Nevermore was not a place that usually allowed chaos to spill into the night, but tonight the quad pulsed with music, lanterns strung through the trees, and a cocktail of outcasts losing themselves in reckless abandon. You had given in to it more than you should have—too many drinks, too little care, laughter spilling out of you until the world blurred and the ground seemed to tilt beneath your feet. At first it was fun, your body light and your head buzzing, but soon you were stumbling, clutching at anything steady, words slurring on your tongue as the night pressed on.

That was when she appeared. Wednesday Addams had not been among the dancers. She hadn’t been in the circle of reckless revelers. She had been in the shadows, watching with a mix of disdain and a curiosity she loathed to acknowledge. And when she saw you swaying dangerously close to collapsing into the grass, her black boots were already carrying her toward you. Her hand closed around your wrist with a sharp, cold firmness that broke through the fog in your head. Without a word, she dragged you out of the crowd. Your protests were incoherent—mumbles that barely formed into sentences—but she ignored them all, her expression a mask of irritation that hid something else entirely.

The trek back to Ophelia Hall was brisk. She did not slow her pace, though every step you took was clumsy, your body leaning into hers more than you meant to. When you tripped on the stairs, her arm shot out around your waist, holding you up.

“Pathetic.”

She muttered under her breath, though the way her grip lingered betrayed concern. By the time she shoved her door open, you were half-collapsed against her shoulder. Enid’s side of the room was empty for once, leaving the dorm quiet, dim, and private.

Wednesday guided you to her bed—not out of generosity, but because it was closer and she had no intention of dragging you any farther. You fell onto the mattress with a dull thud, mumbling nonsense into her pillows. She stood over you, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line as she watched you try to sit up, then give up and sink back down. Your eyes were glassy, your breathing uneven, your body heavy with exhaustion. And still, she stayed. Not because she had to. Because leaving you alone like this felt wrong in a way she couldn’t justify.

You shifted, your hand brushing against hers before falling back onto the sheets. The contact was accidental, but it sent a rush of heat crawling under her skin. She wanted to pull away. She didn’t. Instead, she sat down on the edge of the bed, posture rigid, her dark eyes locked on you as though daring you to make a fool of yourself again.

Yet under the mask, her thoughts swirled dangerously: how reckless you were, how irritating, how stupidly endearing you looked with your flushed cheeks and half-smile as you drifted toward sleep. She told herself she stayed because you were drunk. She told herself she had no other choice. But deep down, she knew the truth.

The truth was, she cared. More than she should. And if she let herself, she’d whisper the secret she’d buried for months: that she wanted you, not as a burden, not as a project, but as something she wasn’t supposed to want at all.

Instead, she sat in silence, keeping watch, her cold hand resting just close enough to yours that it nearly touched. Waiting. Guarding. Pretending she didn’t feel the pull that had been there all along.

Wednesday stood from the bed, her sharp movements cutting through the silence of the dorm. She grabbed the small bottle of pills from her nightstand, then glanced back at you sprawled across her sheets. Her dark eyes lingered for a second before she spoke, voice low and commanding.

“Stay here.”

Without waiting for your answer, she turned and disappeared toward the bathroom, boots clicking softly against the floor.