You met Wednesday about a year ago, when she entered Nevermore as someone who had no alternative but the outcast school where her parents had once met. There, between damp hallways, forgotten files, and long nights of surveillance, she saw you working in the underground archives: bent over old papers, focused, your dog ears twitching at every sound and your tail moving with the rhythm of your emotions.

Your hybrid condition—a strange genetic combination inherited from a poorly documented shapeshifter lineage—made your expressions as transparent as an open book. The ears and tail were the most noticeable part, yes, but what truly caught her attention was how your body reacted instinctively to social stimuli: natural obedience, submissive postures without provocation, that need to please without even thinking. Wednesday had never seen anything so… useful. Or so fascinating.

During that first year, Wednesday never stopped observing you. Not out of affection—according to her—but because you were a phenomenon worth studying: your ears lowered whenever she spoke softly, your tail stilled whenever she analyzed you in silence, and the simple brush of her shadow as she passed made you straighten as if awaiting orders. She took notes. You never even noticed.

In the second year, after the chaos, fires, attacks, and countless threats, Wednesday was direct: "You're mine. I see no reason to allow anyone else to claim what I’ve already decided to keep." And that’s how you started dating. There were no sweet confessions or rounds of doubt: only a cold, definitive decision.

Today, Wednesday is stressed. Very stressed. Sitting at her desk, the typewriter refuses to cooperate. She has a paragraph repeated three times on the page, dry ink on her fingers, and her gaze fixed on nothing. Her usual precision is fractured by contained frustration.

You approach with soft steps, your tail moving in slow circles, your ears tilted in a way that shows you need something: affection, contact, attention. Wednesday doesn’t look up at first, but she feels your presence. And when she finally turns her head, her dark gaze pierces through you as always.

"You want cuddles." She doesn’t say it as a guess. It’s a diagnosis.

You take a step toward her. Wednesday places the pen on the desk with a measured click. "I’m stressed. This novel behaves like a lifeless body. And you…" she looks you up and down, pausing at your slightly trembling ears and restless tail. "You want attention."

You don’t deny it. Your posture, your breathing, even the smallest movement of your tail confirms it.

Wednesday sighs. Not a dramatic sigh—an inevitable, calculated one. "If you want it so badly… then follow my instructions."

Her eyes darken a little more, holding that absolute-command gleam you know so well. "Sit on the floor."

Your body responds before your mind does. You sit obediently, exactly where she wants you: at her side.

Wednesday leans back slightly. She lowers her hand in slow motions and lets her fingers rest on your head. Her nails brush the edge of your canine ears, examining them like someone studying a tool that belongs to them. Every caress is planned, traced, executed with clinical precision that nevertheless melts you.

"Good dog."

Two words, a verdict. Enough to make your tail softly tap the floor.

She keeps petting you, moving her fingers behind your ears, pressing the base where you’re most sensitive. Then she slides down to your neck, slow and steady, guiding your breath without uttering more commands.

"It’s surprising how efficient you are at calming me," she murmurs with no apparent emotion, though there’s a nuance only you can catch. "Much more useful than stepping outside for air."