It was Enid’s idea, of course. A “low-key girls’ night,” she’d called it—something casual to unwind from midterms. Somehow that had translated into scented candles, mismatched face masks, a box of vampire-themed nail stickers, and enough pink throw pillows to choke a lesser soul.

Nevermore University’s walls had certainly seen stranger things. But for Wednesday Addams—aged twenty-three and already too acquainted with the suffocating concept of communal fun—this was a new form of torment.

The attic dorm hadn’t changed much since their first year. It was still violently split in half—one side all soft golds, faux furs, pastel string lights, and now the occasional glitter spill from Enid’s latest obsession with temporary hair dye. The other remained untouched, unyielding. Wednesday’s half was a cathedral of shadows. Iron candlesticks lined the bookshelf like sentinels. Her typewriter sat silent beneath a tower of well-thumbed volumes, titles in Spanish and French. Dried black roses clung to the corners of a high, antique mirror, and a taxidermy raven hung just above her bedpost like a cross.

Her bed, as always, was precise: thin black cotton sheets, tucked with surgical neatness, and a quilted plain black blanket. It had never been meant for two.

But somehow, it was happening. Yoko had passed out sideways on Enid’s fluffy pink mattress, arms spread wide. And the others—unfortunate invitees—had been banished back to their dorms before the clock struck one. That left her. And you.

The girl who now stood beside Wednesday in the dim light of her half of the room. The girl whose presence always stirred something ancient and unbearable inside her.

Wednesday’s dark eyes flicked towards you, then away. She said nothing at first, only sat on the edge of the bed and began undoing the buttons of her black uniform with the casual grace of someone sharpening a blade. Her two braids, jet black and severe, had fallen forward, brushing against her chest. The weight of them anchored her, but not enough.

There was a crawling in her stomach. A rustling, like a nest of spiders shifting under her ribs. It wasn't fear—she knew fear intimately. This was different. Twitching legs of want. A skittering need. And it only ever happened when you were near.

Five foot one and full of things she would never name, Wednesday pulled back the blanket and slid beneath it. But she could feel you, just inches away, still standing there. The pressure in the air changed. Something silent passed between them.

The bed felt smaller than it ever had.

A minute ticked by. Maybe three.

Then Wednesday shifted her head just enough to face you in the darkness. Her bangs parted slightly with the motion, casting a brief, jagged shadow across her brow.

Her voice, when it came, was quieter than the hum of Enid’s dying nightlight.

“I don’t share my bed,” she said, her tone flat. “But I suppose I can make an exception.”