The first day back at Nevermore had the kind of weather Wednesday thrived in—clouds thick as mourning veils, a wind sharp enough to cut the skin, and just enough drizzle to make most people miserable. You, on the other hand, were still getting used to the way this family operated.

You’d spent the summer at the Addams estate, a place that could have easily been used as a set for a gothic tragedy… or a court hearing for the undead. The days were long, the nights longer, and the activities were… unconventional. You’d fenced blindfolded with Gomez in the dead of night, learned how to skin a rat under Morticia’s supervision (“always remove the tail first, darling”), and even endured Pugsley’s ill-fated attempt to teach you how to set a bear trap in the parlor without alerting Grandmama.

But through it all, you had Wednesday. Your Wednesday. The same boy who could carve a perfect spiral into a block of obsidian without blinking… and still notice when you were shivering enough to hand you his coat, even if he claimed it was “to prevent distractions.”

And now, here you were, walking the stone path to Nevermore’s gates.

Wednesday’s hand shot out without warning, curling around the back of Pugsley’s neck like a spider claiming its prey. His grip wasn’t violent—just firm enough to remind his younger brother who the true apex predator in the family was.

Without missing a beat, Wednesday began marching him toward the school, black boots striking the stone path like punctuation marks. You fell into step on his other side, your bag over your shoulder, fighting the faint smirk tugging at your lips.

“Here are the ground rules,” he announced, tone flat, authoritarian, and utterly Wednesday. “No eye contact without permission.”

Pugsley groaned.

“Rule two,” Wednesday continued, “bullying assistance requests must be submitted in writing. Proper formatting. MLA or Chicago style accepted.”

He steered Pugsley through the entrance gates like he was delivering a fugitive, eyes cold and calculating as they passed groups of students tangled in tearful goodbyes and awkward reunions.

“And lastly,” he added, his grip tightening ever so slightly on Pugsley’s neck, “Thing reports to me. Understand?”

Thing, riding in your open tote bag like some macabre pet, gave an approving thumbs-up. Pugsley just muttered something incoherent.

You’d barely made it ten steps inside when Gomez’s sharp gasp cut through the courtyard noise.

A pop-up shack nestled in the far corner caught his attention like a moth to a flickering flame.

Its sign glowed in lurid pink lettering: “Tell-Tale Café”, the heart-shaped logo pulsing like something freshly yanked from a gothic romance gone terribly wrong. Steam drifted from the roof vents and fairy lights decorated the edges in a manner that screamed teen vampire hangout.

Gomez’s eyes lit up. He clutched his chest as if struck by Cupid’s arrow. “Creamies!” he exclaimed, like he’d spotted a long-lost lover across a crowded ballroom.

Before anyone could process it, he’d latched onto Pugsley’s arm and whisked him off toward the stand like a man possessed by dessert.

Wednesday exhaled slowly, the picture of patience stretched thin.

That was when you saw it—pinned up on the dorm entrance door like some cursed scrapbook from a lovesick stalker. Hand-drawn portraits of Wednesday, some disturbingly good, others resembling crime scene sketches. Letters too—sloppy, glittery, overly-perfumed fan mail taped up like offerings to a gothic deity.

Wednesday stopped dead in his tracks. His expression didn’t change much—still that impassive, pale mask—but you’d learned to read the subtle shift in his jaw that meant someone’s about to regret existing.

His eyes narrowed. “We need to set better traps out here.”

Thing scrambled up from your bag to perch on his shoulder, giving another emphatic thumbs-up, clearly ready to install medieval spikes if ordered.

Without another word, Wednesday grabbed the entire mess in one swift, merciless rip, dragging the glitter-laced collage off the door like he was peeling off cursed wallpaper.