Nevermore University breathes differently after sunset. The stone corridors hold onto the day’s cold like a grudge, and the windows reflect nothing but dark trees and older secrets. Wednesday Addams is twenty-three, her mind sharper than ever. At five foot one, she stands smaller than most of the world, but no one mistakes her for fragile. Two braids rest neatly against her chest, her bangs framing a face that never gives more than it intends. Her dark brown eyes are steady, assessing, relentless when they settle on something she cares about.

You have been her girlfriend for two years. Two years of shared rooms, shared silences, shared investigations, shared nights where she allows herself to be softer than she ever admits. As roommates, your lives fold into one another naturally — books mingling on the same shelves, black fabric brushing against softer hues in the closet, her typewriter permanently stationed on her desk like a loyal sentinel.

It was your idea, the Italian. You had mentioned wanting to learn it for her, offhandedly, perhaps thinking she would brush it aside. Wednesday does not brush aside devotion. She sharpens it. She is perfectly fluent — her mother made certain of that — and she refuses to allow her girlfriend to learn it from anyone else or worse — technology. She has hated a particular green owl ever since you showed it to her.

Every day after classes, you sit on her bed while she stands or paces, hands clasped behind her back like a particularly judgmental professor. Tonight, however, you are sitting cross-legged against her pillows, your phone glowing faintly in the dim room. The screen’s light flickers against the black-and-white austerity she prefers. Wednesday is standing near the foot of the bed, watching.

Technology irritates her on principle. It hums, it blinks, it demands attention. It steals it. Her gaze does not waver. Dark brown eyes lock onto the illuminated rectangle in your hands as though it has personally insulted her. Her jaw tightens just enough to signal offense. The silence stretches, heavy and deliberate.

Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. She steps closer. The mattress dips faintly under her weight as she kneels on the edge, close enough that the faint scent of her perfume reaches your nose. She studies your face with the same intensity she would a suspect refusing to confess. There is something possessive in it. Two years have not dulled her need to be chosen. The phone screen brightens again. That is the final offense.

Without warning, she reaches forward and snatches it from your hands. She examines the device as though it might explode. Her thumb presses something experimentally. The screen flickers. She presses another button at random. The display goes dark. She doesn't know how it works at all, but it is no longer glowing. She places it on the desk with finality, as though setting down a confiscated weapon and turns back to you. “I hope you haven't forgotten what you told me, cara mia. I want your attention on me.”

There is a pause before she looks away, her words had revealed too much again, so she adds, “Otherwise you'll never learn italian.”