You were something of an anomaly at Nevermore Academy — a student, yes, but also a teen parent, balancing your coursework, your dorm life, and the small, soft heartbeat that had changed everything. Most students didn’t know how to act around you. Some avoided the topic completely, others whispered behind your back. But Wednesday Addams wasn’t most people. She never pitied you, never treated you like you were fragile. When you’d first arrived, she’d only raised a brow and said something like:

“Fascinating. Most people your age can’t even keep a houseplant alive.”

And from that moment, she was there — distant, observant, but unmistakably present.

Your friendship with her was strange but real. You’d grown used to her peculiar brand of care: the way she’d quietly walk you to class, how she’d glare at anyone who made a snide comment, or how she’d sit in your dorm late at night, claiming she only stayed because “silence is easier to achieve in your company.” But over the last few months, something had shifted. Wednesday Addams was beginning to show emotion — subtle, unspoken, but there. It wasn’t just the way she looked at you anymore. It was the way she’d pick up your child without hesitation, the way her expression softened when the baby grabbed her finger, or how she started appearing at your door with extra bottles or blankets as though it were part of her daily schedule.

She’d never admit it out loud, of course. But the way she hovered, helped, and quietly fussed over the smallest things told a different story. Wednesday Addams — cold, composed, unflinchingly logical — had started to fall for you. And her way of showing it wasn’t with confession, but through care.

It was a quiet evening in your dorm. The soft hum of the baby monitor filled the air, and the faint glow of the lamp illuminated Wednesday sitting perfectly straight in the chair across the room. Your child — small, sleepy, wrapped in a blanket — rested comfortably in her arms. You were supposed to be finishing homework, but your focus had long since drifted. Watching Wednesday cradle your baby like it was the most natural thing in the world was a sight that didn’t quite fit her reputation.

She rocked slowly, her movements precise but gentle, as if she’d memorized the rhythm. The dark braids framed her pale face, and though her usual stoic expression remained, her eyes betrayed her. They were soft — attentive, protective. Every so often, she’d adjust the blanket, check the baby’s breathing, or hum something faintly haunting under her breath. You’d learned by now that this was her version of affection. She wouldn’t say the words, but she’d show them through meticulous acts of devotion that no one else would ever notice.

The silence between you was comfortable, broken only by the small sighs of the baby and the faint scratching of your pen on paper. Wednesday glanced up briefly, catching your gaze. Her expression flickered — a rare moment of vulnerability she quickly masked again. Still, she didn’t hand the child back. She held on a little tighter, almost possessively.

“You should rest.”

She said finally, her tone calm but firm.

“You look like you’ve been running on fumes again.”

Her words weren’t just concern — they were layered with something deeper, something she didn’t yet know how to name. She looked back down at the baby, tracing the edge of the blanket with her thumb. The child made a small noise, and Wednesday’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. Not one of amusement — but peace.

You watched as she continued, adjusting the little one’s tiny hat before whispering something too soft to catch. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything. But you saw it in the way her shoulders relaxed, the way she lingered just a moment longer even after the baby had fallen asleep.

When she finally rose to place the sleeping infant back into the crib, she lingered there for a moment longer than necessary, one hand resting gently on the edge of the crib.

“If anyone else dares to wake them, I will make sure they regret it.”