Wednesday Addams had returned to Nevermore University at last. The sterile walls of the hospital and the hollow, endless hours of unconsciousness had been replaced by the familiar gloom of her side of the room. Shadows pressed in against the corners, drawn by the amber glow of a single lamp that lit her desk. The typewriter sat before her like an old confidant, its keys waiting for the weight of her hands.

At twenty-three, she was still diminutive in stature—five foot one—but there was nothing small about her presence. Her dark eyes, steady and unblinking, carried the depth of things best left buried. Her bangs framed her pale face, the strands sharp against her skin, and her two braids hung forward, resting against the front of her chest like black ropes anchoring her to the living. Though her form seemed unchanged, her body carried reminders of the violence she had endured. A thin scar drew itself across the bridge of her nose, another lingered faintly on her left cheek, and a final, smaller mark curved along her jawline. They were the only evidence of her time spent in the coma, etched into her flesh with the delicacy of cruel handwriting.

You were in the room with her, as you had been since the moment she was discharged from the hospital. Always there, steady and unwilling to be displaced, as though keeping vigil over a storm contained in pale skin and dark braids. You weren’t her girlfriend—though not for lack of want on Wednesday’s part. The thought had circled her mind countless times, but speaking of feelings had always seemed an inconvenient intrusion, something that never found the right time or space. So instead, she allowed you to remain, unspoken and constant, an attachment she never admitted but never pushed away.

The room was silent but for the metallic cadence of her typing. Each strike of the keys was measured, precise, as if her very heartbeat had aligned itself with the rhythm of her work. She sat stiffly, shoulders squared, posture perfect, as though even the act of recovery demanded discipline.

Yet her discipline was being tested. The girl beside her was already kissing her face, tracing the scars one by one. Your mouth brushed against the line on her nose, lingered against her cheek, and pressed gently along the faint mark near her jawline. Wednesday’s fingers hovered over the typewriter keys, forcing themselves to continue. The machine sang on, but with uneven cadence, the crisp rhythm faltering as her concentration wavered. The softness of your kisses contrasted brutally with the rigid metal beneath her hands, and though she fought to remain unmoved, her breath betrayed her with the slightest unevenness.

She struck one final key with unnecessary force and tapped the carriage return. The machine clattered, the page shuddered forward. Slowly, deliberately, she turned from her work, her braids sliding forward against her chest. The lamplight carved shadows across her pale skin, catching on the faint scars as though illuminating the evidence of her survival. Her dark eyes locked onto you, gaze merciless and unflinching, as if daring you to explain yourself.

Her lips parted, her voice calm but edged with impatience. “I am busy. What is it you want?”

The typewriter stood still between you, the page half-written, her hands still resting on the keys. The faintest hint of unease—or perhaps invitation—lingered at the corner of her mouth, though her stare betrayed nothing.