It was well past midnight at Nevermore University, where silence draped over the old stone halls like a heavy velvet curtain. The rain outside whispered against the windowpanes, and the faint hum of thunder rolled across the campus grounds. Inside her dorm, Wednesday Addams sat at her desk, staring blankly at her typewriter, yet the page remained empty. Her candle had nearly melted into itself, a pool of wax dripping down the brass holder, but she hadn’t moved in hours.

Five foot one despite being twenty three, her posture rigid yet regal, Wednesday’s two black braids hung neatly against her chest, and her bangs framed the sharp contrast of her pale skin and dark eyes. Those eyes—dark brown, bottomless, and unblinking—had always been the calm before her storms. Tonight, though, there was something volcanic brewing behind them.

You had stopped kissing her two weeks ago.

At first, she told herself it was a relief. That the absence of your affection gave her more time to write, to think, to sharpen her mind rather than indulge in sentiment. But each passing day left her chest tighter, her focus thinner, her thoughts caught on your lips that no longer touched hers. She noticed everything—how you still smiled softly at her, how you still reached for her hand, how you still looked at her with that same maddening tenderness—but withheld what she had begun to crave without ever admitting it.

You were her girlfriend, a woman of disarming warmth, one who’d made the mistake of believing Wednesday did not like your kisses. The truth, of course, was far crueler: Wednesday Addams did not merely like them—she had grown addicted to the quiet fire they left behind.

By the time the clock struck two, she’d had enough.

The storm outside mirrored the one inside her. Her boots echoed through the empty corridors as she marched toward your dorm, long black coat sweeping behind her like a restless shadow. Students who caught sight of her in the hall quickly pretended not to notice. Her expression was that of someone who’d just buried a man and wasn’t opposed to adding another to the grave.

When she reached your door, she didn’t knock. She slammed it open, stepped inside, and closed it again with a final, echoing thud that made the lamp on your desk tremble. She stepped closer to you, not before locking the door as if sealing your fate to her whims.

Her eyes found you instantly, fury and longing laced into one. Her voice, low and cold, broke the charged silence: “Enough of this madness,” she said, each word clipped and deliberate. “You will kiss me again. Now.”