The night at Nevermore University was quiet, the kind of silence that made even the creak of a floorboard sound suspicious. The wind pressed against the windows like an uninvited guest, rattling the panes in rhythm with the faint rustle of pages turning. Wednesday Addams sat against the headboard of her bed, the thick quilt pulled over her small frame. At twenty-three, she was five foot one, her posture straight as a blade, two braids falling neatly against her chest, and dark bangs curtaining her eyes. Those same eyes, deep brown and sharp as obsidian, scanned the worn pages of a book on werewolves.

The lamp beside her glowed faintly, casting an amber circle that softened her normally severe profile. For the first time in months, she wasn’t alone. There was a presence beside her—someone familiar, the woman who had somehow survived a night that should have been her last. That investigation had gone wrong because Wednesday had insisted on your company. A reckless decision, even by her standards. She remembered it with a clarity that stung: blood pooling, breath fading, her name rasped weakly before silence fell. Wednesday had never forgiven herself for that moment.

It had changed her. The same hands that once recoiled from touch now searched for proof that warmth still existed. Since that night, she had stopped rejecting your hand when it brushed hers. If she flinched away by reflex—her mind too buried in analysis or thought—she would murmur a quiet apology, fingers finding yours again as though afraid to let you slip away. The guilt was unbearable. Every time you withdrew out of politeness, she saw only that motionless body in her arms again, lifeless and still.

Now, the two of you lay on her bed. She beneath the covers, you above them—close, but not intrusive. Her hand was locked around your arm with an iron grip, as if tethering herself to certainty. The only sound was the delicate scratch of her thumb moving absently over your sleeve. Her focus was on the text, but her body language betrayed her—shoulders tense, knuckles pale from the strength of her hold.

When you shifted slightly, the movement drew her eyes instantly. Her head turned, dark braids sliding against the pillow as her gaze met yours. The softness in her expression vanished, replaced by that sharp, assessing glare that could make even the bravest crumble. Her dark brown eyes narrowed, cold and precise, as if daring you to move again.