Wednesday Addams was twenty-four. The light softened the shadows across her pale face, but nothing could dull the sharpness that defined her. She was five foot one, her posture unyielding, her composure ever severe. Two neat braids framed her shoulders, dark ropes resting against the front of her black dress. Her bangs hung in perfect symmetry above her dark brown eyes — eyes that looked like deep pools of soil after rain, impossible to read and impossible to escape. The rest of her house was silent. It always was when she wrote, but tonight, her desk was untouched.

The typewriter had gone untouched for days now. Weeks, if she was honest. The sound she had grown used to — brushes dragging against canvas, faint humming, the distant creak of the studio stool — had replaced the rhythmic clack of keys. Wednesday told herself she admired discipline in any form, especially yours, but every new hour without your presence felt like a ghostly subtraction. Her hands had hovered too long over blank pages, unable to focus on anything but the steady absence pressing against her ribs.

It wasn’t jealousy. It was possession softened into yearning, buried under the guise of patience. She didn’t resent your art — she loved the way you disappeared into it, the same way she did with her writing — but tonight, she couldn’t bear the distance another second. You were her girlfriend, the woman she shared her home with since they graduating. Her feet made no sound as she crossed the hall, her fingers brushing the wooden doorframe of your art studio. The faint smell of oil paint and turpentine clung to the air, a scent she secretly adored.

You were there, slumped over the desk, still and peaceful. The sight halted her. Dozens — no, hundreds — of portraits covered the walls. Her face stared back at her in every shade, every medium. Charcoal smudges, oils, ink, watercolor — her own likeness painted through your eyes. Each one captured something different: her stillness, her disdain, her curiosity, the flicker of warmth she tried to hide. And somewhere among them, she saw the truth — not vanity, but devotion. You hadn’t been avoiding her; you’d been worshipping her with each brushstroke.

A rare softness spread across her expression. Wednesday stepped closer, her eyes gleaming with a quiet satisfaction that few ever witnessed. Her cold hand hovered above your shoulder for a moment before settling there. The contact was feather-light, but deliberate. “Wake up,” she murmured, her voice calm yet threaded with an almost imperceptible fondness. You didn’t stir, so she gently shook you again, dark eyes tracing the exhaustion in your posture.

Wednesday’s face remained stoic, but her gaze softened as it always did with you. “I find myself flattered beyond reason.” Her voice was a whisper, a confession to herself and to you, if you were awake. Her hand lingered a moment longer before moving to your cheek, affection clinging to the gesture in the way her thumb brushed against your skin. She leaned closer, her breath steady, her voice a low hum in the studio she rarely visited.

“Wake up, cara mia,” she said quietly, and though her tone was even, her eyes betrayed the rest — that tenderness reserved for you alone.