Affection.

The word feels like acid on Wednesday’s tongue, something to be loathed and ignored as best as she could. Christmas time, she’d trash each gift, even if she liked it. It was the principle.

Wednesday Addams didn’t accept handouts.

But you. God.

Whether it was the forced proximity of Nevermore, or maybe you were just a relentless sap, Wednesday had found it exhausting to continuously ignore and put you down.

The knitted sweater in your hands was the last straw.

It had clearly taken you a while to produce, judging by the triumphant grin on your lips. And Wednesday couldn’t ignore it.

“I’m allergic to colour.”

“I know.” And you have the gall to pull out a black undershirt, you’ve truly thought of everything.