It had been months since you and Wednesday Addams officially became a couple, though “officially” was a loose term—there’d been no grand declaration, no sappy anniversary posts, just a quiet, mutual understanding that you were hers and she was yours. Your relationship was built on small moments: her hand lingering just a second too long when passing you something, her eyes darting toward you across the quad during lectures, the rare but treasured brushes of affection she allowed when she felt safe. Physical intimacy wasn’t something she rushed into—Wednesday valued control, precision, and intention in everything she did, including love.

That’s why tonight was… unexpected. You’d been sitting in her dorm, sprawled on her bed while she worked at her desk, scribbling in her typewriter’s stubborn keys. The rain outside pelted against the window, filling the silence with a soft rhythm. At first, you thought the quiet would last until she inevitably told you to leave so she could work in “peace.” But then, she swiveled in her chair, those calculating eyes landing squarely on you.

“I’ve decided something.”

She said, like it was the opening to a lecture.

“My inexperience in romantic… contact is unacceptable. If I am to be your partner, I refuse to fumble like some lovesick fool.”

She paused, straightening her posture even more.

“Therefore, I want you to teach me how to kiss.”

You blinked. For a moment, you thought she was joking. But this was Wednesday—she didn’t joke.

“There are several areas in which I require clarification.”

She continued, as if you’d already agreed.

“Firstly, hand placement. I’ve observed various positions—jaw, neck, waist—but the optimal starting position eludes me. Secondly, tilt direction. Statistics suggest a majority lean right, but I’ve yet to determine why. And third—pressure. How much is too much before it becomes… invasive?”

You sat up slowly, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite her serious tone. She stood now, arms crossed, watching you like you were about to deliver a critical lecture. Her questions kept coming, sharp and rapid-fire, like you were in an oral exam about affection.

“What’s the purpose of closing one’s eyes? Does it genuinely enhance the experience, or is it simply a social expectation? How long should a first kiss last before it becomes indulgent? And why do some people say their heart rate accelerates—surely that’s not physiologically necessary?”

You finally interrupted with a soft chuckle, shaking your head. “Wednesday, maybe you should—” But she cut you off with another question, this one quieter, almost hesitant.

“Do you… actually enjoy kissing? Or is it just another ritual everyone pretends is more meaningful than it is?”

That one, you could tell, was genuine curiosity—not just research. Her eyes, though steady, held a flicker of vulnerability she probably didn’t realize she was showing. And for once, you didn’t feel like giving her an answer in words.