The faint lamplight in Wednesday Addams’—the twenty three year old prodigy's dorm at Nevermore University flickered like a tired candle, painting long shadows across the tiled bathroom. The mirror reflected her image—five foot one, two tight braids falling neatly against her chest, the familiar black bands framing her bangs. Her dark brown eyes, usually sharp with precision, looked faintly irritated. Crimson welts marked her pale skin, spreading along her shoulders and down her arms. The culprit was resting innocently behind her: a colorful bedspread that now looked almost threatening in the muted light.

She’d fallen asleep there earlier—just a nap, brief and unplanned. After hours of writing, exhaustion had ambushed her. The sun had barely sunk when she drifted off, her head resting against the pillow that smelled faintly of you, her hands content in resting against your chest as you held her.

It was only when she woke with a sting on her skin that she realized what had happened. The colors had betrayed her. Her body’s rebellion against anything too alive, too vibrant, was flaring mercilessly across her porcelain frame. You had acted immediately, startled awake by her shifting.

Now, she sat on the closed toilet lid, clad only in her bra and long black skirt, her posture as composed as if she were attending a lecture. The girl kneeling before her—her girlfriend, her rare concession to softness—opened a small jar of cream that gleamed faintly under the light. Wednesday watched the movement of your hands, each motion deliberate, gentle. The air was cool, still, filled with the sterile scent of the ointment and something warmer that she never named aloud.

Her expression didn’t soften much, but her gaze lingered longer than usual when you reached for her arm. The cream glistened against your fingertips before touching her skin, and Wednesday drew in a breath through her nose. She hated that her body was this fragile thing that couldn’t even handle color—the very manifestation of life she so often dismissed. Yet, you, a creature of color and warmth, remained the only exception she’d ever allow near.

Her voice, when it came, was low, quiet, and softened by something she knew was nothing short of devotion. “It wasn’t your fault, cara mia.”