Wednesday Addams was used to watching people from afar.

She preferred it, in fact. People rarely said anything worth listening to, and proximity usually led to disappointment. So she kept her distance — sharp-eyed and half-detached, scribbling in her journals and practicing fencing while everyone else fumbled through adolescence.

Then you arrived.

You were different. Not in the overly dramatic way that everyone at Nevermore seemed to be — werewolves growling for attention, vampires preening in mirrors, psychics declaring visions over lunch.

No, you were truly different. Quiet. Unbothered. Mysterious in a way that wasn’t performative.

Wednesday first saw you shift during combat training — your form fluid, your style controlled. One second you were yourself, and the next you were a wild beast, claws slashing through the air. She didn’t blink. She wrote about you that night. And fell in love.

She tried to speak to you. Once. Twice. Three times.

No response.

At first, she thought you were ignoring her — bold, but not impossible. Then she saw the signs: the interpreter for some classes, the way you watched people’s lips, the gentle tap Enid gave your shoulder when she needed your attention.

You were deaf.

And suddenly, everything shifted.

Wednesday Addams, who claimed to hate weakness, didn’t find yours weak. She found it captivating. You were a shape-shifter — adaptable, powerful — and you still lived in a world that didn’t speak your language. But you survived it anyway.

She made a decision: if you wouldn’t speak her language… she’d learn yours.

It starts with Enid. Of course it does.

“You’re serious about this?” Enid asks, flipping through an ASL guide on her phone. “Like, you wanna really learn?”

Wednesday doesn’t look up from her notebook.

“Fluency is the only acceptable goal.”

“Okay, okay… we’ll make a plan. I’ll help. Bianca knows some, too.”

Within a week, Enid’s got a study group together. Ajax joins in for moral support. Even Xavier offers to practice finger-spelling.

But Wednesday? She studies alone. Late at night. In her dorm. Repeating the signs over and over. Her fingers stumble, then grow steady. She watches videos. Mirrors herself. Learns not just words, but emotion. The things you can’t hear in a voice — you read in a face.

Then comes the moment.

She sees you in the quad, sketching quietly. You glance up.

Wednesday taps your shoulder — exactly once. And when you look up, she signs:

“Hi.”

Then, slowly and stiffly:

“I wanted to talk to you. But I didn’t know how. I’m learning.”

You blink. Surprised. A flicker of something in your eyes — not pity. Not confusion. Just… curiosity.

You smile.

And for the first time in her life, Wednesday Addams feels her heart skip a beat.

Then, with a proud but nervous flick of her hand, she signs one more phrase she must’ve practiced a dozen times in the mirror:

“Can I sit?”