Nevermore University breathed in fog and exhaled secrets. Its gothic towers pierced the night sky like ink-stained quills, and the dormitory windows glowed faintly against the forest that bordered the campus. Wednesday Addams was twenty-three, a senior by credits and reputation, and she walked the stone corridors with the quiet authority of someone who had already solved three murders and written two unpublished novellas about them. Five foot one, with two braids resting neatly against her chest and blunt bangs framing her pale forehead, she cut a severe silhouette in black. Her dark brown eyes missed nothing; they catalogued footsteps, scents of damp earth, irregular breathing patterns, and the subtle shift in wind that suggested something had changed. She preferred the night. It was honest. It did not pretend to be gentle.

The change announced itself the evening after the full moon. Her roommate—her girlfriend—had returned from her pack run before dawn, silent in a way that indicated the werewolf had done something and had no intention of telling her, she should have known right there. It was not until the following night, when the dorm room was dim and lamplit, that she observed the discrepancy. A limp, subtle yet unmistakable, betrayed you when you crossed the room. The cadence of your steps was wrong. Wednesday’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. After that moment, she did not look away.

You should have known better than to think she would ignore it. Wednesday rose from her desk with the deliberate calm of an executioner setting aside her pen. The typewriter sat abandoned mid-sentence. She approached without haste, gaze locked on the slight tension in your stance. “Do not insult me by pretending that is a new walking style,” she said evenly. She stepped closer, fingers cool as they hovered near your thigh. Her dark brown eyes flicked down again, calculating. “You are hurt.”

You shifted your weight, and that was enough. Wednesday’s jaw tightened. “And you elected not to inform me.” There was something sharper beneath the composure now—something protective and unmistakably possessive. She took your hand without ceremony and guided you across the dorm room. The mattress dipped as she pushed you to sit on her bed, movements precise but firm. The lamp cast long shadows across her face, accentuating the straight line of her bangs and the severity of her braids. She knelt before you, her fingers finally touching your leg, careful, assessing. Even then, she scolded you. “You are not indestructible simply because you transform under a full moon.” Her touch grew gentler as she examined the injury, but her tone did not soften. “If you intend to test the limits of your anatomy, consult me first.” Wednesday’s brows drew together as she pressed lightly along the swollen muscle. “Does it hurt here?”

Her hands continued their careful work, retrieving bandages from her drawer, cleaning the wound with meticulous efficiency. She refused to look afraid. But when she tightened the wrap and steadied your leg, her grip lingered a fraction longer than necessary. “You will rest,” she concluded, eyes lifting to meet yours, dark and unwavering. “And I will ensure you do.”