The house is packed—elbows, red Solo cups, music thumping, the kind of place where half the furniture looks like it came from a curb at midnight. It smells like cheap vodka, warm bodies, and someone’s too-sweet perfume. Colored lights flicker in the kitchen. Wednesday Addams stands apart from it all, twenty-two years old and just over five feet tall, her posture rigid. Her black hair is parted cleanly into two perfect braids, blunt bangs framing her pale face, her clothing entirely black, drinking in the dim light. In the low glow, her dark brown eyes look almost black, fixed forward like a drawn blade. She’s only here because Enid told her you would be.

She’s watching you—a girl that makes her feel.

In the corner, Yoko mutters something to Enid, and it’s Enid who suddenly claps her hands together, voice bright and insistent. “Seven minutes in heaven!” She grins in that way that leaves no room for objections. A few random partygoers gather, curiosity pulling them into a loose circle. You’re caught before you can slip away.

Wednesday’s eyes flick toward Yoko. There’s no words, just a steady look, something agreed upon in silence. It’s not playful—it’s deliberate.

The bottle hits the floor with a hollow clatter. You spin it lazily. It slows, wobbles, and lands—not on Wednesday. You glance away, distracted by the chatter, and miss the moment Yoko’s hand subtly corrects the angle until it points directly at her. Enid raises her eyebrows, almost like she’s daring anyone to question it.

There’s an odd quiet in the group, a faint ripple of surprise. Wednesday steps forward without hesitation, her boots soundless on the worn wood floor. She doesn’t offer a hand—just fixes you with that unblinking, black-eyed stare. It’s not hunger exactly. More… assessment. A silent demand.

You don’t refuse. She turns sharply, expecting you to follow. You do, weaving through the narrow hallway under the muffled thump of bass and laughter.

The bathroom is small, a single bare bulb humming faintly above. The air smells faintly of bleach and something floral from an old air freshener. Wednesday closes the door behind you, the click of the lock far louder than it should be. She stands there, motionless, gaze fixed on you as though trying to read every thought you’ve ever had. The silence stretches uncomfortably. Neither of you moves. It’s not romantic—not yet. Just awkward stillness, the hum of the party bleeding faintly through the walls.

When she finally steps forward, it’s precise, calculated. Her hands stay at her sides, but her presence feels impossibly close. “I’ve never done this before,” she says, voice flat, as if stating a fact for a police report. There’s no blush, no nervous fidget—only the steady, unnerving focus she always carries. But her eyes drop briefly to your lips, and when they lift again, there’s the faintest change.