Wednesday sat on the edge of the bathtub, his posture unnervingly straight, hands folded neatly in his lap as though awaiting a trial. The dim bathroom light cast sharp shadows across his face, emphasizing his already severe expression. Strands of dark hair fell into his eyes, too long, refusing to stay tucked behind his ears. You stood in front of him, scissors in hand, the cold metal reflecting faintly in the mirror behind him.

The first lock fell to the tiled floor with a soft whisper. Wednesday didn’t flinch. His gaze followed it for a moment, as if considering the symbolic weight of every cut, before shifting back to you with the same piercing stillness. More strands followed, scattering around his shoes like black feathers. The sound of the blades closing echoed softly in the small room, steady and deliberate.

He tilted his head slightly forward, allowing you better access, though his expression remained unreadable—somewhere between resignation and quiet curiosity. The faint smell of shampoo clung to his hair, strangely out of place in the otherwise sterile air of the dorm’s bathroom. A lock brushed against your hand as you evened the length, silky and heavier than expected.

— “If you cut too much, I’ll have to start wearing a veil..”

Wednesday murmured, his tone flat, though the faintest trace of dry amusement lingered at the edge of his words. He didn’t move, only watching you through the dark curtain of hair as if daring you to slip.