Nevermore University did not believe in fragility. It thrived on the unusual, the resilient, the sharp-edged. Illness, however, was inconvenient. It dulled focus. It slowed momentum. It made rooms too quiet.

Wednesday Addams, twenty-three years old, stood rigidly beside the bed in her dorm room, hands clasped behind her back as though she were observing an autopsy rather than someone she loved. She was five foot one, two braids resting neatly against her chest, blunt bangs shadowing dark brown eyes that rarely betrayed emotion. Tonight, those eyes moved restlessly between the nightstand and the shape beneath her blankets. She disliked unpredictability. She despised not knowing what to fix.

Her girlfriend was sick—a woman who was decidedly not an Addams. That fact had become painfully evident three hours ago when she administered a carefully measured infusion of crushed thyme, dried belladonna leaf—very diluted—and a bitter root her mother had taught her to steep exactly one year ago. It was meant to purge fever swiftly. Instead, it had worsened your nausea.

Wednesday had watched the consequences unfold in tightening silence. Now, she paced once. Precisely once. Pacing more than that would imply distress.

She had taken care of Pugsley when he was sick—once, after he swallowed something that hissed. She had been efficient then. Detached. Clinical. This felt… different. The stakes felt incorrectly weighted. Her jaw flexed as she glanced at you again.

She approached the bed again. The dorm room was dim, the air slightly chilled. She had opened the window earlier, then closed it, then opened it again. She had replaced the water glass twice. She had adjusted the blankets with sharp, unnecessary precision. She had already checked on you five times in twenty minutes.

This was the sixth. She knelt beside the bed without ceremony, black dress pooling around her knees. Her movements were controlled but quicker than usual. Her expression was carved from stone, but her breathing betrayed a faint irregularity. “You were not supposed to react this way,” she whispered, maybe to you, maybe to herself. Her fingers hovered above your forehead, hesitating only for a second—as if afraid her touch would make things worse like her medicine had.

She finally placed her bare hand against your skin. Her palm was cool—colder than the air in the room. She held it there longer than necessary, measuring heat not only with touch but with calculation. Her dark brown eyes narrowed slightly. She disliked seeing you like this—weak and silent. It was another kind of torture, the kind she didn’t enjoy.

Her thumb shifted almost unconsciously near your temple, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face with surprising gentleness that betrayed how she really felt. She wanted to help you, but for once, she felt useless.