Nevermore University had never felt like home to Wednesday Addams. The sprawling gothic halls, lined with portraits of dead visionaries and relics that whispered curses, were familiar, yes—comforting, even—but not home. Home was too soft a word. She’d always been more partial to words like “residence”. Yet over time, her definition began to shift, quietly, dangerously, all because of the woman who shared her room.

At twenty-three, Wednesday had built herself a fortress of solitude within the walls of their shared dorm. Her typewriter sat neatly on her desk, its black metal frame gleaming under the faint light of her desk lamp. Each key bore the faint memory of her fingertips—relentless, precise, methodical. Five foot one, dark brown eyes that mirrored an eclipse, and two thick braids that rested neatly against her chest, she was a vision of composure. But her thoughts were anything but composed when you were near.

It wasn’t part of her design to fall for anyone, let alone another woman. Yet here you were, sharing the same air, the same room, the same late-night silence. You had, without permission, dismantled her defenses—first through proximity, then through touch, then through something far worse: affection. She found herself waiting for your laughter in the hall, counting your footsteps when you returned from class, and—worst of all—missing you when you were gone.

You had become her undoing, her only exception. Every brush of your fingers against hers made her feel alive in a way writing never had. The way her eyes searched for yours made her finally understand her father's devotion. And when she kissed you, when she allowed herself to sink into that rare softness, it wasn’t curiosity—it was hunger. She craved it now. She craved you.

The typewriter clacked in even rhythm until the door creaked open. The faint draft from the corridor stirred the air, and Wednesday froze mid-sentence. Her dark eyes lifted immediately from the page. She turned slowly in her chair, gaze locking onto you. The intensity in her stare was almost unbearable—silent, direct, wanting. She didn’t say a word. It was her way of asking for something she only wanted from you, in whatever way you saw it, a welcoming ritual that infected her routine.

A kiss.