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Chapter Text

The morning of Nevermore Academy’s graduation ceremony dawned gray and brooding, which Wednesday Addams took as a personal blessing. A sky the color of iron felt appropriate—anything sunnier would’ve been an insult to the solemnity of parting. The courtyard had been transformed into a sea of violet and silver, a ceremonial display of school pride that would’ve made any other student swell with nostalgia. Wednesday merely observed it with clinical detachment, her dark eyes tracing the movement of faculty and students as if studying insects in a controlled environment.

Everywhere she looked, clusters of graduates adjusted their tassels, hugged tearfully, or posed for photographs that would one day collect dust. She, of course, stood apart. Her own cap and gown were not Nevermore purple but a rich, deliberate black, trimmed in ash-gray satin. The tassel—also gray—swayed against her shoulder in the faint breeze. It was a small rebellion, sanctioned only because Morticia Addams was now Nevermore’s principal, and no one dared question her daughter’s preference for mourning hues.

The graduates filed into neat rows as the band played its haunting rendition of the school anthem. Wednesday stood between Enid Sinclair, vibrating with excitement, and Bianca Barclay, whose poise was as precise as ever. When Headmistress—no, Principal—Morticia Addams took the podium, the crowd fell silent.

“Today,” Morticia began, her voice smooth and lilting, “marks not an ending, but a transformation. You have all faced darkness and light here at Nevermore, and, I trust, you have learned to dance between them.”

A ripple of laughter followed the remark. Wednesday’s lips barely twitched.

After the customary speeches, honors were announced. Bianca Barclay, with her impeccable grades and steady composure, was named valedictorian. The crowd erupted in polite applause. Wednesday didn’t bother to join them. She had missed the title by precisely two points, and rather than resentment, she felt only relief. The thought of standing before an audience and delivering an emotional speech about “growth” and “friendship” made her stomach turn.

Bianca, to her credit, delivered her valedictorian speech with grace. She spoke eloquently of perseverance, unity, and strength—concepts Wednesday generally found tiresome but appreciated when framed through intelligence. When it ended, Bianca caught Wednesday’s gaze across the stage and offered a small, knowing smirk. Wednesday’s chin lifted almost imperceptibly, an acknowledgment of mutual respect. Enemies once, adversaries perhaps still, but now bound by the rare, quiet recognition of each other’s brilliance.

When the final names were called, caps soared into the fog-dimmed sky. Wednesday didn’t throw hers. She kept it firmly in hand, unwilling to surrender something that had cost her years of tedium and blood (figuratively speaking—though not entirely).

Afterward, the courtyard buzzed with farewells. Morticia drifted among parents, her grace unshakable, while Gomez wept openly into a handkerchief embroidered with the Addams crest. Pugsley darted between groups of students, proudly wearing his sophomore pin, and Uncle Fester lurked near the refreshments, stealing éclairs and frightening the catering staff. Thing perched on the edge of a table, waving occasionally, though most mistook him for a grotesque decoration.

Wednesday, meanwhile, lingered near the fountain, the carved ravens above it spouting thin streams of water that glimmered like veins of mercury. She was already thinking of her next chapter—the isolated estate she’d inherited deep in the woods of New Jersey. For the first time, she would live entirely alone, governed by her own rules and silence. The thought thrilled her in ways she would never admit aloud.

A familiar burst of color broke through the monotone crowd.

“Weds!” Enid Sinclair bounded toward her, arms open and smile radiant enough to make Wednesday consider temporary blindness.

“You survived,” Wednesday said coolly.

Enid laughed, breathless and glowing. “Barely. Do you know how many times I almost tripped walking across that stage? I would’ve died. Literally.”

“One can hope,” Wednesday murmured.

Enid elbowed her, unfazed. “You know, you could at least pretend to be sad that we’re graduating.”

“I am not sad,” Wednesday replied. “I am, however, mildly inconvenienced by the social expectation of sentimentality.”

Enid rolled her eyes but smiled softly. “You’ll miss me.”

“I will miss your noise,” Wednesday said, “the way one misses the hum of a refrigerator after it stops working—unsettling in its absence.”

That earned her a laugh. Then, Enid’s voice softened. “When I get back home to San Francisco… my mom’s going to go full pack mode. She’s already talking about setting me up with some ‘suitable’ werewolf. Probably a guy who howls in key.”

“Then bite him,” Wednesday said simply.

Enid sighed, looking down at her shoes. “You make it sound so easy. I just… I don’t want to go back to pretending to be something I’m not. Nevermore actually felt like home.”

There it was—a note of emotion that pressed at the edges of Wednesday’s chest like a dull ache. She didn’t speak immediately. Instead, she studied Enid’s face: the trembling smile, the pink at the corners of her eyes. So unbearably human. So terribly sincere.

Enid’s voice was small when she added, “You’ll write me, right?”

“I’ll dread it,” Wednesday said.

Enid blinked, then smiled faintly, recognizing the meaning beneath the words. “Good. I’ll make sure my letters are extra long, just to torture you.”

Then she moved forward, arms wrapping around Wednesday in a warm, impulsive hug. For a heartbeat, Wednesday froze. The instinct to retreat prickled across her nerves—but she didn’t move. She allowed it. She even, quietly, leaned her cheek against Enid’s shoulder for half a second before stepping back.

“Promise me you’ll at least open the letters,” Enid said, half laughing, half crying.

“I will dread that, too.”

Just then, a sharp, impatient voice cut through the hum of the crowd.

“Enid! Let’s go!”

They both turned to see Esther Sinclair standing at the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed, expression tight. Her perfect hair and tailored beige suit stood out like an insult among the swirling purples and blacks of the graduates. Her eyes landed on Wednesday, assessing, cold, and vaguely disapproving—like a woman studying a dangerous animal in a cage she wasn’t sure was locked.

Wednesday met her gaze without so much as a flicker of emotion. She’d seen that look a thousand times before. Fear dressed as civility.

“Coming, Mom!” Enid called, giving Wednesday an apologetic shrug.

Wednesday’s gaze lingered briefly on Esther. “Do me a favor,” she said quietly, “and instead of biting whoever your mother pairs you with… bite her instead.”

Enid laughed despite herself, the sound bright against the gloom. “You’re awful.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Enid smiled through her tears. “Goodbye, Wednesday.”

“Goodbye, Enid.”

Morticia’s voice called from across the courtyard, smooth and faintly amused. “Darling, the carriage awaits.”

Wednesday turned, the black of her gown rippling as she moved toward her family. Gomez waved proudly. Pugsley cheered. Fester tipped his hat. Thing gave a solemn thumbs-up.

As the Addams family prepared to depart for their New Jersey mansion, Wednesday allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder. Enid was still there, waving enthusiastically, sunlight catching her blonde curls in a halo of gold.

Wednesday didn’t wave back. She only watched—expression unreadable, heart disturbingly aware of its own pulse.

For the first time in years, she would not be sharing a room, or her silence, or her life with anyone.

And the thought filled her with something she could only describe as… anticipation.

Two days had passed since the spectacle of Nevermore’s graduation, and the Addams Family estate had returned to its natural rhythm—a low, elegant hum of macabre domesticity. The chandeliers dripped with candlelight; portraits with shifting eyes watched from the walls; and Morticia’s roses, freshly decapitated, bled elegantly in their crystal vases.

In the midst of it all, Wednesday Addams was packing.

Her childhood room, though still immaculate, looked oddly sterile now. The shelves once lined with neatly stacked volumes of Gothic fiction and jars of preserved specimens stood bare. The guillotine-shaped lamp she’d built at thirteen sat unplugged on her desk, its blade gleaming faintly. A raven skull paperweight—one of her favorites—rested beside her old typewriter, waiting to be placed in the final trunk.

Most people, she supposed, would feel some deep, saccharine sentiment at moments like this. A pang of nostalgia. The heaviness of farewell.

She felt none of that.

“Adiós,” she murmured instead, glancing around the room one last time. The word rolled easily off her tongue, soft and definitive.

Her typewriter—black, steel, and satisfyingly heavy—was the last thing to go. It was an antique model, slightly temperamental, but she adored it. It was the instrument through which she translated her most delightful thoughts into paper and ink—thoughts that had, as it happened, made her unexpectedly wealthy.

It had started the summer before her senior year at Nevermore, when an unsuspecting literary agent stumbled upon one of her short manuscripts—an exploration of grief, death, and moral rot disguised as a mystery novel. The agent had written to her with trembling enthusiasm, begging for the rights. Wednesday agreed, on the condition that nothing be changed. No edits. No softening of language. No happy endings.

To her surprise, the publisher complied.

The books were released that autumn and, much to her disgust and satisfaction, flew off the shelves. Critics called it “hauntingly brilliant.” Readers called it “disturbing but addictive.” Wednesday called it “adequate.”

By winter, it had become a national bestseller. She made enough money to never rely on her parents’ fortune again—though Gomez still insisted on sending her monthly stipends “for sentimental reasons.”

A smaller leather case held the completed manuscripts of her Viper de la Muerte series: the first novel, her twisted debut that had captured the morbid hearts of readers everywhere, and its sequel, penned the same summer she secured her publisher.

Her third book remained in progress, locked in her typewriter and demanding the kind of quiet only complete isolation could offer. And isolation, she was pleased to recall, was precisely what awaited her.

She shut the typewriter case with a click that echoed faintly off the walls.

A soft shuffle behind her announced Thing’s presence. The disembodied hand crawled up onto her trunk and tapped twice, as if asking, Are you certain?

“Yes,” she said without turning. “Complete solitude requires, regrettably, complete solitude.”

Thing drooped, fingers curling in resignation. He had been with her since the beginning—through dorm raids, botched murder investigations, and all her near-death escapades at Nevermore. Watching him sulk now made something small and inconvenient twist in her chest.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said flatly. “You’ll have the mansion, Mother’s cooking, and Pugsley’s chaos. I’ll have… silence.”

Thing gave a small, dramatic wave before crawling off the trunk and out the door.

Wednesday adjusted the black ribbon tied at her collar and took one last look around her childhood room. It looked lifeless now, just as she preferred it.

Outside, the estate’s long drive was misted over in gray fog. Lurch stood beside the Addams hearse, loading the last of her belongings into the attached carriage—a dark, ornate structure that resembled a cross between a funeral coach and a gothic freight truck.

Her family gathered on the front steps to see her off.

“Ah, mi pequeña autora,” Gomez said, sweeping her into a brief, exuberant hug that she tolerated with minimal resistance. “Our little genius off to haunt her own estate! How proud I am, querida!”

Morticia’s smile was the kind that could make roses wilt in envy. “Do remember to eat something now and then, darling. Or at least sip something red.”

Pugsley waved, holding a half-burned slingshot. “Can I visit you sometime this summer?”

Wednesday adjusted her gloves. “No.”

Lurch opened the door of the hearse for her. The purple leather interior gleamed faintly in the morning light.

Morticia stepped closer, brushing a faint bit of lint from her daughter’s sleeve. “Your estate is prepared. Fresh linens, working electricity, and a rather stubborn ghost in the east wing. You’ll feel right at home.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched into a shadow of a smile. “Perfect.”

“Do you have everything?” Gomez asked, eyes bright with pride and moisture.

“My typewriter, my manuscripts, my knives, and my contempt for humanity,” she said. “I’ll manage.”

Morticia exhaled softly, looking at her with that knowing maternal gaze. “You always do.”

Her mother sighed fondly. “You’ll write to us, won’t you?”

Wednesday considered this. “Unlikely.”

Morticia smiled, unoffended. “Then at least promise to thrive, my darling.”

“I intend to,” Wednesday said.

Without another word, Wednesday climbed into the hearse. The door shut with a satisfying thud.

As Lurch started the engine, she looked out through the small window. Her family waved—Gomez dramatically with both hands, Morticia elegantly with one gloved finger, Pugsley enthusiastically with something that might have been a firecracker.

Thing perched on the railing, giving her a solemn salute.

The hearse rumbled down the long, fog-laced drive. The mansion receded behind her, swallowed by trees and mist.

For the first time in her life, Wednesday Addams was utterly alone.

And she’d never felt more ready.

The drive through the New Jersey woods was long, the kind of winding isolation that could make even a GPS lose faith. For Wednesday Addams, it was perfection. By the time Lurch turned the hearse down the final gravel path, dusk had already begun its slow descent, and the trees loomed like silent sentinels around the estate she would now call her own.

The manor itself stood tall and severe, its gray stone exterior veined with ivy and age. The air smelled of rain, pine, and decay — intoxicating.

As Lurch carried in the final trunk, Wednesday took her first measured steps through the foyer. Everything was as she’d instructed: antique furnishings with just enough wear to suggest history, black lace curtains framing tall windows, a grand staircase that creaked exactly once per step — perfectly unsettling.

When the last of her belongings were placed and Lurch bowed his farewell, she offered a small nod. “You may go.”

He hesitated, a low rumble of uncertainty.

“I require no assistance,” she clarified. “Nor company.”

That seemed to satisfy him. The hearse’s engine soon growled to life outside, and the sound faded into the distance until there was nothing left but silence.

Blissful, uninterrupted silence.

Wednesday exhaled slowly and turned in a slow circle, taking in the cavernous emptiness of her new home. It was exquisite — vast, echoing, untouched.

Her gaze drifted upward to the second floor landing, where a massive circular window dominated the front façade. The glass was black-paned, divided only by slender white framing, an uncanny reflection of another window she knew well.

She paused, studying it.

Enid would say it looks like the one in our old dorm, she thought dryly, her lips pressing together in reluctant amusement.

That night, she unpacked her typewriter, arranged her workspace in the study beneath that same window, and sat for a moment in the soft, clean silence of ownership. No interruptions. No roommates. No chaos.

For the first time in a long time, Wednesday Addams allowed herself the luxury of contentment.

The next few days passed in quiet, almost euphoric order. She woke early, wrote steadily, took long walks through the surrounding woods, and fed the crows who perched outside her window. When they grew restless, she found mild amusement in startling them just to watch them scatter. Life was, in every measurable sense, ideal.

Until, quite suddenly, it wasn’t.

By the fourth day, the silence began to press on her in unfamiliar ways. It wasn’t peaceful anymore — it was thick, oppressive, suffocating. The quiet didn’t sit beside her; it sat on her.

She found herself pacing the halls at night, her boots echoing too loudly on the floors. Her writing stalled. Stalking the corridors brought no comfort. Even her crow tormentations felt hollow — they squawked and flapped away, but the thrill didn’t land.

She would catch herself sitting perfectly still, staring at nothing, unable to explain the sudden weight in her chest.

Ridiculous, she decided one evening, glaring at her motionless typewriter. Perhaps isolation is simply too… peaceful.

She almost laughed at the thought. Almost.

It was on the sixth day that she received the first letter.

It arrived in the afternoon, sealed with a glittery pink sticker in the shape of a heart — an assault on her aesthetic sensibilities so violent she nearly burned it unread. But curiosity, damnable thing that it was, stayed her hand.

Inside was a letter unmistakably written by Enid Sinclair. The penmanship was chaotic, leaning heavily on the margins, and the sentences meandered breathlessly:

Howdy Roomie!!

Oh my gosh, you would not believe how weird it feels to be home again. Mom’s already trying to pair me with this totally boring pack guy named Grant (ugh) and I swear if she brings him up one more time I might actually howl. Also, I got my old room back! It looks exactly the same, except somehow smaller? I think because my wardrobe’s bigger now. Anyway! How’s the new place? You moved in yet? Please tell me it’s creepy and haunted and everything you ever dreamed of. Write back soon or I’ll assume you’ve been murdered in your sleep (kidding! mostly).

Love,

Enid

P.S. Here’s my number if you ever feel like joining us in the 21st century.

(415) 555-0123

Wednesday stared at the page for a long moment, her brow furrowed. The letter read less like a letter and more like Enid had simply… spoken onto paper.

She sighed, folded the letter neatly, and glanced toward her bedchamber where her black rotary phone sat upon a small writing table. After a brief internal debate — the kind that lasted approximately three seconds — she rose, crossed the room, and dialed the number listed.

The line rang three times before a familiar, breathless voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Enid.”

“Wednesday? Oh my god! You actually called! Wait—are you using an actual phone? Did you finally decide to join the amazing world of the 21st century?”

“A rotary phone,” Wednesday corrected, deadpan. “An artifact from a time when communication required patience and dexterity.”

Enid laughed, bright and effervescent even through the crackle of the line. “Yeah, okay, that sounds way more like you. I just didn’t think you’d ever call me, like, voluntarily.”

“I was curious,” Wednesday replied simply. “Curiosity is a fatal flaw.”

“Aw, you missed me,” Enid teased.

“I said curious, not sentimental.”

Their banter flowed easily, naturally — a rhythm that felt both familiar and maddeningly alive. Wednesday asked, “Have you gone on that date your mother arranged?”

A groan erupted from the other end. “Ugh, yes, and it was awful! He talked about his protein intake for forty-five minutes, Wednesday. Forty-five! I counted. And he tried to impress me by shifting halfway through dinner like—like that’s a thing people do in restaurants!”

Wednesday listened, expression neutral, as Enid launched into a full tirade about Grant, her mother, her pack, and the impossibility of dating under maternal supervision. The words came in a flood, unstoppable.

And somewhere between Enid’s rant about protein shakes and her tangent about full-moon etiquette, Wednesday’s fingers found her typewriter keys.

She didn’t plan it. It simply happened — the rhythm of Enid’s voice filling the silence that had plagued her, turning it into something alive.

Click. Click. Click.

By the time the phone call ended — Enid promising to “call her next time, since someone clearly doesn’t believe in texting” — Wednesday hung up and sat back. Her eyes flicked to the pages spilling from her typewriter.

Ten of them. Fully written.

She stared at them in quiet disbelief.

Fascinating.

Of course, the logical explanation was environmental. Perhaps sound — even disorganized, hyperactive sound — could stimulate her creative process. Yes. That must be it.

Still, as she glanced toward the letter lying open beside her, Wednesday Addams couldn’t quite ignore the faint, inexplicable warmth that had settled in her chest.

And for the first time in days, the silence didn’t feel so unbearable.

The following days unfolded in an oddly predictable pattern — one Wednesday would have found humiliating if she were capable of such an emotion.

Each morning began as usual: breakfast of black coffee and regret, a walk through the overgrown garden, and a brief attempt at writing. And each afternoon, when the silence pressed too tightly against her skull, she found herself reaching for the rotary phone.

It had become… routine.

Enid always answered on the first or second ring, as though she’d been waiting beside the phone. Her voice would spill through the line in its usual bright torrent — updates about her pack, her latest baking experiments, or the soap opera-level drama unfolding between two werewolves over territory rights to a dog park.

Wednesday, naturally, justified these calls as character studies.

If she was to continue her Viper de la Muerte series, she reasoned, she needed to understand the psychosis of the extroverted mind — a creature driven entirely by emotion, chatter, and an aversion to silence. Enid Sinclair provided ample material.

That was all. Purely research.

At least, that’s what she told herself when she found her hand hovering over the phone again the next day.

And the next.

By the end of the week, Wednesday had written nearly forty new pages. Her rhythm had returned — her sentences precise, her imagery sharp. But the silence between calls had changed. It wasn’t quiet anymore; it was aware.

The house had begun to creak in strange intervals.

At first, she dismissed it. Old structures settled. Wood expanded, foundations shifted. Perfectly rational. But these sounds didn’t follow logic — they came only when she was still, only when she’d stopped typing.

Once, late at night, she could have sworn she heard footsteps above her — slow, deliberate. The floorboards of the second story groaned softly in a pattern too rhythmic to be the wind.

She looked up from her desk and waited.

Nothing.

She resumed typing, her fingers striking the keys with steady precision. The noise didn’t return.

The next morning, she found the window in the parlor slightly ajar. She distinctly remembered closing it the night before.

Drafts, she decided. Perhaps the latch is loose.

By the third day, it happened again. The same window. Always the same one — the circular one above her study, the one that looked so much like the dorm window she once shared with Enid.

She locked it firmly this time, listening as the metal latch clicked shut.

Still, that night, the air in her room felt colder than usual, carrying with it the faintest scent of roses and damp stone.

When she mentioned this to Enid — casually, in the middle of one of their daily calls — Enid gasped.

“Oh my god, roses and stone? That’s like, super haunted! Wednesday, please tell me your house isn’t haunted.”

“It’s not haunted,” Wednesday replied flatly. “It’s merely atmospheric.”

“Atmospheric? Wednesday, if you wake up and see a ghost at the foot of your bed, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“If I wake to find an apparition, I’ll offer it tea and see if it’s better company than you.”

“Rude!” Enid laughed, then launched into another ramble about sage, protection crystals, and “positive energy flow,” none of which Wednesday believed in but listened to all the same.

Her typewriter clacked steadily as Enid spoke. Sentence after sentence, page after page — the work poured out of her like blood from a reopened wound. And when the call finally ended, Wednesday sat motionless, her eyes lifting slowly toward the parlor window.

It was open again.

The lock, she could have sworn, had been snapped clean through.

She stared for a moment, unblinking. The wind stirred the curtains faintly, whispering something she couldn’t quite make out.

Finally, she rose, crossed the room, and shut it once more — harder this time.

Then she turned to her desk, adjusted the ribbon in her typewriter, and began to write again.

Whatever this was — drafts, house settling, something else — she refused to acknowledge it beyond logical explanation.

Still, as the keys clicked beneath her fingers, she couldn’t ignore one simple fact:

Every time she called Enid, the noises stopped.

Every time the line went dead, they began again.

The noises continued for two more nights.

Wednesday documented them, of course — time, duration, location, even the specific timbre of each creak and groan. She’d already ruled out the possibility of pests or structural instability. The only remaining explanation was either supernatural or psychological.

She preferred the latter.

Still, she noticed the pattern. Whenever she called Enid, the disturbances stopped. Whenever the line went dead, they resumed.

She tested it.

The first night, she waited until the scratching began again — faint, deliberate, like the brush of fingertips against wood — then dialed Enid’s number. The moment the phone began to ring, the sound ceased.

When Enid picked up, chirping her usual, “Hey, Wens!” the house fell silent, the air still as a tomb.

“Tell me,” Wednesday said, “what are you doing right now?”

“Uh, making banana bread. Why?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “Continue.”

And that was that. The silence held as Enid talked, warmth pouring through the receiver like sunlight bleeding under a closed door.

By the fifth night, the phone calls had become… expected. Necessary, even. And that was when Enid, mid-ramble, sighed and muttered, “Ugh, my birthday’s next week.”

Wednesday paused in her typing. “My condolences.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just—” Enid groaned dramatically. “My mom’s probably gonna make me go on another date with Grant. Remember Grant? The guy who thinks astrology is a medical condition? Yeah, that one. She’s been trying to set us up for weeks.”

“Fascinating,” Wednesday murmured. “Do continue.”

“I just don’t wanna deal with it,” Enid said. “Like, I’ll probably just pretend I’m sick or something. I dunno. Birthdays aren’t even fun anymore.”

There was a brief silence — an unfamiliar, thoughtful one — before Wednesday heard herself say it:

“Then stay with me.”

Enid blinked audibly through the line. “Wait… what?”

“Stay with me for two weeks,” Wednesday said evenly, her tone betraying no surprise at her own words. “Your birthday is in five days. You’ll come here before then. I’ll have Lurch collect you from the airport.”

“Wait—are you inviting me to your house?” Enid asked, half laughing, half in disbelief.

Wednesday hesitated only a moment before responding in that dry, surgical tone of hers. “No, Enid. I’m extending a highly elaborate threat disguised as hospitality. Of course I’m inviting you.”

There was a small, startled sound from Enid — maybe a laugh, maybe a gasp.

Wednesday continued, almost primly, “I can assure you there will be no musky, hormonally unstable werewolf suitors on the premises. And if any dare approach, I’ll neuter them myself. Consider that my birthday gift to you.”

Enid was quiet for a long beat. Then: “You’re being serious.”

“I’m always serious,” Wednesday said.

“You know what? Yeah.” Enid’s voice softened. “Yeah, okay. I’ll go.”

“Excellent,” Wednesday replied, masking the faint, unfamiliar warmth that rose in her chest. “I’ll arrange your flight.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Enid protested quickly. “I can pay for it—”

“No,” Wednesday interrupted, in that tone that brooked no argument. “You are my guest. I extended the invitation. Therefore, I’ll handle the travel arrangements.”

“Well, okay,” Enid said, smiling in her voice. “Thanks, Wens.”

Wednesday made a noncommittal noise. “We’ll see if you’re still thanking me after two weeks in this mausoleum.”

When the call ended, she sat for a moment, staring at the phone in her hand — at what she had just done. Then, before she could dwell on it, she dialed another number.

Morticia answered on the second ring.

“Mother,” Wednesday said briskly, skipping pleasantries. “Please instruct Lurch to retrieve Enid Sinclair from the airport in three days’ time. I’ll send her flight information shortly. He is to bring her directly to the estate.”

“Oh?” Morticia’s voice lilted with faint amusement. “Enid will be visiting?”

“Yes,” Wednesday replied flatly. “Unless there’s another Sinclair I’m unaware of who has reason to haunt my halls.”

“Of course,” Morticia said, clearly entertained. “May I ask what prompted this unexpected invitation?”

“You may,” Wednesday replied, “but I won’t answer.”

A soft chuckle rippled through the line. “As you wish, my morbid little hostess. I’ll have Lurch ready.”

“Good,” Wednesday said, and hung up.

She sat there for a moment, staring at the black rotary phone, the faint reflection of her face in the polished surface of her desk.

Then she exhaled through her nose — quietly, efficiently — and began to plan.

For the first time in days, the house was utterly still.

For the next few days, the estate shifted under her direction. She never once called it preparation. She simply found herself opening the east wing shutters, airing out the unused parlor, ensuring the dust was gone from the room with the large circular window — the one that, if she were inclined toward sentimentality, she might have said looked strikingly like the one she and Enid once shared at Nevermore.

She told herself it was practical. A simple matter of courtesy.

Still, she paused at that window. The circular glass glowed pale and cold in the overcast light, framed by black trim. For a moment, it was easy to imagine Enid curled up there, chattering about something inconsequential.

She blinked the thought away and stepped back.

By the third night, the eerie disturbances had ceased entirely. No creaks, no whispering drafts, no shuffling sounds in the halls. The silence returned — deep, total, heavy.

And yet, for the first time, it didn’t feel like victory.

It felt like anticipation.

Chapter Text

Enid sat cross-legged on her bed, phone still in her hand long after the line had gone dead. The faint hum of the dial tone had already faded, but her mind hadn’t caught up yet. She blinked at the phone like it might start speaking again—like Wednesday Addams might reappear on the other end and retract what she’d just said. Stay with me for two weeks. The words felt surreal, almost too heavy to belong to the same voice that once told her she looked like “a rainbow vomiting on human flesh.”

Her room was dim, lit only by the soft yellow glow of a bedside lamp that had seen better days. The floral-patterned wallpaper her mother insisted on choosing years ago was peeling in the corners, the edges curling like wilting petals. The air smelled faintly of pine and the lingering musk of wet fur—her brothers had left their scent everywhere as usual.

Enid reached up, gathering a lock of her hair between her fingers. It shimmered faintly in the lamplight—a dull, washed-out blonde. The blue and pink streaks that had once brightened her reflection were ghosts now, barely visible unless you leaned in close. She frowned. It wasn’t her. It didn’t feel like her.

She could still hear her mother’s voice, sharp and commanding, echoing in her head: “It’s unbecoming for a young werewolf on the market for a mate to dye her hair in such tacky colors.”

That word—unbecoming—burned her nerves raw every time. As if her personality, her spark, her joy, could be reduced to an accessory she wasn’t allowed to wear anymore.

Grant Larson’s stupid face flashed in her mind next, that smug, practiced smirk that made her want to shove him into a silver-lined dumpster. The pack’s “golden boy.” Her mother’s “perfect candidate.” His family was well-respected, his lineage strong, and his ego enormous. He was everything Esther Sinclair wanted in a son-in-law, and everything Enid despised in a person.

She flopped back onto her bed, groaning. “God, I can’t do this anymore.” Her ceiling offered no comfort, just a blank canvas for her frustration to bounce against. She knew Wednesday’s invitation had been unexpected—even for Wednesday—but the thought of escaping, of leaving all this control and expectation behind for two blessed weeks, filled her chest with a strange mixture of guilt and relief.

How was she going to tell her mother? Esther would never allow it. The woman treated Enid’s every movement as a PR campaign for the Sinclair family name. “Appearances matter,” she always said. “You represent us.” And lately, that “representation” meant sitting through endless dinners with Grant, pretending not to flinch every time he called her “Sunshine.”

You’re a grown ass woman, Enid thought to herself, dragging her hands down her face. Somewhat. She was eighteen, technically an adult, but under this roof she might as well have been a cub again. Still—if she didn’t say something now, she’d lose her nerve.

“Woman up and ask her,” she muttered. Then quickly amended, “No—TELL her where you’re going.”

The thought alone made her pulse skip. Her mother’s wrath wasn’t something you prepared for; it was something you survived.

As if on cue, Esther Sinclair’s voice cut through the house like a whip:

“Dinner’s ready!”

It wasn’t a call—it was a summons.

Enid flinched, heart lurching, then groaned into her pillow. “Perfect timing, Mom.”

The familiar thunder of heavy footsteps followed immediately. Her brothers—five of them—stampeded down the hallway like a pack of starving rhinos, jostling and elbowing each other as they descended. The floorboards creaked and the house seemed to sway under the collective weight of them.

“Last one down gets the scraps!” one of them yelled.

“You’re the scraps!” another shot back, followed by a loud crash and laughter.

Enid rolled her eyes. “Big backs,” she muttered under her breath.

For a moment she just sat there on the edge of her bed, staring at the open doorway. The sounds of clattering plates, loud voices, and her father’s easy chuckle drifted up from below. It was a familiar symphony of chaos, one that should have felt comforting. But tonight it felt heavier—like the air itself was waiting for her to make a move.

She exhaled slowly, pushing herself up to her feet. “Okay,” she whispered to herself. “You got this. You’re not asking. You’re telling.”

Her heart hammered as she stepped into the hallway, the laughter from downstairs echoing through the house. Each creak of the wooden floorboards beneath her feet felt like a countdown to an argument she wasn’t ready for—but couldn’t avoid.

What else was new?

The Sinclair dining room was chaos. Forks clattered, laughter roared, and the scent of seared meat filled the air so thickly you could almost taste it. Enid sat wedged between two of her five brothers, elbows drawn in tight, trying to keep from being knocked by their flailing arms as they wrestled each other over the breadbasket.

Her father, Murray, sat at the head of the long oak table, face buried behind a newspaper that looked like it might catch fire from the candlelight. He hummed occasionally, nodding at nothing in particular as though the print itself was holding a deep philosophical conversation with him.

Across from Enid, Spencer—two years older, with the same golden hair and sharp blue eyes—leaned over, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“So,” he said, voice low and teasing, “when’s the big wedding, little sis?”

Enid blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Grant Larson,” Spencer said, grinning wickedly. “You know, Mr. Perfect. Dad says he’s been sniffing around here lately. Gotta be serious if Mom’s setting up another date.”

The other brothers immediately burst into laughter, shoving each other and making obnoxious kissing noises. One of them actually howled.

Enid’s lips pressed together so tightly she could faintly taste the strawberry lip gloss she’d applied that morning. Her face felt hot, but she said nothing. She never did when they got like this. Spencer winked and turned back to his plate, victorious in his teasing.

A moment later, the scent of roasted garlic and butter cut through the noise, and every head turned as Esther Sinclair swept into the dining room. Her posture was perfect—spine straight, chin high, blonde hair pulled into a perfect coils twist that didn’t dare have a untamed strand out of place. In her hands, she carried a steaming platter of steak, blood still glistening along the edges.

Before the plate even hit the table, Enid’s brothers lunged forward like wolves in a frenzy. Forks clashed against forks; hands snatched from both ends. Murray lowered his paper just long enough to claim his piece before the carnage began, his movements slow and deliberate.

Esther took hers next—naturally, the thickest cut—and passed the platter toward Enid, though there was only one piece left. Smaller than all the rest. Just like her.

Enid swallowed her frustration, speared it with her fork, and set it on her plate.

Dinner went on as it always did. Loud. Crowded. A mess of elbows, jokes, and slurping noises. But Enid couldn’t focus. Her stomach twisted too tightly to eat. She poked at the tiny slab of steak, appetite long gone.

And then her mother started talking.

“Enid,” Esther began, slicing neatly into her meal, “I’ve spoken to the Larsons. Grant’s been asking about you again.”

Enid froze mid-chew. Here we go.

“I think it’s time for another dinner with him,” Esther continued. “I’ll schedule it for your birthday. How lovely, hmm? Your nineteenth—what a perfect time for him to make his intentions clear.”

Enid’s fork hit the plate with a quiet clink. “What?”

Esther smiled thinly. “A marriage proposal should be around the corner soon. It’s time you start preparing yourself, darling. The Larsons have an excellent reputation. Their standing in the pack will—”

“Fix my reputation?” Enid muttered under her breath.

Esther’s head snapped up. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Her mother arched a brow, cutting another piece of steak with clinical precision. “I’m saying this for your benefit, Enid. Your wolf may be weak, but with the Larson name tied to yours, no one will notice. You’ll have a place. A purpose. And once you’ve had a few strong pups, everyone will—”

Enid’s hands curled into fists under the table. “Pups?” she said, her voice trembling. “That’s all I’m useful for? Making babies?”

Esther didn’t even look up. “It’s the natural order of things, dear. You may not have inherited strength, but you can still contribute to it.”

Enid bit her tongue so hard she tasted iron. This was how it always went. Her mother chipped away at her, piece by piece, until Enid barely recognized herself anymore.

She swallowed hard, heart pounding, and forced herself to speak. “I won’t be able to go out with Grant on my birthday,” she said finally. Her voice shook, but she pressed on. “I’m… going to New Jersey.”

The clatter of cutlery stopped.

Esther slowly set down her knife. “Excuse me?”

“I’m visiting a friend,” Enid said, staring down at her plate.

“What friend?”

Enid hesitated, then lifted her gaze. “Wednesday Addams.”

A muscle twitched in Esther’s jaw. She didn’t need clarification. Everyone in the supernatural community knew that family. And Esther Sinclair despised them. The Addamses were eccentric, dark, unapologetically strange—everything Esther had spent her life scrubbing out of her own daughter.

“You are not going to that freak’s house,” Esther snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the noise.

Enid flinched but didn’t back down. “It’s just two weeks, Mom. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Esther barked out a bitter laugh. “That girl and her family are a disgrace to every decent creature in our circles. They bury themselves in filth and call it art. You will not associate with them, do you understand me?”

“They’re good people. Wednesday is my friend.”

“They are an embarrassment!”

The air seemed to thicken around the table. Her brothers had gone quiet. Even her father had lowered the paper, watching carefully but saying nothing.

Enid’s voice cracked when she spoke again. “You can’t keep controlling everything I do. I’m not a child anymore!”

Esther’s eyes narrowed into slits. “As long as you live under my roof, you’ll do as I say. And I say you are not going.”

Enid’s heart was pounding so loud she could barely hear herself over it. “I am going,” she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “And you can’t stop me.”

“Watch your tone, young lady.”

“No!” Enid slammed her hands on the table, startling even her brothers. “I’m tired of watching my tone, and my hair, and my behavior, and every single thing you hate about me! You’ve spent my whole life trying to make me into something I’m not, and I’m done!”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Esther’s voice came out low, dangerous. “You will not go. That is final.”

Enid turned desperately to her father. “Dad?”

Murray’s expression was soft, regretful. He sighed, folding his newspaper with agonizing slowness. “Maybe you should listen to your mother, sweetheart. Just… keep the peace.”

A flicker of hurt crossed Enid’s face. “Of course,” she whispered bitterly. “Keep the peace.”

Her chair scraped violently against the floor as she stood. “Well, I’m going. Whether you like it or not.”

“Enid Sinclair, don’t you dare walk away from me!” Esther shouted, rising to her feet.

But Enid was already storming out of the dining room, her steps heavy and fast. “Watch me.”

The sound of her mother’s furious voice followed her all the way up the stairs, through the hall, and into her room—until Enid slammed the door shut so hard the frame rattled.

For a long moment, she stood there, breathing hard, chest heaving. Then she slid down against the door, burying her face in her hands.

Her heart ached, but beneath the ache was something else—something sharp and certain.

She was going to New Jersey.

And for once in her life, her mother couldn’t stop her.

Enid zipped up the last compartment of her suitcase with a sharp tug, the teeth of the zipper clicking together like the final note of a decision that couldn’t be undone. Her heart beat fast — part nerves, part exhilaration. The tension in the Sinclair household had been unbearable these last three days. You could practically see it hanging in the air like thick fog, heavy and cold, choking out every attempt at peace. Her mother’s silence had become weaponized — sharp enough to draw blood even without a word.

But Enid had learned to survive it. Barely.

She glanced around her room one last time — pastel walls, her old ribbons, the little polaroids she’d taped to the mirror years ago. Everything in here looked like her, but somehow, it didn’t feel like her anymore. Not really. Not since Nevermore. Not since Wednesday.

Her phone buzzed on the bed. The Uber notification blinked on-screen. Ten minutes away.

Enid exhaled, grabbed her suitcase handle, and started down the stairs. Her luggage thunked on every step, echoing through the quiet house. Her father was in his usual chair by the fireplace, glasses low on his nose, reading the newspaper as if nothing at all was happening. Her mother sat opposite him, stiff-backed, needles clicking together as she knitted — something gray and shapeless that matched the expression on her face.

Enid hovered for a second at the bottom of the stairs, the air between them brittle and thin. “I’m… heading out now,” she said, her voice smaller than she meant it to be. “I’ll, uh… see you both in two weeks.”

Murray lowered his newspaper just enough for his eyes to meet hers. There was that same faint, weary sympathy she’d known all her life — the look that said I wish I could help, followed by the shrug that said but I won’t. Still, he gave her a faint smile. “Safe travels, sweetheart.”

Her mother didn’t look up. The rhythmic click of her knitting needles was the only reply.

Enid stood there another beat, waiting for something — a word, a glance, anything — but nothing came. So she turned, lifted her chin, and walked out the door.

The moment the air hit her face, she felt lighter.

Dragging a suitcase through the woods wasn’t exactly glamorous — twigs snagged on her jeans, and the wheels of her bag kept getting stuck in the roots — but she didn’t care. Every step through the trees was a step away from that house, that silence, that suffocating version of herself her mother had built and boxed in.

By the time she reached the main road, her arm ached, and her breath came in shallow bursts, but she smiled anyway. The Uber app said five minutes. She leaned her suitcase against the road sign, the metal warm under her palm, and pulled out her phone.

Her thumb hovered over her messages before instinctively tapping open Wednesday’s name — and then she remembered. Wednesday didn’t text. Wednesday used that ridiculous black rotary phone that probably weighed more than her suitcase. Enid huffed a soft laugh under her breath. Of course she did.

So she went to the next best thing: Yoko.

Her vampire friend’s messages had stacked up like an unending scroll of chaos:

Yoko: hey wyd

Yoko: hellllloooooooo

Yoko: ENID

Yoko: ENIIIDDDDDDDDDD

Yoko: DID U DIE?

Enid snorted, typing fast.

Enid: omg hey sorry!! I’ve been super busy these past 3 days

Enid: it’s been super fucking hectic you wouldn’t believe it

It didn’t take long for Yoko’s reply to come through.

Yoko: about damn time

Yoko: thought I’d have to wait eternity for a reply back

Enid: 🙄

Enid: I’m sure an eternity wouldn’t be long for you grandma

Yoko: got me there 😛

Yoko: wyddddd

Yoko: wanna ft ?

Enid: can’t. I don’t have WiFi at the moment. I’m waiting for my uber.

Yoko: ooh where u going?

Enid hesitated, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Should she tell her? Yoko was… persistent. Especially when it came to Wednesday. The vampire was convinced that the two of them were some kind of gothic fairytale waiting to happen. The idea made Enid flush even now — which was ridiculous.

Still, she typed it out.

Enid: Wednesday’s house.

The typing bubbles appeared instantly, and Enid braced herself.

Yoko: WEDNESDAY ADDAMS?!

Yoko: YOUR FORMER CREEPY GOTH ROOMMATE?!?!

Yoko: I DIDNT THINK THIS WOULD HAPPEN

Enid: lol why?? Wednesday and I were roommates for like 3 whole years

Enid: is it such a surprise that we’re friends???

Yoko: I mean yeah kinda

Yoko: I know you guys were friends in school but your personalities clash so much I didn’t expect it to last outside of nevermore yk??

Enid bit her lip, thinking. Yoko wasn’t wrong. She was surprised too. But still — Wednesday had called her. Had invited her. And not just for a day or two or three, but two whole weeks.

Yoko: I mean.. hey.. she lives by herself now right?

Enid: yh

Yoko: 😏😏😏

Yoko: well maybe since you guys are by yourselves.. yall can take the next step if you know what I meannnnnn

Enid rolled her eyes, laughing quietly. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered to herself, looking up just as sunlight filtered through the trees. Her Uber rounded the bend, dust kicking up behind the tires.

Enid: the only step I’ll be taking is a step away from this conversation

Enid: bye yo yo

Yoko: bye eenie meenieeee

Yoko: give Wednesday a kiss for me 😘

Enid huffed a laugh and pocketed her phone just as the car rolled to a stop beside her. The driver popped the trunk, and Enid lifted her bags in with more determination than grace. When she finally slid into the backseat, the engine humming to life, she glanced one last time at the trees behind her.

Her mother hadn’t stormed out. No one was yelling. No one was chasing her.

For once, she was free to leave.

And she was actually doing it.

The five-hour flight from San Francisco to New Jersey passed in a strange haze of nerves, excitement, and daydreaming. Enid had the window seat, forehead pressed against the cool glass as the endless sprawl of clouds drifted by below. Somewhere between the chatter of the flight attendants and the hum of the engines, her thoughts wandered — predictably — to Wednesday.

What did her house look like?

Enid had seen her dorm room at Nevermore, of course. That black-and-white minimalist cave where everything looked like it had been hand-selected from the “mournful widow” section of a catalogue. So, yeah — she could guess that Wednesday’s private home wasn’t exactly going to be pastel or cozy. But still, she couldn’t help wondering. Did she live in an old mansion? A decrepit tower? Some kind of spooky Gothic estate perched on a hill like in those horror movies Wednesday secretly loved to mock but secretly enjoyed?

Enid smiled faintly at the thought. She’d never even seen Wednesday’s family home, the one she grew up in. Wednesday had mentioned it a few times — always in that detached, almost clinical way — but never invited anyone there.

As the plane began its descent, the sunlight slanted in through the window, turning the edges of the clouds gold. It was late afternoon when the wheels touched down on the New Jersey runway, bumping slightly before slowing to a steady roll.

Enid’s heart fluttered with excitement.

Getting off the plane was a blur of motion — standing in line, claiming her luggage, maneuvering through a maze of travelers and chatter and rolling suitcases. By the time she made it to the arrival terminal, the realization hit her like a ton of bricks.

Now what?

She stood there awkwardly with her suitcase handle clutched tight in her hand, scanning the crowd of people holding up signs. She hadn’t asked Wednesday how she was supposed to get from the airport to her house. An Uber, maybe? Did she just call her? No, that was impossible — Wednesday didn’t have a cell phone. She rubbed her forehead. “Great job, Enid,” she muttered under her breath. “You survived your mother just to die of confusion in an airport.”

But then she saw him.

A familiar tall, dark figure towering easily above the crowd, holding a large white poster that read in elegant black lettering: ENID SINCLAIR.

Her smile bloomed instantly. “Lurch!”

She practically skipped — well, half-sprinted — through the crowd, her suitcase wheels clattering behind her. He hadn’t changed a bit. Same long face, same solemn expression, same air of polite gloom that somehow made Enid’s heart swell with nostalgia.

“Hey, Lurch!” she greeted breathlessly when she reached him. “Oh my gosh, it’s been forever! You look exactly the same — which, I mean, you probably always do, huh?”

Lurch blinked down at her, his eyes slow to move, and gave a single deep grunt of greeting.

Enid grinned. “Still the strong silent type, huh? Some things never change.”

He reached out one large hand and effortlessly took her suitcase and carry-on bag as though they weighed nothing, and gestured for her to follow. Enid trotted alongside his long strides, trying to keep up as they exited through the sliding airport doors and stepped into the crisp evening air.

And there it was — parked right by the curb.

The Addams Family hearse.

A soft laugh escaped her. Of course Wednesday would send her a hearse. Nothing else would have felt right. The black vehicle gleamed dully under the fading light, its silver trim catching the sun just enough to glint like teeth.

Lurch placed her bags carefully in the trunk, then moved to the back passenger door. He opened it for her with an old-fashioned bow that was so formal it almost made her giggle.

“Thank you,” she said warmly, sliding inside.

The door shut with a heavy thud, and the world outside dimmed. The air inside the hearse smelled faintly of leather, polished wood, and something vaguely floral — lilies, maybe. She buckled in and glanced instinctively toward the other seat, half-expecting to see Wednesday’s unreadable expression staring back at her.

But it was empty.

A tiny pang of disappointment pricked at her chest. She’d been secretly hoping Wednesday might’ve been there — maybe waiting in that eerie calm way of hers, pretending not to care while secretly being glad to see her. But, of course, that would’ve been too sentimental for Wednesday Addams.

“Oh well,” Enid murmured to herself with a soft smile. “Guess I’ll see her when I get there.”

The hearse’s engine rumbled to life — a deep, slow growl that made the seats vibrate slightly — and they pulled away from the airport. Enid leaned back in her seat, the cityscape of New Jersey slipping past the window in streaks of light and color as they drove.

Each mile that passed took her further from home, further from her mother’s control, and closer to the quiet, shadowed world that belonged to Wednesday Addams.

And despite everything — the uncertainty, the nerves, the exhaustion — she couldn’t stop smiling.

The drive stretched on forever.

Outside the hearse window, the last traces of city lights dissolved into the distance, swallowed by a thickening forest. The air had shifted somewhere between Newark and wherever-the-hell-this-was — heavier now, cooler, smelling faintly of wet earth and pine. The further they drove, the more the highway’s hum faded into silence. Streetlights gave way to shadow. The asphalt blurred into winding roads hemmed in by skeletal trees.

Enid had been talkative at first — babbling about her flight, the weirdly tiny pretzels they gave out, how she almost lost her headphones somewhere over Kansas — but after the second hour of Lurch’s stoic silence, her words tapered off. The hearse hummed and groaned through the dark like something alive, and her reflection in the window looked ghostly in the intermittent flicker of the dashboard light.

By the time they turned off the main road, her phone had long since lost signal. A dirt path — narrow, uneven, almost invisible — carved its way deeper into the woods.

Enid swallowed. “When she said in the forest,” she muttered under her breath, “I thought she meant, like… behind it. Not inside it.”

The trees crowded closer, so thick they almost brushed against the windows. They twisted overhead like interlocking fingers, blotting out what little moonlight there was. She couldn’t see where the road ended — if it even did.

She tried to distract herself by thinking about what Wednesday’s house might look like. Probably gloomy. Definitely dark. She pictured some brooding black manor straight out of a Tim Burton movie, or maybe something that looked like it had its own tragic backstory. Whatever it was, it would be… so Wednesday.

Still, when the trees finally broke and the house appeared, Enid’s breath hitched.

It was enormous. Not a mansion exactly, but sprawling and beautifully eerie — a modern gothic estate made of deep gray stone and black wood, its edges softened by ivy that climbed over the walls like veins. The architecture was severe but graceful, as if every beam and arch had been drawn with precision. A wide wraparound porch circled the lower level, and the upper floor glowed faintly with a few warm lights, the kind that looked like candles behind sheer curtains.

And there — near the very top — was a small circular window, dimly lit from within. The attic, Enid guessed. Because of course Wednesday had one.

There was no fence. No grand gate. Just the house—sitting in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees like it had sprouted straight from the forest floor. It didn’t look built. It looked placed. Like it had been dropped here centuries ago and the woods had simply grown around it.

The hearse rolled to a stop. Lurch climbed out, silent as a shadow, and came around to open her door.

“Thanks,” Enid said, stepping out into the night. The air bit at her skin, damp and cool. Somewhere in the trees, a crow called. Or maybe it was something else — the sound carried too long, too hollow.

She forced a bright smile anyway, pulling her cardigan tighter. “So… cozy neighborhood.”

Lurch didn’t respond, of course. He was already pulling her luggage from the trunk, handling everything with deliberate care.

Enid’s eyes darted toward the treeline. The darkness looked thicker there — almost moving. A chill prickled at the back of her neck.

“Enid.”

She screamed.

Her claws flashed out, instinctive, before she even turned around — and there she was.

Wednesday Addams stood not five feet away, her presence sharp as a blade against the night. The porch light behind her outlined the rigid lines of her figure — a fitted, short-sleeved black button-down tucked into lightweight black trousers that ended just above her boots. Her hair — as always — fell in two perfect braids over her chest. No expression, no apology. Just her.

“Holy shit, Wednesday!” Enid gasped, clutching her chest. “You can’t just appear like that! I almost died!”

Wednesday’s brow tilted the slightest degree. “You’re a werewolf, Enid. Your cardiac health is impeccable.”

“That’s not the point!”

“It never is.”

Enid groaned, though a small, reluctant laugh escaped her. “You totally did that on purpose.”

Wednesday’s mouth twitched — barely. “Perhaps.”

Enid narrowed her eyes. “You so did.”

“Come inside,” Wednesday said simply, turning toward the door. “It’s late, and the forest gets… loud after dark.”

“Loud?” Enid echoed, blinking. “That’s not a comforting way to say that.”

But Wednesday was already walking away, her boots clicking lightly on the porch.

Inside, the air was cool and faintly perfumed with old books and cedarwood. Enid followed her into a wide parlor lit mostly by sconces and the flicker of a fireplace. Shadows curled up the high walls, tracing over portraits and antique shelves stacked with grim-looking literature.

It was beautiful in that way Wednesday always was — dark, elegant, intimidatingly precise.

And then Enid saw it.

“Oh my God,” she said, stopping dead in her tracks. “That window—”

Her eyes went wide as she stepped toward the huge circular window that dominated the far wall. It cast a pale wash of moonlight over the floor.

“It’s just like the one from our dorm at Nevermore,” Enid said, smiling softly. “Like, exactly the same shape and design.”

Wednesday looked up at it briefly. “The architect who designed Nevermore spent time here,” she said. “My family estate served as his inspiration.”

Enid’s grin widened. “So… technically, we used to live inside a piece of your house. That’s so weirdly sentimental.”

“I prefer the term ‘inevitable.’”

“Oh, totally,” Enid said, laughing. “You and inevitability go way back.”

A grunt interrupted them — deep, resonant, final.

They both turned to see Lurch standing near the doorway, suitcase-free, his massive frame framed by the flicker of firelight.

“Bye, Lurch!” Enid said, waving cheerfully. “Thanks for the ride, and for not murdering me in the woods!”

He grunted again, which Enid decided to interpret as you’re welcome, and disappeared into the night. Moments later, she heard the hearse rumble to life and fade down the path until all she could hear was the rustle of the trees.

“Wow,” she breathed. “You really do live deep in the woods. Like, deep-deep. That forest is seriously creepy at night.”

Wednesday’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, expression unreadable. “The isolation offers clarity,” she said finally. “And deterrence.”

Enid blinked. “Deterrence? From what, Girl Scouts?”

Wednesday didn’t answer, but the faintest glimmer of amusement flickered in her eyes before she turned toward the stairs. “Come. I’ll show you your room.”

The staircase creaked beneath their feet, the kind of old-wood sound that carried like a whisper. The hall upstairs was lined with black-and-white photographs, and Enid couldn’t tell if they were Addams ancestors or art. Either was equally likely.

“This is mine,” Wednesday said as they passed a door on the left — sleek, minimal, matte black handle — before stopping in front of another door farther down the hall. “And this is yours.”

Enid peeked in and immediately gasped.

The room was huge — easily twice the size of their dorm back at Nevermore — with vaulted ceilings and a large bay window that overlooked the forest. The moonlight made the glass glow, and the settee beneath it looked almost ethereal.

It wasn’t Enid’s usual brand of cheerful, but it wasn’t cold either. Wednesday had clearly tried. The wallpaper was a muted silver-gray, soft enough to catch the light, and the bedding — though dark — had hints of color woven through, like deep plum and faded blue. A writing desk stood by the wall, a full bathroom branched off to one side, and the closet doors gleamed faintly in the dim light.

Enid stepped inside, awestruck. “Oh my God. Wednesday. This is… incredible.”

Wednesday’s tone was deadpan, but the meaning wasn’t lost on her. “It was the only room that didn’t revolt against your aura of optimism.”

Enid laughed. “You actually tried to make it… me-ish, didn’t you?”

“I made it tolerable.”

“Same thing.”

Her gaze fell on the bed, where her suitcase and carry-on were already neatly placed. “Ah, so that’s where Lurch disappeared to. He’s stealthier than you, you know.”

“I doubt that,” Wednesday said simply.

The quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… soft. Familiar.

“I’ll leave you to unpack,” Wednesday said after a moment, her voice lower, gentler. “You’ve been traveling for hours.”

Enid looked up, smiling. “Thanks for inviting me. Really.”

Wednesday didn’t respond right away. She lingered in the doorway, studying Enid in that intense, quiet way she always did — the way that made Enid feel both seen and unnerved.

Then, softly: “Unpack. Rest. You’ve earned it.”

The warmth in her tone was subtle, almost imperceptible — but it was there.

Enid’s smile softened. “Goodnight, Wednesday.”

Wednesday gave a faint nod. “Goodnight, Enid.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, her boots soundless against the floor. The door clicked shut behind her.

Enid stood there for a moment, listening to the silence settle around her. Then she turned toward her luggage, kneeling to unzip her suitcase.

As she began to unpack — folding sweaters, setting her favorite book on the nightstand — a whisper of wind brushed the windowpane. She glanced up at the forest beyond the glass. The trees swayed faintly, though there was no breeze.

She frowned, only for a moment, then shook it off. Probably nothing.

Probably.

Chapter Text

The light that slipped through the curtains was filtered through green — through the canopy of the forest and its trembling leaves. It painted the room in fractured gold and shadow, crawling slowly across the wooden floorboards and the edge of the bed where Enid lay half-asleep.

For a long time, she didn’t move. The air felt heavy and still, filled with the soft ticking of an unseen clock and the faint rustle of branches outside. It was so quiet. A kind of silence that didn’t exist back home — no brothers yelling, no wolfish growls echoing through the hallway, no mother banging on her door demanding she wake up.

Here, the world felt far away.

Here, it was just her and the sound of her own heartbeat.

She smiled into her pillow.

When she finally stirred, she reached for her phone on the nightstand, squinting at the brightness of the screen. 11:47 a.m.

Her eyebrows shot up. She had never, ever slept that late before. Not at Nevermore, not even during breaks.

“Damn,” she whispered to herself, laughing softly.

A cluster of unread messages blinked at her from Yoko.

Yoko: heyyyyy

Yoko: how’s Wednesday’s house ?

Enid: so good

Enid: I just woke up and I’ve never heard such perfect silence

Yoko: is it creepy there??

Enid: it’s Wednesday Addams

Enid: ofc it’s creepy

Enid: but like maybe only at night bc now that it’s day time it’s not that creepy anymore

Enid: anyway I should go downstairs and join Wednesday in whatever she’s doing don’t wanna be a rude house guest

Yoko: ofc.. especially not for your future gothic gf 😏

Enid: oh enoughhhhhuhhh 🙄

Yoko: 😂😂😂

Enid rolled her eyes fondly, the smile lingering even as she tossed the phone aside. She got out of bed, stretching her arms overhead, her pastel pink pajamas catching the light. The room around her looked softer by daylight — the dark wood gleamed faintly, and the bay window’s sheer curtains swayed gently in the breeze.

She pulled on her airy robe, the one that matched the set — light pink with lace trim — and slipped her feet into her fuzzy slippers. Her reflection in the old mirror looked small and out of place in this house of shadows and history. But she liked the contrast. The sunshine and the gloom. The color and the monochrome.

Padding quietly down the corridor, she followed the smell of coffee.

The house was a cathedral of silence. Every step echoed faintly, and every doorway seemed to breathe out the faint scent of dust, aged paper, and something floral — lavender, maybe, mixed with candle smoke.

The dining room was bright in its own way, filtered light spilling through the windows. Wednesday sat at the far end of the long table, a black porcelain mug in hand and a folded newspaper spread before her. Her posture, of course, was perfect.

She wore black trousers and a crisp button-up shirt with narrow white pinstripes, the sleeves rolled precisely to her elbows. Her dark hair was braided neatly down her back. Even in the quiet simplicity of morning, she looked composed — like a portrait come to life.

“Morning,” Enid greeted softly as she stepped inside.

Wednesday’s eyes lifted from the paper, sharp as ever. “It’s nearly noon,” she replied, deadpan.

Enid grinned sheepishly. “Okay, good afternoon then.”

She sat down across from her, and only then did she notice the plate already set out for her — a golden muffin with sugar crystals on top. The sight alone made her light up.

“You made breakfast?” she asked, already impressed.

“I did,” Wednesday said simply, setting her pencil down beside the crossword. “Lurch procured ingredients. It seemed improper to let them go unused.”

Enid took a bite. Her eyes widened. “This is so good. Like, bakery-level good. I didn’t know you could bake.”

Wednesday’s gaze didn’t waver. “I can follow instructions, unlike most people.”

Enid laughed, shaking her head. “You could just say thank you, you know.”

“I could,” Wednesday said. “But then you’d think I cared about your opinion.”

Enid stuck her tongue out before taking another bite. “Okay, fair.”

Wednesday returned her focus to the crossword. Her pencil moved fast, deliberate. Enid leaned over slightly, squinting at the boxes. “You’re almost done with that?”

Wednesday’s pencil paused mid-square. Her gaze rose, slow and precise. “They’re adequate mental stimulation,” she said coolly. “Though calling them ‘puzzles’ is generous. They’re embarrassingly easy once you stop thinking like a simpleton.”

Enid blinked. “So… you’re mad that crosswords are too easy?”

“I’m disappointed,” Wednesday corrected.

Enid snorted into her coffee.

The rest of the meal passed quietly — comfortably so. Every sound felt louder in the stillness: the faint clink of her spoon, the creak of the floorboards, the wind sighing outside. When they were finished, Enid helped gather the dishes, even though Wednesday insisted it wasn’t necessary.

Afterward, Enid wandered through the house.

The library was her first stop — towering shelves filled with old books and the faint smell of parchment and ink. She trailed her fingers along the spines, reading faded titles in languages she couldn’t pronounce. The parlor came next.

It was dim, elegant, and strangely comforting. The large circular window took her breath away every time. She curled up on the settee before it, watching sunlight pour through the glass. Outside, the forest stretched endlessly, dappled with gold. The trees swayed gently, whispering secrets to one another.

It was such a perfect day — warm, bright, alive.

An idea began to bloom.

A hike.

It made perfect sense. They were in the middle of the woods — why not explore them? And maybe, if she could get Wednesday out there, she’d finally get to see her outside her element, out of that unshakeable composure.

Enid hopped to her feet and began searching for her.

She found her walking the hallway, her steps measured and deliberate, eyes drifting over the framed portraits that lined the walls.

“Whatcha doing?” Enid asked lightly.

Wednesday turned just enough to look at her. “Walking.”

“In the house?”

“Would you prefer I walked on the ceiling?”

Enid giggled. “Okay, fair point. But I have a better idea.”

“That statement fills me with dread already.”

“We should go on a hike.”

Wednesday blinked once. Then twice. “…A hike.”

“Yeah! It’s gorgeous outside. The forest looks amazing in the daylight.”

“I see the forest perfectly well from my window.”

Enid put her hands on her hips, giving her the classic Sinclair look of defiance. “C’mon, Wednesday. Fresh air, exercise, sunshine—”

Wednesday’s expression darkened slightly. “Three things I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding.”

“Well, too bad,” Enid said, beaming. “We’re going. And before you say no — it’s not a request, it’s a command.”

Wednesday opened her mouth, but Enid was already walking backward down the hall, grinning. “Twenty minutes! Meet me by the front door! Wear something hiking-appropriate!”

The echo of her slippers faded around the corner, leaving silence behind.

Wednesday stood there for several seconds, expression unreadable, eyes narrowing faintly.

“I detest being ordered around,” she murmured — though the faintest curve ghosted across her lips, barely there, as if the words tasted less like annoyance and more like intrigue.

Wednesday was ready first.

The air inside the manor was still and heavy, laced faintly with the scent of cedar and dust—the perfume of old wood and older secrets. She stood by the full-length mirror near the front hall, tightening the strap of her satchel with precise, unhurried movements.

Outside, the sun was already burning high above the trees, its light fractured by the canopy into golden threads that cut across the dark paneled walls. The late June heat pressed faintly against the glass.

Wednesday ignored it.

She wore a fitted black shirt buttoned to the throat, sleeves sharp and severe despite the warmth, and a black vest layered neatly over it. Her trousers were pressed, boots laced tight. Every line of her outfit spoke of structure, defiance—an aesthetic refusal to bend to the chaos of nature or the weakness of heat.

Her hair, smooth and in its familiar braids, framed a face that revealed nothing of her private thoughts.

She waited by the door, her Nevermore satchel resting against one shoulder. The fabric was soft from years of use—frayed faintly at the edges, worn smooth where her hand had once gripped it during countless investigations. It carried the faintest scent of ink and old paper.

Her eyes drifted to the treeline through the window. For the briefest second, the world outside looked too still—like a photograph moments before something moved within it.

A noise—light footsteps—pulled her from her thoughts.

Enid’s humming came before she did, soft and melodic, a sound that didn’t belong in the somber hush of the manor.

And then she appeared.

She was summer personified—bare legs, soft light, the faint sheen of warmth on her skin. Her blouse was a thin white cotton with flutter sleeves that caught the air when she moved. A tiny bow tied neatly at her waist, her shorts a pale, faded blue that made her look like she’d stepped out of some sunlit postcard. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail, golden curls brushing against her neck and cheekbones.

Wednesday watched her descend the stairs, the corners of her mouth tightening slightly—not in displeasure, but in something quieter, more difficult to name.

“You look like you’re about to attend a funeral,” Enid said, halting at the last step and gesturing at Wednesday’s all-black ensemble.

“I am,” Wednesday replied. “Yours, if you continue mocking my wardrobe.”

Enid snorted. “You’re seriously wearing that? Long sleeves? Pants? We’re going outside, Wednesday. The sun exists there. Have you heard of it?”

“Unfortunately,” Wednesday said. “It’s very persistent.”

“It’s also ninety degrees.”

“Heat is a trivial inconvenience. I do not modify my attire to appease the elements.”

Enid blinked, mouth falling open a little. “So you’d rather… sweat to death than wear a T-shirt?”

Wednesday’s gaze slid toward her, perfectly calm. “I would rather die with dignity than live in polyester.”

Enid pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh. “You’re insane.”

“Thank you,” Wednesday said evenly.

The sunlight through the high windows pooled between them, catching the dust in slow, drifting motion. Enid stood there, barefoot in warmth and color, Wednesday unmoving in black and shadow.

“You’re not gonna change?” Enid asked, exasperated but amused.

“No.”

“Fine,” Enid huffed, tying her sneakers. “But when you start melting halfway through the hike, I’m not carrying you back.”

“I assure you,” Wednesday said, shouldering her bag, “I would decompose quietly before I ever allow that.”

Enid laughed, bright and unbothered. “You’re such a freak.”

“And yet you insist on spending time with me.”

“Yeah,” Enid said softly, almost to herself. “I guess I do.”

For a second, the air felt different—charged. Then Wednesday turned, opening the door with one smooth motion, and sunlight flooded the room.

The heat met them instantly, pressing like a living thing. The smell of pine sap and wild grass hung in the air, and a faint shimmer rose from the dirt road that led into the woods.

Enid stepped out first, squinting at the brilliance. “Okay, so I was thinking—we start by the creek, then take that little trail that loops around the ridge? It’s shaded for the most part.”

Wednesday followed her out, locking the door behind them. “I did not agree to this.”

“You did by not saying no.”

“I was weighing my options.”

“Well,” Enid said cheerfully, “you took too long.”

They started down the gravel path that curved into the trees. The further they went, the thicker the air became—dense with humidity, the drone of cicadas, the slow whisper of leaves brushing against each other.

Wednesday’s boots crunched against the dirt. Enid’s steps were light, her hair catching glints of sunlight as she looked up at the canopy.

“Don’t you think it’s pretty?” Enid asked after a while.

Wednesday’s eyes flicked briefly upward. “It’s acceptable.”

“Acceptable? It’s gorgeous.”

“The forest is indifferent to your admiration,” Wednesday replied. “It will rot you as quickly as it does everything else.”

Enid shot her a look. “You know, you can just say ‘yeah.’”

“I could,” Wednesday said. “But that would be dishonest.”

Enid sighed, smiling despite herself. “You’re lucky I find your doom-and-gloom thing cute.”

Wednesday’s expression didn’t change, though something in her gaze softened almost imperceptibly.

“You overuse that word,” she said.

“What, ‘cute’?”

“Yes. It’s lost all meaning.”

“Okay, fine. Adorable. Better?”

“No.”

They walked a little farther in silence, the rhythm of their footsteps falling into something that felt, strangely, like sync. The air buzzed around them, warm and alive.

And then—just at the edge of Wednesday’s vision—something moved.

A flicker. Quick, pale, between the trees.

When she turned her head, there was nothing there but sunlight and shadow.

She said nothing.

But the faint tightening of her jaw didn’t go unnoticed by Enid.

The woods were alive with the kind of quiet that wasn’t truly quiet.

The hum of insects, the soft rustle of leaves overhead, the crunch of twigs beneath their boots—each sound wove itself into a rhythm that felt oddly peaceful. The path wasn’t much of a path at all, just a narrow stretch of flattened earth between ferns and tall grass, the kind that looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in years.

Enid led the way, swatting at low-hanging branches with a stick she’d found, while Wednesday followed behind, moving with deliberate precision, as though the forest itself were an opponent to outmaneuver.

It was hot. Oppressively so.

The kind of heat that pressed down on the shoulders and made the air taste faintly metallic. Enid didn’t seem to mind—her face was flushed pink, curls sticking to the sides of her neck, but she was still smiling, still chattering about the wildflowers and the strange moss that grew on the rocks.

Wednesday, however, was beginning to suffer.

She would never admit it aloud, but her all-black attire was a poor choice for the circumstances. The sun’s glare seemed to follow her deliberately, baking through layers of fabric. A small bead of sweat trailed down her temple, slipping past her cheekbone.

Her bangs clung damply to her forehead.

She only realized this when Enid turned back, grinning.

“Wow,” Enid said, stopping in her tracks. “You’re actually sweating. I didn’t even think you were capable of that.”

Wednesday gave her a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Human perspiration is an involuntary response to heat, Enid. I’m not an android.”

“Yeah, but you kind of act like one,” Enid teased, walking backward now, facing her. “Oh my god, your cheeks are red too. You’re flushed!”

“I am not flushed.”

“You totally are! You look like a tomato in mourning.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched. “Careful. You’re approaching dangerous territory.”

Enid giggled, turning back around. “I told you you shouldn’t wear black on a hike, but nooo—‘Heat is a trivial inconvenience.’ Well, how’s that going for you?”

Wednesday adjusted her collar. “I’m acclimating.”

“You’re boiling,” Enid countered, eyes bright with amusement. “It’s okay to admit defeat, you know.”

“I don’t believe in defeat,” Wednesday said, her voice dry. “Only endurance.”

“Endurance,” Enid repeated, shaking her head. “You’re so weird.”

They walked a while longer, until the trees thinned and the faint sound of water reached them. It was distant at first—soft, melodic, like a hum beneath the birdsong. Then it grew louder, clearer, the trickle building into a steady rush.

They emerged into a small clearing, and there it was—a creek, narrow and bright under the sunlight. The water spilled down from a mossy outcrop in a small waterfall, tumbling over flat stones into a shallow pool. Dragonflies darted above the surface, wings flashing blue and green.

Enid stopped and gasped softly. “Oh my gosh. Wednesday, look at it!”

Wednesday surveyed it with cool detachment, though even she couldn’t deny the beauty of it—the way the sunlight scattered across the ripples, the silver glint of motion.

“It’s acceptable,” she said.

Enid rolled her eyes. “You mean it’s gorgeous.”

“It’s… tolerable,” Wednesday amended.

Enid dropped her bag and crouched near the water, watching it swirl around her fingers. “Do you think it’s deep enough to swim?”

“Do you think I’d willingly submerge myself in bacteria-infested creek water?” Wednesday asked.

Enid laughed, glancing back. “So that’s a no.”

“That’s a definitive no. I’d sooner swim in acid.”

Enid smiled to herself, ignoring her. She slipped off her shoes and socks, setting them neatly beside her bag. The water was clear enough to see the smooth pebbles beneath it, glinting like coins.

She sat back on a flat rock, her toes dipping in. The shock of cold made her squeal quietly, then sigh. “Oh my god, that feels amazing. You should try it.”

Wednesday crossed her arms. “I’ll pass.”

Enid kicked her feet lazily in the water. “Suit yourself.”

For a while, they stayed like that—Enid sitting at the edge, humming softly, Wednesday standing nearby, her expression unreadable.

Then, without warning, Wednesday stepped closer.

Enid was still gazing down into the water when she felt two hands—cool, deliberate—on her shoulders. Before she could react, Wednesday gave a firm push.

There was a splash, a startled shriek, and then—laughter.

Cold water enveloped Enid, bubbles bursting around her face as she resurfaced, gasping and laughing all at once. “WEDNESDAY!” she shouted, flicking water from her eyes. “You psycho!”

Wednesday stood above her, unbothered. “You seemed indecisive. I merely expedited your choice.”

Enid pushed her wet hair from her face, still laughing. “You’re the worst!”

“And yet, you appear entertained.”

Enid splashed water toward her. It caught Wednesday’s boots and the hem of her pants.

“Hey!” Enid said between giggles. “Come on in, it feels amazing! You know you’re dying in those clothes!”

“I prefer discomfort,” Wednesday said simply. “It builds character.”

“Oh, you have plenty of character already, trust me,” Enid teased. “Now come on, stop being such a ghoul and get in!”

Wednesday sighed—a soft, theatrical sound—and began unbuttoning her vest. “You’re insufferable.”

Enid’s grin widened. “And yet here you are.”

Wednesday removed her boots and socks next, rolling her sleeves up to her elbows and folding her pant legs neatly before sitting on the smooth rock beside the creek. She dipped her feet into the water, expression unreadable as the cold licked at her skin.

“Happy now?” she asked.

“Ecstatic,” Enid said, floating backward in the shallow water, the sunlight dappling across her face.

Her hair fanned around her, golden and wet, the strands glinting like threads of light against the water. She looked utterly at peace.

Wednesday’s gaze lingered for a moment too long before she looked away, fixing her attention on the opposite bank.

“You’re staring,” Enid said teasingly, voice echoing faintly off the trees.

“I’m assessing your swimming technique,” Wednesday said without missing a beat.

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s inefficient.”

Enid laughed, splashing water toward her again. Wednesday didn’t flinch, though one droplet caught the curve of her cheek.

“Admit it,” Enid said softly, “this isn’t so bad.”

Wednesday tilted her head, watching the sunlight play across the creek. “It’s tolerable.”

Enid smiled. “High praise, coming from you.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

They stayed there for a long time after that—Enid drifting lazily in the cool water, Wednesday sitting still, her boots drying beside her. The trees whispered above, and for once, neither of them felt the need to fill the silence.

For Wednesday, the world was quiet. Not heavy, not haunted—just still.

For Enid, it was warmth. Pure and bright and simple.

The kind of afternoon that felt like it could last forever.

The hike back felt different. The air had cooled, softened, and the forest was steeped in the kind of amber light that made everything shimmer—the water between rocks, the moss beneath their boots, even the shadows seemed slower somehow. Enid’s laughter had faded into a comfortable silence, one that Wednesday didn’t mind sharing. For once, it wasn’t the silence of solitude, but something gentler.

By the time they reached the house, the sun was sinking behind the tree line, throwing long beams of light across the porch. Enid unlocked the door, cheeks still flushed from the hike and hair still faintly damp, curling against her neck. Wednesday’s boots were coated in dust, her sleeves rolled neatly back down to her wrists. She didn’t comment when Enid let out a quiet groan of relief upon stepping inside the cooler air.

Later, the house settled around them. Somewhere distant, cicadas hummed.

They’d both changed into something lighter—Enid in soft cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt, Wednesday in black linen pants and a plain, loose shirt that looked almost casual on her, though she’d never admit it. They found themselves in the parlor, the one with the great circular window framed in dark wood. The twilight poured through it, painting their faces in gold.

Enid sat cross-legged on the window seat, sketchbook open on her lap, doodling lazy spirals and flowers. Wednesday sat opposite her, posture straight as ever, a book balanced in her hands though she hadn’t turned a page in several minutes.

The quiet stretched comfortably until Wednesday finally spoke. “You’ve altered your appearance.”

Enid blinked up from her page. “Huh?”

Without another word, Wednesday reached forward—slowly, deliberately—and took a strand of Enid’s hair between her fingers. The blonde curl slipped lightly through her touch, and she held it there just long enough for Enid’s breath to hitch.

“The blue and pink are gone,” Wednesday observed. “You wore them at graduation. Now, they’ve vanished.”

Enid’s heart fluttered embarrassingly fast. The touch was so brief, so precise, but it left her throat dry. “Oh—yeah, I, um…” She forced a small laugh. “Guess I figured it was time to grow up. You know, tone things down a bit.”

Wednesday’s brow lifted. “A curious conclusion, considering it makes you look markedly less like yourself.”

Enid looked back at her sketchbook, the pencil trembling faintly in her hand. “My mom said it was time I stopped dressing like a child.”

That earned a quiet pause. Wednesday’s expression didn’t change much, but the air around her seemed to sharpen. “Esther Sinclair continues her campaign against individuality, I see.”

Enid winced softly. “She just wants me to fit in. To… belong, I guess.”

Wednesday’s tone was as calm as ever, but her words were edged. “You already belong. The problem lies with those who demand you distort yourself to match their preferences.”

Enid smiled faintly, eyes still on her lap. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is,” Wednesday said. “Your mother treats your spirit like a misbehaving dog—something to train and subdue. But there is nothing wrong with your nature, Enid.”

For a moment, Enid said nothing. The light from the window dimmed further, fading into a blue dusk. “You know,” she said softly, “sometimes I really wish you’d been my mom.”

Wednesday looked up from her book then, meeting Enid’s eyes. “I would have made a dreadful one. But at least you’d still have your hair.”

That earned her a laugh, soft and bright. It filled the parlor, wrapped itself around the quiet creaks of the old house, and made something in Wednesday’s chest ease.

They sat like that for a while longer—Enid doodling, Wednesday reading words she didn’t absorb—until Enid’s next yawn threatened to split her face.

“I should probably head to bed before I pass out right here,” Enid murmured, stretching. “Today was… really nice, actually.”

Wednesday gave a curt nod. “It was tolerable.”

“That’s your version of nice,” Enid said with a grin.

She started toward the stairs, but Wednesday’s voice stopped her. “Enid.”

Enid turned, already smiling. “Hmm?”

There was a pause—just long enough for it to mean something. Then, quietly:

“Happy birthday.”

Enid blinked, confused for a heartbeat, before glancing toward the grandfather clock. 12:10 a.m. June 25th. Her 19th birthday.

When she looked back, Wednesday’s gaze hadn’t moved from her.

A smile spread slow and wide across Enid’s face. “You remembered.”

“I forget nothing,” Wednesday said.

Enid’s eyes softened. “Thanks, Wens.”

She lingered a second longer—long enough that Wednesday noticed the faint pink still in her cheeks—before she disappeared up the stairs, leaving Wednesday alone with the fading hum of summer insects and the quiet realization that the house no longer creaked quite so much when Enid was in it.

Chapter Text

The world before dawn belonged to her.

It always had.

The hour before morning was a kind of death — still, colorless, absolute. The walls of the house were draped in shadow; the air felt old and undisturbed. Outside, the fog pressed against the windows like a living thing, thick and slow, curling its pale fingers around the glass.

The clock read 5:00 a.m.

Wednesday Addams sat upright in bed, perfectly awake.

Sleep had always been more a courtesy to her body than a necessity. She preferred the hours when nothing moved — when she could think without interruption, when the house, the world, even her own heart seemed to quiet down enough for her to listen to herself.

She rose soundlessly, feet meeting the cold wooden floor.

Her clothes waited precisely where she’d left them: black trousers, a pressed shirt, her long wool coat. Nothing soft. Nothing yielding. She braided her hair with unhurried precision, every motion deliberate, as if weaving her composure into each twist.

At the door, she paused.

The faintest sound met her — a soft, contented snore from the room next door. Enid’s room.

Wednesday’s expression didn’t change, but something in her chest did.

It was ridiculous, she thought. Entirely illogical. The sound should have grated on her nerves. Instead, it settled somewhere beneath her ribs — like warmth trying to be remembered.

Her hand lingered on the doorknob a moment longer than it should have. Then she turned away.

The house downstairs felt like a cathedral emptied of its congregation. Morning fog leaked through the windowpanes, painting everything in tones of pewter and frost. The smell of old wood and ash clung faintly to the air.

At 5:30 sharp, the familiar rumble of the hearse announced itself.

Lurch’s silhouette appeared through the mist — tall, grave, unhurried. He opened the door for her with a slight incline of his head.

Wednesday stepped outside, boots sinking lightly into the damp earth.

“Thank you,” she said simply. Her voice was a low cut in the fog, as clean and precise as the edge of a knife.

The hearse rumbled to life, swallowing the quiet as they rolled down the narrow forest road. The trees passed in blurred procession — tall, black-barked sentinels cloaked in mist. Every now and then, a raven drifted across the sky like a loose scrap of shadow.

Wednesday watched them all. She counted the seconds between their wingbeats. Anything to keep her mind orderly, because lately it hadn’t been.

Enid’s words from the night before clung to her like a splinter.

“Guess I figured it was time to grow up. You know, tone things down a bit.”

Tone things down.

The phrase made her jaw tighten. It wasn’t Enid’s voice she heard when she thought of those words. It was Esther Sinclair’s — cold, moralizing, and dripping with control.

That woman was a parasite disguised as a mother.

Wednesday’s nails pressed lightly into her palm.

If consequences were irrelevant — if Enid’s affection weren’t such a fragile, shimmering thread — she would have silenced Esther long ago. Permanently.

But life, as always, had its tedious limitations.

By the time the forest thinned and the road bent toward civilization, the sky was bruised orange and gray.

Hollow’s Edge looked like a town caught between centuries. Wooden storefronts bowed slightly with age; the glass panes trembled in their frames as if exhausted by the weight of years. The street was slick with dew and lined with lampposts that still believed they were important.

Lurch pulled to a stop beside the general store.

Wednesday stepped out, the air biting against her skin. Every head that turned to look at her was met with a cool, expressionless stare. She had long ago perfected the art of making people wish they hadn’t noticed her at all.

Inside, the store smelled of old paper and pine soap. Jars filled with dried herbs lined the shelves beside hardware tools, candles, and sacks of grain. It was a strange hybrid of usefulness and superstition.

Wednesday moved through it quietly, fingertips grazing labels until she found the dusty corner that held the dyes — pink and blue, both tucked behind older boxes, as though the universe itself had hidden them for her.

When she placed them on the counter, the shopkeeper blinked once. Then again.

“Funny choice,” he murmured, ringing them up. “That shade doesn’t stay long.”

She tilted her head just enough to look at him.

“Neither does human decency,” she replied.

He didn’t speak after that.

Back outside, the fog had started to thin. The town was waking — a few people sweeping porches, others unlocking doors. She walked two blocks to a café called The Maple Veil, its windows fogged from the warmth inside.

A bell chimed softly as she entered.

The interior was cozy in a way that felt almost offensive — amber light, floral wallpaper, the faint hum of an old radio. Behind the counter, a girl with tired eyes and too much blush smiled at her.

“Morning! What can I get started for you?”

Wednesday’s gaze skimmed the pastry case. “A rainbow cupcake,” she said evenly. “And a quad over ice.”

The girl hesitated at the contrast, but nodded. “Gotta hand it to you,” she said with a grin. “Commitment to the aesthetic.”

Wednesday stirred her espresso slowly, eyes never lifting. “I’m simply consistent.”

The girl laughed, unsure if it was safe to.

While she waited, Wednesday’s attention drifted — not toward the pastries, but to the corner table where two men sat with their heads bowed together. Locals. The kind of men who’d lived here so long they blended into the furniture.

“…by the creek again,” one murmured, voice roughened by cigarettes and suspicion.

The other leaned closer. “That makes four now. They said the tent was torn clean open.”

“Bear couldn’t do that.”

“Bear don’t leave bones in a circle.”

Wednesday’s gaze remained fixed on the dark surface of her drink, but her pulse slowed — not in fear, but interest.

“Sheriff says travelers go missing all the time,” the first continued. “Bad roads. Bad choices.”

The second man shook his head. “Ain’t the roads. Not anymore. It’s something in those woods.”

A silence followed. The kind that carries weight.

Then one of them looked up — accidentally meeting Wednesday’s eyes across the room. Whatever he saw there made his mouth snap shut.

When her order was called, she took it without a word and stepped back into the cool morning air.

The wind had changed — sharper now, more insistent. It tugged faintly at the hem of her coat as she walked back toward the hearse.

“Stop by the creek,” she said when they reached the edge of town.

Lurch obeyed.

The road narrowed into a trail fringed with moss and brittle grass. The creek whispered faintly through the trees — too quiet for the hour, as though it feared to be heard.

Wednesday stepped out and followed the sound until the fog parted enough to reveal it: a clearing marked by bones and wilted flowers, arranged in something that pretended to be reverence. A rusted charm hung from a branch, swaying just enough to catch her eye.

She knelt. The ground was damp and cold, seeping through the fabric of her trousers. Beneath her hand, the dirt gave way to a flat stone carved with runes — uneven, looping, familiar in a way that made her stomach tighten.

She brushed her gloved thumb across the symbols.

Once, years ago, she had seen markings like these in an Addams grimoire — beside passages about binding, summoning, and the debt between life and death.

She stared for a long time.

Then she stood, expression unreadable, and returned to the hearse.

The fog followed them on the drive back, thicker now, as though reluctant to let her leave.

By the time they reached the house, the clock read 10:30.

Wednesday thanked Lurch quietly and slipped inside.

The interior felt almost too still after the town — air heavy with the scent of rain and candle wax. Upstairs, Enid remained asleep, half-buried in blankets, her curls spilling over the pillow like sunlight that had lost its way.

Wednesday placed the cupcake carefully on the nightstand, lit the candle with a single, precise motion. The flame flickered, small but steady. She pinched the flame and felt a wonderful burn as it went out.

Next to it, she set two boxes — both black, both tied with thin silver ribbon.

The first contained the dyes and a note:

Defiance becomes you.

The second held the journal — black leather, silver engraving, restrained elegance.

To record the chaos you insist on bringing into my life.

She adjusted the gift boxes and the cupcake, ensuring everything was perfect.

Then she lingered.

For a few stolen moments, she simply watched Enid sleep — the faint rise and fall of her chest, the soft rhythm of a dream she would never confess aloud.

The temptation to reach out was a living thing.

But Wednesday Addams was not built for indulgence.

So she turned from the bed, her face a perfect mask, and let the silence swallow her whole.

Sunlight found its way through the curtains, bright and syrupy, catching on the gold strands of Enid’s curls.

For a few moments, she didn’t move. She floated in that thin, delicious space between sleep and waking — the quiet hum of birds outside, the faint creak of wood beneath the house, the smell of coffee curling through the air like a promise.

Coffee?

Her brows knitted faintly. That wasn’t right. Wednesday didn’t make coffee. Wednesday dissected frogs, criticized sentiment, and woke up at ungodly hours to polish her knives. But she did not make coffee.

Enid blinked herself fully awake and turned over — and froze.

Two black boxes sat neatly on her nightstand, ribbons tied with eerie precision. Beside them sat a rainbow cupcake, crowned with a single, unlit candle. The frosting shimmered faintly in the light, colors bleeding into one another like a sunrise caught mid-breath.

For a long moment, Enid just stared.

“What the…” she whispered to herself, voice still rough from sleep.

She blinked once.

Then again.

Nope. Still there.

She sat up slowly, her blanket pooling around her waist, and reached for the first box. The paper felt smooth beneath her fingers, the kind of matte black that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. When she untied the ribbon and lifted the lid, her breath caught.

Inside was a black leather journal — soft, weighty, and elegant, with her initials engraved in silver near the bottom corner. The scent of new paper and ink wafted up, somehow soothing and intimidating all at once.

She opened it carefully, expecting blank pages. Instead, there was writing on the very first one.

To record the chaos you insist on bringing into my life.

Her lips parted. Then curved, slow and uncontrollable, into a grin that warmed her entire face.

“Wednesday…” she murmured, voice breaking into a quiet laugh.

Who knew the girl could be sweet?

Well — sweet in a way only Wednesday Addams could be. Sharp edges, but still… tender beneath them.

Her chest fluttered.

Setting the journal aside with reverence, Enid opened the second box. She wasn’t prepared for what she found.

Pink and blue hair dye.

The exact shades she used to wear before her mother’s voice got into her head — before she started thinking maybe color made her childish, maybe brightness made her weak.

Her throat tightened. She lifted one of the bottles as if it might vanish if she blinked too hard. Then she noticed the folded note resting between them.

She unfolded it with trembling fingers.

Defiance becomes you.

A breath left her in a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. Her eyes burned before she could stop them.

Wednesday had listened to her. Actually listened.

No one ever did that — not really. Her own family barely remembered her birthday, and when they did, it was usually paired with passive-aggressive comments about her being “too much.”

But Wednesday — dark, unreadable, impossible Wednesday — had remembered everything.

And somehow, she’d made it… beautiful.

Enid pressed her lips together and blinked hard until the tears retreated. Then, clutching the note in one hand, she swung her legs off the bed and padded toward the door. Her heart was thudding, light and uneven, like it couldn’t decide between running or floating.

“Wednesday?” she called, voice echoing softly down the hall.

No answer.

“Weds?”

Still nothing.

The smell of coffee grew stronger as she reached the bottom of the stairs. The house was washed in warm light now, all amber and dust motes. She found her in the kitchen — standing at the counter, perfectly still, as though she’d been expecting this moment and pretending not to.

Wednesday turned at the sound of her steps, her face composed in that infuriating way that made Enid’s stomach flutter.

“I assume this reaction means I succeeded,” she said evenly.

Enid stopped in the doorway, clutching the folded note like it was made of glass. “You… did this?”

Wednesday gave a small, dismissive shrug. “It seemed socially expected.”

Enid stared at her for a long beat — then smiled so wide it nearly split her face. “You did do it. Oh my god. You—” She laughed, an incredulous sound that filled the kitchen with warmth. “You got me birthday presents. And coffee. You absolute legend.”

Wednesday’s expression didn’t waver. “I fail to see how basic decency qualifies as legendary."

“It does when it’s you!” Enid said, crossing the room to set the note on the counter. “You remembered, and you— you actually went out and got these things. You don’t even like color, and you bought pink and blue hair dye!”

“I endured the indignity for a noble cause.”

Enid laughed again — full, unguarded, the kind of laugh that made her eyes shine. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“I don’t,” Wednesday said dryly, “but I’m aware you’ll insist on telling me.”

“Damn right I will.”

Enid glanced back toward the cupcake she’d carried down from her room, setting it carefully on the table. The candle stood proudly in the center, waiting.

“Okay,” she said, “we’re doing this properly.”

Wednesday eyed the cupcake as though it had personally offended her. “We are not.”

“Yes, we are!” Enid struck a triumphant pose. “It’s my birthday. You can’t say no.”

“I can and will.”

“Come on,” Enid pleaded, already fishing in her pocket for a lighter. “Just one song. One teeny tiny verse.”

Wednesday sighed — the long-suffering exhale of someone who had faced far darker forces than peer pressure and somehow found this worse.

“Fine,” she said finally. “Internally.”

Enid lit the candle anyway, the tiny flame flickering gold against the frosting. She clasped her hands together in exaggerated excitement. “Make a wish, Sinclair,” Wednesday muttered.

“I already did,” Enid said softly. And before Wednesday could ask what that meant, she blew out the candle.

The smoke curled between them like a secret.

For a moment, the silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it was gentle. Almost reverent.

Then Enid stepped forward and, without giving herself time to second-guess it, wrapped her arms around Wednesday.

It wasn’t long — just a brief, warm squeeze that smelled faintly of sugar and coffee. Wednesday went rigid, predictably. But she didn’t pull away.

If anything, she froze because she was trying not to. The hug should’ve ended three seconds ago. But Enid didn’t move — couldn’t, really. Wednesday smelled faintly of cedar and old paper, and there was a steadiness beneath her touch that made something inside Enid’s chest flutter hard.

“Thank you,” Enid whispered, voice muffled against her shoulder.

When she finally stepped back, her hands felt oddly empty, like they’d forgotten what to do without her. Wednesday’s eyes flickered down to her — something unreadable in them, something caught between confusion and the faintest trace of… softness.

“Don’t mention it,” she said.

“I will,” Enid teased, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. “Probably forever.”

Wednesday looked away, but the corner of her mouth — almost — lifted.

The forest had a strange kind of stillness after rain. It was the kind of quiet that hummed instead of echoed — the air rich with petrichor, the earth soft beneath their boots. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the canopy, turning the mist into pale ribbons of gold that drifted lazily between the trees.

They had been walking for nearly an hour, not toward any destination in particular. Enid had insisted that she wanted to see something green for her birthday, to wander without purpose. Wednesday had agreed with characteristic brevity, though she’d been the one to suggest the forest trail in the first place.

Now, the two walked side by side, not quite touching but close enough that Enid could feel the brush of Wednesday’s sleeve when the path narrowed. The faint smell of wet moss and pine needles hung in the air. Every now and then, a bird would flit overhead, its shadow crossing Enid’s face.

She couldn’t stop smiling.

Maybe it was the sunlight, or maybe it was still the lingering warmth of this morning — of waking up to those black boxes and the cupcake and Wednesday pretending she wasn’t watching for Enid’s reaction. Enid had never felt so seen before. She kept glancing at Wednesday, wanting to thank her again, but knowing Wednesday would probably just arch a brow and say something like “Excessive gratitude is tedious.”

The path curved near the creek, where the water glimmered faintly between smooth rocks. Enid stooped to pick up a pebble and tossed it across the surface, watching the ripples spread.

“I was thinking…” she began, eyes on the water. “I might try the hair dye tonight. You know, the one you got me.”

Wednesday hummed, low and noncommittal, but her gaze didn’t waver from the current.

Enid hesitated, then laughed softly. “You don’t have to act like it’s a state secret. I’m just saying I might actually do it. Pink and blue again. For old times’ sake.”

The silence stretched. A crow called in the distance.

Then Wednesday said, almost absently, “You should.”

Enid blinked. “Yeah?”

“Defiance becomes you,” Wednesday replied, repeating the words from her note that morning.

That made Enid’s chest ache in the best possible way. She smiled, softer this time, and tried not to let her voice shake when she said, “Would you… want to help me? With the dye, I mean.”

It came out too casual, too fast — and immediately, she regretted it. “Never mind, that’s dumb, I can totally do it myself—”

“I didn’t refuse.”

Enid looked up. Wednesday’s face was calm, unreadable, but her eyes had that dangerous stillness that always made Enid’s stomach twist.

“You want to help me dye my hair?” Enid asked, disbelieving.

“I acquired the tools,” Wednesday said simply. “It would be illogical not to see the result.”

Enid’s laughter came out like sunlight — bright, unrestrained. “You’re ridiculous.”

Wednesday looked away, but not fast enough to hide the slight curve of her mouth.

They walked on. The creek widened, shallowing into a pool where the light fractured over the surface. Enid leaned closer to the edge, frowning.

“Hey, is it me, or is that… red?” she asked, pointing to where a faint tint darkened the water. “Maybe it’s just iron or something.”

Wednesday stepped beside her, studying the current. The reflection of the trees rippled across her pale face.

“Perhaps,” she said quietly, though her gaze lingered too long — as if she could see something else beneath the surface, something the light didn’t reach.

Enid shivered, though the air was warm.

When she looked back up, Wednesday was watching her, expression still, eyes impossibly dark for being caught in the sun. And for one suspended second, neither of them spoke. The sound of the creek, the birds, even the wind — all of it blurred into a single pulse that thrummed between them.

Enid swallowed, her heart stumbling. She looked away first.

“Right,” she said lightly, though her voice was thinner than she’d meant it to be. “Iron. Definitely iron.”

“Of course,” Wednesday murmured.

They started walking again, neither mentioning how their steps had fallen perfectly in sync.

By the time they returned, the sun was sinking behind the trees, turning the windows gold and the air inside the house warm with quiet. The day had that slow, end-of-summer stillness — the kind that made even breathing feel gentle. Enid had kicked off her boots by the door, already rambling about which shirt she didn’t mind ruining.

Wednesday didn’t respond. She’d gone ahead to the bathroom off the guest room, wordlessly setting up everything with unnerving precision — gloves, towels, the bottles of dye, each item aligned like surgical instruments.

When Enid finally opened the door, the soft scent of shampoo and chemical dye filled the small room, faintly metallic.

And there was Wednesday.

Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, black fabric creased around her forearms. The top button of her shirt was undone. Her dark braids hung neatly over her shoulders, a single loose strand having slipped from its braid to brush against her cheek. She looked— well. She looked like sin in grayscale.

Enid’s heart tripped.

It wasn’t the first time Wednesday Addams had left her wordless, but this— this was different. Her stomach did something traitorous and fluttery, and for a second, she forgot why she was even standing there.

“Are you going to stand in the doorway all evening, or do you intend to sit?” Wednesday asked without looking up, her voice smooth and cool as glass.

Enid blinked rapidly, collecting herself. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. I was just— uh— admiring your… setup.”

Wednesday’s eyebrow arched. “You’re stalling.”

“No, I’m— okay, maybe a little. I’ve never had someone else do my hair before. It feels… intimate?”

That earned her a very sharp look. “It’s dye, not a blood pact.”

“Could be both,” Enid muttered under her breath, then grinned when Wednesday’s eyes narrowed just enough to count as scandalized.

Enid sat down on the small stool by the mirror, tugging the towel around her shoulders. Her hair spilled barely past her shoulders in curls, golden and messy from the day. Wednesday snapped on the black plastic gloves with deliberate care — each finger fitting perfectly, the sound of latex soft and precise.

Enid couldn’t stop watching her hands. The way she flexed her fingers. The way her expression didn’t change even as she tested the brush’s bristles against her palm.

“You’ve done this before?” Enid asked, because the silence was making her heart too loud.

“I’ve read about it,” Wednesday replied.

“Of course you have.”

Wednesday unscrewed the cap of the pink dye first. The smell was sharp, sweet, and chemical. She poured a measured amount into a bowl and stirred with the brush like she was mixing a potion.

“Lean forward,” she instructed softly.

Enid obeyed, tilting her head down so that strands of blonde fell over her shoulder. Wednesday’s fingers brushed her neck as she gathered the first section — and that was all it took. The contact was feather-light, barely there, but Enid’s breath caught anyway.

The first stroke of the brush sent a cool weight sliding through her hair. She could feel the tug of Wednesday’s fingers separating the strands, the slow drag of the comb. It was rhythmic, almost soothing — if not for the pulse climbing in her throat.

“You’re very quiet,” Wednesday said after a while.

“Mm,” Enid hummed, eyes half-lidded. “You’re really good at this.”

“I’m precise,” Wednesday corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Enid smiled faintly. “Precision looks good on you.”

Wednesday froze. Just for a moment — the faintest pause, like her brain had short-circuited. Then, without acknowledging it, she dipped the brush again.

“You flirt with reckless abandon,” she said coolly, but her tone lacked its usual bite.

“Do I?” Enid teased. “Or are you just bad at handling compliments?”

Wednesday didn’t answer. Instead, she set the pink aside and reached for the blue.

Enid watched in the mirror as Wednesday’s reflection moved behind her — the dark shape against the pale light. There was something mesmerizing about it: the deliberate way Wednesday worked, the calm grace of her hands, the faint concentration that made her lips part ever so slightly when she focused.

Enid swallowed hard.

“You can breathe, you know,” Wednesday said dryly, still not looking up.

“I am breathing.”

“Louder than usual.”

“Oh my God, Wednesday—” Enid broke into laughter, cheeks flushed. “You make it sound like I’m doing it on purpose.”

“Are you?”

Enid blinked, caught off guard by the question — by how soft, almost low, it sounded. Wednesday was closer now. Enid could feel her breath when she leaned forward to catch another lock of hair.

Her fingers brushed Enid’s collarbone as she adjusted the towel. It was nothing, just a practical motion — but it made Enid’s pulse jump so violently she thought it might show through her skin.

Wednesday’s eyes flicked up, just once, and Enid swore she saw something there. Something curious. Searching. Dangerous.

“Don’t move,” Wednesday murmured.

Enid’s voice came out smaller than she intended. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

The room was quiet again. Only the faint sound of the brush swiping through strands, the rhythmic breathing between them. Outside, the sky had dimmed to deep lavender, the last light fading through the blinds.

When Wednesday finally stepped back, her gloves smeared with streaks of blue and pink, Enid exhaled like she’d been holding her breath the whole time.

Wednesday peeled the gloves off with care, setting them aside. Her voice was calm again, but her eyes — her eyes were darker than before.

“It has to set,” she said simply.

Enid turned, smiling. “Guess we wait, then.”

Wednesday’s gaze lingered on her face for one heartbeat too long. “Yes,” she said quietly. “We wait.”

The air between them felt like static. Waiting for something else entirely.

The timer ticked down in the background, a soft, insistent metronome to their silence. Enid sat cross-legged on the stool, towel still around her shoulders, while Wednesday leaned against the counter — arms crossed, expression unreadable. The faint scent of the dye filled the air, sharp but strangely pleasant.

Neither spoke for a long time.

Enid drummed her fingers on her knee, pretending she wasn’t hyper-aware of the way Wednesday’s gaze seemed to follow every little movement. “So,” she began, her voice light, too casual. “Do you do this often? Random acts of kindness for your friends?”

Wednesday’s head tilted slightly. “I was unaware that precision and gift-giving qualified as ‘random acts.’”

“You know what I mean.”

“I usually avoid sentiment,” Wednesday replied. “It tends to rot the brain.”

Enid grinned, twirling a loose strand of hair between her fingers. “So what changed your mind?”

Wednesday’s lips curved — barely. “You’re particularly difficult to ignore.”

Enid’s laugh caught in her throat, coming out softer than intended. She wasn’t sure if she imagined the flicker in Wednesday’s eyes, the almost imperceptible shift from deadpan to something dangerously alive.

The timer finally buzzed. Wednesday pushed off the counter and turned the faucet on, water rushing cold.

“Lean forward,” she said again, her tone softer this time.

Enid obeyed, hands gripping the edge of the sink as the water hit her scalp. Wednesday was careful — impossibly careful. The water streamed down Enid’s back, and every time Wednesday’s fingers brushed through her hair, Enid had to stop herself from sighing out loud.

It was nothing. Just washing out hair dye. Just Wednesday’s fingers ghosting along her neck, her temple, the shell of her ear—

Enid bit her lip.

“Are you in pain?” Wednesday asked, her tone deceptively calm.

“No,” Enid said quickly. Too quickly. “Just… ticklish.”

Wednesday made a faint noise of disbelief but didn’t comment further. She rinsed the last of the dye out, then reached for a towel and began drying Enid’s hair with slow, methodical movements.

Enid’s head tilted slightly toward her touch before she caught herself.

“I never thought,” Enid said quietly, “that you’d be good at this.”

“At what?”

“Gentleness.”

Wednesday’s movements stilled. For a moment, the room felt suspended — airless. Then she continued, a fraction slower than before.

“I’m not gentle,” she said, though it sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

Enid turned slightly, just enough that they were almost face to face — close enough to see the way Wednesday’s lashes cast faint shadows across her cheeks. “Yeah,” Enid whispered. “You are.”

It was nothing but a breath, a moment, but it landed like a stone in Wednesday’s chest. She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. The warmth between them was unbearable.

Then, mercifully or cruelly, Enid laughed. “You should see your face right now.”

Wednesday stepped back sharply, regaining her composure like a snap of a blade. “Your vanity knows no limits.”

“Maybe not,” Enid said, standing, “but you can’t tell me you’re not curious to see how it turned out.”

Wednesday gestured toward the mirror. “Then go ahead. Revel in your transformation.”

Enid grabbed the towel and leaned into the mirror. Her reflection smiled back — strands of pink and blue woven through her golden curls, vibrant against the blond. It was imperfect, streaked in places, but still beautiful. Still her.

“Oh my God,” Enid breathed. “Wednesday. It’s— it’s perfect.”

“It’s symmetrical,” Wednesday corrected.

“Same thing.”

Enid turned to face her, practically glowing. “I love it.”

Something flickered across Wednesday’s expression — pride, maybe, though she’d never admit it aloud. “As you should,” she murmured.

“Seriously,” Enid said, stepping closer. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“I’m certain you’ll tell me anyway.”

“I might,” Enid said with a grin that softened into something smaller. “But just… thank you.”

She reached out impulsively and touched Wednesday’s arm — fingers brushing just above the rolled cuff. The contact was brief, but it felt like electricity.

Wednesday’s eyes dropped to where Enid’s hand lingered. Neither of them moved.

The air thickened.

For one dizzying heartbeat, it felt inevitable — like something would give, like the space between them might vanish entirely.

But then Wednesday’s jaw tightened. “You’re dripping on the floor,” she said quietly.

Enid blinked, startled. “Huh?”

“Your hair,” Wednesday clarified, stepping back. “You’re dripping dye.”

“Oh.” Enid laughed — breathless, flushed. “Right. Yeah. Um. I’ll clean it up.”

Wednesday turned toward the door, her composure restored but her pulse anything but steady. “See that you do.”

The door closed softly behind her, and Enid leaned back against the counter, pressing her hands over her face.

Holy shit.

Down the hall, Wednesday stopped halfway to her study, hand gripping the banister as if to ground herself. Her pulse refused to settle. The scent of dye, of vanilla shampoo, of Enid’s warmth — it lingered like a ghost.

She exhaled sharply. “Control yourself,” she muttered.

The house didn’t answer, but the silence seemed to hum with agreement.

Wednesday moved deliberately through the kitchen, setting down plates carefully. The steaks were seared just enough for Enid’s taste, accompanied by rosemary-roasted baby potatoes, a crisp salad of cherry tomatoes and feta, and a ramekin of garlic herb butter perched on each steak. Moonlight pooled through the parlor’s big circular window, brushing the polished wood floor in silver.

Enid appeared at the foot of the stairs, hair streaked in blue and pink, the curls catching the moonlight. She froze, nostrils flaring at the aroma of the food. “You made… steak?” she said softly, incredulous. “For me?”

“Yes,” Wednesday replied flatly, though she allowed herself a fraction of a second to admire how the light caught Enid’s hair, highlighting each streak. “And it is edible.”

Enid’s grin spread anyway, irrepressible. Wednesday loathed it, and yet the sight made her chest tighten in ways she refused to name.

“Where did you even get the hair dye?” Enid asked, tilting her head. “Pink and blue? You drove all the way into town just for this?”

“I drove to Hollow’s Edge before sunrise. The store had them tucked away behind other merchandise,” Wednesday said. “I assume the surprise is satisfactory.”

“It’s… perfect,” Enid said softly. “You’re insane, Wens. Completely insane.”

“Consistently so,” Wednesday replied, sliding into her chair.

The first bites of dinner were quiet. Enid ate quickly, savoring the flavors, while Wednesday cut each piece meticulously, watching Enid, taking in the little curl that brushed her cheek as she leaned forward. The moonlight caught the pink streak just so, and Wednesday found herself lingering on it a moment too long.

“So,” Enid said, breaking the quiet, “you’re telling me Hollow’s Edge is… a dangerous place? Missing people, the whole spooky vibe?” She chewed thoughtfully. “Are you serious, or is this one of your weird attempts to sound like a detective?”

Wednesday didn’t look up from her plate. “The missing travelers are real. Disappearances are not uncommon.”

“Hmm,” Enid said, tilting her head, lips curling. “But you didn’t… tell me this to scare me, did you? Because I’m not scared.”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked to her. “I am not in the business of frightening house guests. Or at least, not intentionally.”

Enid laughed softly, a musical, light sound that made Wednesday’s chest ache unexpectedly. “Right. Not intentionally. Got it.”

They ate in a comfortable rhythm for a few more minutes, the clink of cutlery punctuating the silence. Then Enid leaned back, resting her chin in her palm. “You know,” she said slowly, “I really wasn’t expecting all this. Hair dye, a steak, even a journal.” She tapped the black leather journal beside her plate. “Do you always… plan birthdays like a meticulous assassin?”

Wednesday gave the smallest shrug. “I find precision comforting.”

Enid laughed again, leaning forward to brush a curl behind her ear. “Well, I appreciate it. And I mean… it’s not like I’m used to anyone thinking this hard about me. Especially… gifts.” Her voice softened.

“I did not plan the trip to Hollow’s Edge solely for the gifts,” Wednesday said, finally allowing herself a glance up. “The town has… peculiarities. Travelers vanish. Locals whisper about it. The forest conceals more than it should.”

Enid shivered faintly, though she tried to hide it. “That’s… unsettling.”

Wednesday’s gaze lingered on her for a beat longer than necessary, watching the way Enid’s lashes brushed her cheeks and how the pink and blue streaks caught the silver light. “Perhaps,” she said finally, “it is better not to think too deeply about it tonight.”

Enid tilted her head, smile faint but curious. “Are you saying that because you want me to feel safe, or because you want to sound ominous and scary?”

“Neither,” Wednesday said flatly, though a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “I am simply stating a fact. Observation is preferable to speculation.”

Enid leaned back, a content sigh escaping her. “You’re ridiculous. You know that?”

“I am aware.”

Another long moment passed. The moonlight shimmered across the parlor, and Enid absentmindedly traced a curl along her cheek. Wednesday found herself imagining reaching out, tucking it behind her ear herself, but she remained still.

Finally, Enid yawned, stretching just enough to tug on the hem of her shirt. “I should probably head to bed. Big day tomorrow… or big day today. It’s… my birthday.”

Wednesday inclined her head, voice clipped but soft. “Happy birthday.”

Enid lingered by the stairs, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Thanks for making it… perfect, Wens.”

The door closed behind her, leaving Wednesday alone. She flexed her fingers slowly, thoughts twisting inwards. What is this feeling? Not concern. Not curiosity. Chaos. Beautiful chaos. Entirely… Enid.