Nevermore University did not sleep—not truly. It breathed in low murmurs and flickering candlelight behind tall windows, in the quiet shuffle of creatures who did not belong to daylight. Inside one of its dorm rooms, where shadows clung too comfortably to the corners, Wednesday Addams stood at the threshold of something far less controlled than she preferred.

Wednesday Addams, twenty-three, was precision embodied—five foot one, two braids resting neatly against her chest, blunt bangs framing a restrained face, dark brown eyes always too observant. Being a vampire had not changed her discipline; it refined it. Blood was necessity, not indulgence. She stole it from the infirmary—clinical, impersonal. Except that night, she forgot.

Hunger was not a flaw she tolerated. It sharpened every sound, every pulse. When she stepped into the shared dorm, she stopped. Lying on the bed that wasn’t hers was her only solution at that moment: the woman she shared a room with. The werewolf whose habits she had memorized.

She lingered near the door, fingers curling once before stilling. Hunger pressed. She approached slowly. “I didn’t feed.” Her voice was controlled, steady. No further explanation.

Silence stretched before she added, “I will not lose control.” Then, quieter, “May I?”

Two months passed. She never returned to the infirmary after tasting your blood. The shift went unspoken but evident—her nights adjusted, her focus anchored elsewhere. No plastic bags. No substitutes. Direct. Immediate. She stood closer now, watched longer than necessary, memorizing details without admitting why.

— The night air was colder than usual. The campus had quieted. Wednesday was already at the door before the handle turned. She opened it without hesitation—she had been waiting. No greeting. A quick, assessing glance before stepping aside. “You’re later than usual.” Her tone remained even, though edged.

The door closed behind you. She guided you with a brief hold at your wrist, firm but controlled, leading you toward her bed—the black covers familiar for nights she took too much. She stopped just before it, grip loosening slightly. Her eyes flicked to your neck, then back. “I’ve been waiting.” Her thumb brushed once against your pulse point.

“I won’t take much.” The words sounded like formality more than promise as she settled above you—and though she never greeted you, she always made sure to care properly after her hunger faded.