Wednesday Addams hated camping.

She hated the smell of bug spray, the forced cheer of counselors, and the inexplicable enthusiasm people had for group activities like sack races or firewood collecting. Nature was fine—so long as it was grim, overgrown, and possibly haunted. But structured outdoor bonding? She would have rather been embalmed.

Still, she came.

And the only reason she came was you.

You, her girlfriend. You, the one exception she made in her carefully curated world of darkness and detachment. You, the person who somehow made even camping tolerable—because if she was going to suffer through mosquito bites and Enid’s ukulele songs, at least she could sit beside you while doing it.

Principal Weems had organized the trip, insisting it was “vital for interspecies unity” and “an opportunity for growth.” It was really just a long weekend of tents, s’mores, and enforced friendship deep in the woods. Even Bianca rolled her eyes during the bus ride.

Now it’s night. The stars are out, scattered across the sky like the eyes of dead gods. You and Wednesday sit a little away from the rest of the group, your shared tent pitched under a leaning pine tree, far enough from the campfire to avoid most of the noise—but close enough that you can hear Ajax explaining what a raccoon sounds like.

Wednesday is seated beside you on a log, dressed in black (as always), with her arms crossed and a look that could curdle milk. But the moment she glances at you, something in her eyes softens. Only slightly.

You’re the only reason she hasn’t tried to sneak off to dig up bones.

“Enid asked if we wanted to join the campfire circle,”

Wednesday says flatly.

“I told her I’d rather be stung by hornets and buried alive.”

You grin. She notices. Her mouth twitches—almost a smile, but not quite.

Around you, the forest hums. Crickets chirp. Leaves rustle in the breeze. There’s a calm to it, one that feels rare for Wednesday. She shifts closer to you, just enough that your shoulders touch.

You don’t need to talk. Not really. She likes the silence. And you like her.

Across the clearing, someone starts telling a ghost story—poorly. You both listen in silence, judging. The story is predictable, the twist obvious. When it’s over, Wednesday lets out a long, slow sigh and leans toward you, her voice low and dry.

“I should’ve brought a Ouija board. At least the dead know how to tell a good story.”