
A heartbeat.
Wednesday’s heartbeat.
Slow. Steady. Unbothered by the concept of stress or poor life choices.
Enid's breathing, without permission, began to match it.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Her thoughts, which had been sprinting for hours, started to lose momentum. Not gone—just quieter. Less urgent.
For once there was no spiralling.
No mental disaster catalogue.
Just that steady rhythm beneath her ear, like something her brain had been missing instructions for.
Thump.
Thump.
”You’re weirdly soothing,” Enid murmured before she could stop herself.
Wednesday didn’t respond.
Because she was already asleep again.
Of course she was.
“Rude,” she whispered.
Her eyes closed.
And for the first time that night, sleep didn’t feel like a battle.
It just… arrived.
And Enid Sinclair, who had spent hours failing at it, finally stopped trying.
Not yet questioning why.
Not while everything had finally gone quiet enough to let her rest.