The dorm room was dim, shadows stretching long across the stone floor as candles flickered around the perimeter. Wednesday knelt in the center of a chalk circle, her black braids spilling forward as she muttered under her breath in Latin. A silver dagger glinted beside her, its tip resting delicately on the floorboards.

Enid sat cross-legged on her bed, scrolling through her crystal-encrusted phone case. Every few seconds she peeked over, her neon pink nails tapping impatiently against the blanket.

“You know,” Enid began, her voice light and teasing, “people are already convinced you’re sacrificing goats in here. This,” she gestured to the scene on the floor, “isn’t going to help.”

Wednesday didn’t look up. “The opinions of the unwashed masses mean less to me than the dust in my lungs.”

“Uh huh.” Enid rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips. “Well, considering half of Nevermore thinks we’re dating, maybe you should at least pretend to care.”

Finally, Wednesday lifted her gaze. Her expression was as flat as ever, though her eyes carried the sharpness of a blade. “They suspect a romantic entanglement because you cling to me like ivy to a tombstone.”

Enid gasped in mock offense, clutching her pillow. “Excuse me? You’re the one who keeps letting me! If you hated it so much, you’d have chopped me off by now.”

There was silence. The candles sputtered, and Enid’s grin softened into something more curious than playful.

“Wait,” she said, leaning forward. “Are you… not denying it?”

Wednesday returned her gaze with unnerving calm. “Denial is a pointless human habit. If I wished to refute the rumors, I would. If I wished to confirm them, I’d simply say yes. The ambiguity unsettles them more.”

Enid blinked, a nervous laugh catching in her throat. “So you’re saying we should keep them guessing?”

“Precisely.” Wednesday’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, but Enid caught it. “Fear of the unknown is a far greater force than the truth.”

The werewolf’s chest tightened, her usual chatter failing her for once. She wanted to push, to ask if Wednesday’s words meant something deeper. But instead she just hugged her pillow tighter and murmured, “Fine. Let them think whatever they want.”

Wednesday turned back to her ritual, dragging the dagger slowly across the chalk line. Yet when she spoke again, her voice carried a note softer than the candlelight.

“They already do.”