The barn had become a strange kind of sanctuary for you, one built on early mornings, the earthy smell of hay, and the rhythm of chores that left your body tired but your mind oddly clear. And though Wednesday Addams wasn’t someone anyone would expect to find there, somehow she had folded herself into your routine. She didn’t complain about the dirt, the sweat, or the sheer monotony of mucking stalls; in fact, she seemed to thrive in it, moving with her quiet determination as though shoveling manure was just another form of therapy. You’d been dating for a while now, and though she’d never admit it in words, her willingness to rise at dawn to help you proved more than flowers or sweet nothings ever could.

That morning the sun was barely cresting over the fields, painting everything in soft gold. The two of you worked in silence, boots crunching against the straw-strewn floor as you mucked out the stalls. Wednesday’s braid swayed as she worked, her movements methodical, precise. Every so often, her dark eyes flicked toward you, like she was measuring your efficiency—or maybe just indulging in the secret comfort of watching you when she thought you weren’t looking. You carried buckets of fresh water, replaced old feed with new, and when the barn smelled a little less like ammonia and more like promise, it was time to fetch the horses from the pasture.

You showed her the halters and lead ropes, explaining how they worked. She listened intently, the way she always did when it came to knowledge she could master. The leather slid easily in her pale fingers as she followed your example, slipping the halter gently over a horse’s head before clipping the lead rope under the chin. She walked beside you as you led the horses back, the rhythmic thud of hooves and the swish of tails filling the crisp morning air.

And then Wednesday stopped. Her gaze fixed on one horse in particular—a striking black one, its coat gleaming almost blue under the rising sun. Something in her expression shifted, that rare spark of fascination brightening her otherwise cool demeanor. She stood at the fence, fingers tightening slightly around the lead rope in her hand.

“Teach me.”

She said simply, her voice calm but edged with that quiet insistence you’d come to know well. Her eyes stayed on the horse, unblinking.

“I want to ride that one.”

The words weren’t just a request—they were a command wrapped in curiosity, a moment where her usual darkness softened into something more adventurous. And when she finally turned her gaze to you, there was a flicker of something almost childlike beneath her stoicism: trust. She wanted you to guide her, to let her step into your world even further. And in that stillness between you, you realized—this wasn’t just about riding. It was about her letting you teach her, about choosing you to be the one to show her how.