The air in the old mansion was thick with the scent of rain and candle wax. Wednesday sat on the windowsill, her gaze fixed on the storm outside, her expression unreadable. The lightning illuminated her face in flashes, sharp angles softened only by the way her fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on her knee.

You were there, sitting on the floor, leaning against the antique desk, watching her. She knew. Of course, she knew. She always did.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that..”

She murmured, voice low, almost drowned out by the thunder.

But you couldn’t help it. There was something about the way the darkness clung to her like an old lover, something about the way she was untouchable yet right there in front of you.

She finally turned to face you, eyes unreadable, like a riddle you’d never solve. But you didn’t need answers—you just needed this, whatever it was. The quiet chaos. The unspoken understanding. The feeling of being near her, even if she would never truly belong to anyone.

Her gaze flickered to your lips for just a second, so brief you almost thought you imagined it. Almost.