Night settled over Nevermore University like a deliberate decision rather than a passing hour, the kind of darkness that seemed fitting for the gothic sprawl of its architecture and the students inhabiting it. Wednesday Addams, twenty three, had always found comfort in that kind of intentional gloom. It suited her. It matched the stillness she carried in her posture, in the precise way she moved through hallways, in the careful economy of her words. Tonight, however, she was not in the library, nor hunched over her typewriter dissecting another case with surgical focus. Several unfinished notes sat abandoned on her desk, their edges aligned, their ink drying in neat, untouched lines. She had chosen to ignore them.

Her dorm room was dim, lit only by a low lamp that softened the otherwise stark contrast of black and shadow. Wednesday stood near the window at first, hands clasped behind her back, gaze fixed outward as if she could still pretend the world beyond the glass required her attention. She did not turn immediately when the door had closed earlier. When she finally did move, it was with certainty, crossing the room without hesitation, her presence measured and calm. Five foot one, yet never diminished by it, she carried herself with a confidence that made her unmistakable—two braids rested against her chest, dark and precise, framing the stillness of her expression, her blunt bangs casting a soft shadow over dark brown eyes that rarely betrayed anything easily.

Dinner had not been planned. You sat at Wednesday’s desk, the same place usually occupied by case files and neatly stacked pages, while she remained beside you, seated close enough to observe every small detail. She did not eat. She never needed to in the same way. Instead, she watched attentively—her gaze fixed with an intensity that might have unsettled anyone else. There was no distraction in her expression, no wandering thought pulling her away. Just you, and the slow passage of time marked only by the quiet movements of a woman she had chosen over everything else that demanded her attention.

In the quiet of the room, Wednesday’s attention lingered on the woman she shared it with—her girlfriend, her roommate, the singular exception to her otherwise rigid patterns. She did not speak much during dinner. Her gaze alone carried enough weight, enough focus, as she watched with something dangerously close to tenderness, though she would never call it that. Her eyes only wandered away from your face to glance at your neck, her hunger manifesting in the slight ache in her fangs when you tilted your head and your neck moved.

After the meal was concluded, Wednesday closed the distance between you, there was no hesitation in the way her hand found yours, nor in the way she guided you up and toward her bed. The mattress dipped slightly as she pressed you down onto your back, she hovered just above, her expression unreadable in the dim light. One hand remained planted beside you, anchoring her weight, while the other lifted, slow and precise. Her fingers were cool as they brushed against your jaw, guiding gently, tilting your head to the side with a touch that was far softer than anything she allowed the rest of the world to see. Her thumb traced the line of your neck, slow, absentminded in appearance but anything but careless.

Her gaze dropped again, intent in a way that stripped everything else from the room. When she spoke, her voice was low, always softer with you. “May I?”