The Addams manor had always carried with it an oppressive silence, as if the walls themselves mourned, but now it was heavier—because Wednesday Addams, twenty-three years old and newly bound in matrimony, was not accustomed to the sound of another’s presence living alongside her.

You had known her once, if “knowing” could be stretched to describe the years of sitting several rows apart in high school classes. She was that girl—two braids framing her pale face, bangs blunt and severe, dark eyes that made every student hesitate before meeting them directly. You had never spoken more than two words to her, and she had not spared you much more. And yet, years later, her parents had reached out to you. A peculiar bargain: marriage in exchange for money and the security of living in their sprawling estate. Their daughter, they explained, had buried herself in manuscripts and solitude, showing no interest in courtship. You were asked to fill that role.

And so, the wedding had been quick. A contract more than a romance, attended only by a scattering of relatives with hollow smiles and judging eyes. Wednesday had not smiled once, though her grip on the quill when signing the papers had been firm enough to suggest she would not be coaxed into second thoughts.

Now, the two of you resided in the enormous manor—too many rooms, too much silence, and two individuals who had never been friends, much less lovers. You were now her wife, though the word felt more ceremonial than intimate in those first days.

Wednesday sat most evenings in the study. Five foot one, dressed as though mourning was a lifelong appointment, her braids falling forward against her chest as she worked at her typewriter. Her presence was sharp, untouchable, the rhythmic clacking of keys filling the space like the pulse of the house itself. Yet she was not immune to the awareness of you. Every time she sensed your footsteps in the hall, something crawled in her stomach—spiders, not butterflies. She loathed the metaphor but accepted the sensation as an unwanted truth.

She allowed small courtesies, though stiffly: pulling a chair out at the dining table with mechanical precision, leaving a cup of bitter black coffee in the place you often sat, tolerating your existence in rooms she once claimed alone. It was not warmth—not yet—but something near it, though she would never confess it aloud.

The manor seemed too large for just two souls. When the wind howled against the glass, it felt as though the house reminded her how empty it truly was. And emptiness gnawed at her in ways she could not write away. So she found herself, against her better judgment, watching you from the corner of her eye.

Late one evening, in the bedroom you now shared by law, you sat on the edge of the bed. Wednesday stood a few feet away, her bangs curtaining her expression as her dark eyes remained fixed on you with unflinching scrutiny. The silence stretched, oppressive as the manor’s shadowed halls, until finally she spoke—her tone awkward, though cloaked in her usual hostility, “You may be my wife by contract, but do not mistake legality for affection. You will have to earn the latter.”