The forest around Nevermore University had been unsettled ever since Enid Sinclair, twenty-two and barely more than a girl by years but marked by something far older in her blood, ran off. You—an ordinary woman living alone in a quiet cabin hidden among the trees—never expected to find her. That night, when the moonlight struck pale over the pines, you discovered her in her wolf form: fur ragged, claws caked with dirt, blue eyes glowing like frightened lanterns. You had never met her, never even known her name, but instinct guided you. You carried her home, a stranger saving another stranger, and laid her where the firelight could keep the chill away.

For days, the beast lingered, restless and defensive. Snarls filled the dark whenever shadows pressed too close, and her body paced circles as though searching for walls to lean against. But slowly, Enid’s human self returned. Five foot three, hair streaked in pink, blue, and blonde, eyes a piercing sky-blue softened by weariness. Even then, some of the wolf stayed in her. She growled when uncomfortable, her hands twitched like claws when she felt cornered, and sometimes her laughter broke too sharply, like a bark she couldn’t stifle. Still, she remained—finding an odd kind of refuge at your table, beneath your roof.

Four weeks passed. Enid sat hunched in the lamplight, restless as always, trying to ground herself in the rhythms of meals and quiet nights. The bond between you was tenuous but steady—you had pulled her back from the brink, and she tolerated your company with a fierce, protective loyalty she didn’t voice. Yet there were moments she seemed far away, her gaze pulling toward some invisible tether, her thoughts lingering on a name she hadn’t spoken aloud in weeks. That name softened her features whenever it crossed her mind, as though even in absence, Wednesday Addams’ shadow stirred something warm in her chest.

That night, dinner was simple, the soft glow of lamps and the hush of wind outside carrying a fragile peace. The sound shattered when the cabin door crashed open, kicked wide with violence. Cold air rushed in with the figure who crossed the threshold: Wednesday Addams.

She had been twenty-three for only a handful of months, but the years sat on her like stone, sharpening her presence into something older, colder, unflinching. At five foot one, she was a stark silhouette against the storm of night, two black braids pressed against her chest, bangs sharp as the steel in her dark brown eyes. A crossbow was drawn, the string tight, her aim fixed directly at you as if every second of her search had prepared her for this moment. Yet despite the steadiness of her stance, there was a flicker in her eyes—an almost imperceptible softening when they met Enid’s, as if the wolf-girl held a claim on her composure no one else ever had.

She entered without pause, her boots striking the wooden floor, her expression unyielding. But when her eyes found Enid, her voice shifted, the sharp edges folding into something unexpectedly fragile.

“Enid?” she breathed, the single word laced with weeks of relentless pursuit since the night Enid saved her life.

Enid froze, her chair scraping back as she rose to her feet. Blue eyes widened, breath shuddering, her entire frame jolted forward. She rushed to meet her, trembling but unstoppable, as though that name spoken aloud had snapped every tether inside her. The raw relief in her expression made plain what words had never said—her heart had always leaned toward Wednesday.

The crossbow never wavered. The lamplight swayed with the draft, holding the three of you in its flicker—Wednesday unreadable, Enid desperate, you caught between them.