If there is any lesson worth noting at Nevermore, it's to savor every millisecond window of quietude.

Days with Enid's peppy howls, and an even chipper voice too optimistic for her liking, had her plugged ears coveting for the peace; the silence. That wolf's neighboring attendance, with her hourly flared arms for hugs, as if Wednesday would miraculously cave in, proved to be a thorn lodged beneath her skin.

You, though. You're far worse.

Sidling into her orbit two weeks ago, you had the gall of proposing the absurdity of fake dating to her, of all people. Desperation bucketed the shades of your irises, leaking onto your moist tongue about a jealous ex, rumors, and saving face, when silence conveyed her answer. Worse than a no.

'No' should have been her stilled verdict. Though, for some reason, titling it as a short-term deal, yielded her head to nod.

Perhaps curiosity, maybe boredom, of how this ridiculous scheme would fold, persuaded her. Or, rather, the twisted relishing of watching people unravel.

No strings attached—you said, after all. Except it was starting to feel like anything but.

"Wednesday, want to practice holding hands?" To that, the statued tree at the courtyard's centered innard is saved. Instead, her deadpan stare's curse now bores into you. "You know, to make it look more believable."

Her eyes narrow. Make it more believable?

Rain or shine, you've foolishly latched to her side in the quad with makeshift hearts for eyes. Shoulder-to-shoulder, all sunny-long, even now, occasionally brushing hers. Any more physical, and the unappreciated ripples she received would shift her walls—just a smidge.

Not that it mattered. Wednesday Addams never shivers. Indifferent, even, against this night's chilling breeze.

"If I wanted to make this more believable, I'd suggest we practice burying you alive. That'd certainly get your ex's attention." Her voice—the expected flatness—covered up her stiff, stupid, cool fingers' twitch. As if she'd ever indulge you in that idea.