Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night was unseasonably warm for March in Vermont—the warmest yet that year. A thin fog clung low to the ground, fed by the melting snow and damp earth, and the air carried the faint scent of thawing soil and wet bark. No cicadas sang—only the distant creak of bare trees shifting in the breeze and the soft trickle of runoff into ditches. A convoy of cars rolled into the forgotten lot near the defunct factory. The building loomed like a skeleton of industry past, girders rusted and scaffolding bent, all of it suspended precariously over the dark water. It reflected nothing, just a wide, stagnant pool wrapped in shadows and patches of matted reedgrass breaking free from the frost.

Tires crunched over gravel and dried mud as the first vehicle, a silver Toyota Highlander, pulled to a stop nearest the pond. Doors creaked open. Yoko stepped out first, boots hitting the ground with a muted thud, her cropped leather jacket catching the moonlight in hard angles. Beneath it, she wore a faded band tee and cargo pants cuffed at the ankles, the warmth of the night allowing her to forgo gloves or scarf for the first time in months. She rounded the front to open the passenger side, where Divina emerged, tugging the sleeves of an oversized sweatshirt down over her hands despite the heat. Her leggings were dusted with road grit, and her cheeks were flushed—not from cold, but from the stuffy air trapped in the car. She exhaled sharply, letting the surprising spring warmth settle on her skin like a strange, early reprieve.

A beat later, a navy Jeep Bronco wheeled into the lot and parked beside the Highlander, its tires crunching over the gravel with a satisfying grind. The passenger door flew open almost before the engine stopped. Kent practically leapt out, bursting with energy, his sneakers kicking up dust as he slapped his hands against his thighs in anticipation. His breath fogged faintly in the lingering humidity, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Ajax followed at a slower pace, sliding out of the driver's side with a yawn mid-stretch. His arms reached overhead, back arching slightly as joints cracked in protest, drawing a glance from Divina.

Trailing behind with the smooth, self-important hum of luxury, a dark green Bentley Continental glided into place, its headlights cutting briefly across the group before dimming. The driver’s door swung open. Xavier stepped out, his boots hit the gravel.

Bianca emerged from the passenger side a moment later, already rolling her eyes. Her expression telegraphed mild annoyance, a likely reaction to a comment from Xavier before they exited the vehicle. The heels of her boots struck sharp against the ground as she adjusted the collar of her long coat with a flick of her fingers.

Kent, restless as ever, abruptly turned toward the treeline beyond the pond. He waved one arm lazily over his shoulder as he walked backward a few steps.

“I gotta take a massive piss,” he announced, tone far too proud for the declaration.

“Dude,” Xavier scoffed, arms crossed as he leaned against the Bentley’s hood. “Any excuse for you to pull that thing out.”

Divina groaned, dragging a hand down her face with theatrical exhaustion. “Shut up. I don’t need to hear about my own brother’s junk, thanks.”

Ajax nearly folded in half, laughing as he braced himself on his knees. “I told him not to drink that extra-large slushie. What did he think was gonna happen?”

Still chuckling, Xavier tilted his head toward the trees. “Bet his piss is, like, radioactive green by now.”

Before the laugh had even finished leaving his mouth, Divina reached up and smacked the back of his head with a sharp whap.

“What did I just say?” she snapped, though her grin betrayed her mock-annoyed tone. “I don’t want to hear about my brother’s junk.”

Yoko, who had been lounging against the Toyota with arms folded and one boot crossed over the other, pushed off from the car. She stepped up behind Divina and pulled her close with a casual tug, looping her arms around her waist.

“You’ll give yourself a migraine,” she murmured against Divina’s ear, pressing a soft kiss to her neck. “Let the idiot boys be idiot boys.”

Divina exhaled a laugh, relaxing into her. “Yeah,” she muttered. “But they’re my idiot boys, unfortunately.”

Just then, fresh headlights cut through the trees, casting long shadows across the lot. A modest silver Honda Civic rolled in, its engine humming quietly before letting out a high-pitched squeak as the brakes engaged. The vehicle coasted to a halt beside the other cars. Inside, Enid sat at the wheel, her fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel in rhythm with the music—until she turned the key and killed the engine. The speakers cut off with a quiet click.

From the edge of the woods, Kent reappeared, bounding out of the darkness with a triumphant shout. He zipped up his fly mid-stride, jogging back toward the group with zero shame.

Enid stepped out of the car, tugging down the hem of her slightly oversized plaid overshirt as the warm night breeze stirred her hair. She slammed the door shut with her hip just as Eugene emerged from the passenger side, blinking behind thick glasses and adjusting them with a habitual push up the bridge of his nose.

Ajax raised both arms high, clapping slowly and dramatically. “There he is!” he called out. “We were starting to think Eugene ditched us for, like, a beekeeper meetup or something.”

Yoko, still draped around Divina’s waist, didn’t miss a beat. “Honestly?” she said, her voice lilting with amusement. “I was this close to filing a missing persons report.”

Eugene laughed, the sound short and nervous. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish but smiling.

“Hey,” Enid cut in, stepping closer and slinging an arm over his shoulders with protective ease. “If he flaked, that means I flaked. And clearly, I’m here—so.”

A chorus of exaggerated ooohs rippled through the group, the kind reserved for high school hallway drama and over-the-top declarations. Eugene shrank a little into his collar, red creeping up his cheeks, but the reluctant smile still tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Kent clapped Xavier on the back with a loud smack, grinning like he could barely contain the energy buzzing through his limbs.

“C’mon!” he whooped. “Let’s get this party started!”

Xavier recoiled slightly from the slap, twisting away with a grimace. “You better have used hand sanitizer before touching me.”

Kent just cackled and broke into a sprint, racing toward the old wooden platform at the far edge of the lot. His boots thundered against the planks, each step drawing out a groan from the aging boards.

Xavier rolled his eyes but gave chase, muttering under his breath as he followed. “Disgusting little germ magnet,” he grumbled—though the grin tugging at his lips said otherwise.

The boardwalk groaned under their collective weight, the wood softened by years of rain and rot but still holding firm beneath their feet. It stretched out beneath the rusted scaffolding and twisted beams of the long-abandoned factory, a structure clinging stubbornly to the edge of the stagnant pond. There, the group had settled—some sprawled along the lip of the walkway with legs swinging over the water, others cross-legged or leaning back on their palms.

Beer cans clinked and rolled, scattered like silver breadcrumbs across the planks. Some were empty, others still half-full and sweating in the thick, humid air of what had become the hottest night of March on record. The chorus of crickets rising from the treeline was nearly drowned out by bursts of laughter, soft music playing from someone's bluetooth speaker, and the rhythmic thump of homemade beats.

Near a broken railing, Divina, Enid, and Bianca had kicked off their shoes, now forgotten in a messy pile. Their bare feet dangled into the pond below, toes cutting gentle ripples through the dark water. The surface shimmered with fractured reflections of moonlight, broken where their ankles stirred through the stillness. Enid leaned back on her elbows, her plaid overshirt hanging loosely off one shoulder, while Divina absently swirled her toes in the cool water. Bianca sat stiffly at first, then gave in, sighing as she let her heels slide beneath the surface.

A few feet away, Yoko leaned casually against a splintering support beam, her arms crossed loosely. She nodded along to a rhythm only she controlled, mouth working steadily. Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth and the backs of her teeth, forming a slick cadence of beatboxing that rippled into the night.

Ajax and Kent danced along with no sense of shame, their movements all elbows and swagger. Shoulders bounced, fingers pointed, knees jerked awkwardly in time as they added ridiculous lyrics on the fly.

“Yo, Kent's got two brain cells,” Ajax declared, spinning in place with a flourish, “and both on break!”

He threw his arms wide like he’d just dropped the verse of the century.

Kent shot him a look, grinning despite himself. “Watch it,” he warned. “Say that again and I’m tossing your ass in first.”

Laughter erupted behind them.

“Try anything near this pond,” Divina called, not even glancing up, “and I’m tying your shoelaces together in your sleep.”

On the far end of the boardwalk, away from the noise, Xavier sat cross-legged beside Eugene. Between them, a sketchbook lay open across their knees. Xavier’s pencil worked steadily, the soft scratch of graphite a quiet undercurrent as he refined the detail of a wasp mid-flight.

“See here,” Eugene murmured, leaning closer. He pointed delicately at the thorax, fingertip hovering just above the paper. “The antennae curve more—it’s subtle, but yours are too straight. And the legs need this little joint before the tibia. Right here.”

Xavier frowned slightly, nodding as he began to make the corrections. “Good catch,” he muttered, his strokes precise.

From where she stood, Yoko lifted her head, catching a glimpse of the page. “You know,” she said, her voice carrying easily over the low hum of conversation, “I could ink that for you—if you’re serious about the sleeve.”

Xavier glanced up, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “You tattoo now?”

“Started apprenticing under my uncle last year,” she replied, tapping her fingers lightly against a dented beer can, still in rhythm. “Haven’t scarred anyone yet.”

He considered that for a moment, lips twitching into a smirk. “Maybe something small. Like a snake around the ankle or something. The sleeve’s gonna be pro work, though.”

“Fair,” Yoko said with a shrug, pushing off the beam.

Then Ajax stood abruptly, the sudden motion rocking the board beneath him. He tilted back the last of his beer in a few quick gulps, crushed the empty can with one hand, and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

“All right! I’m jumping the platform!” he declared, already tugging his shirt over his head.

A chorus of whoops and shouts erupted from the group as he stripped down, unbuckling his jeans with dramatic flair. Kent was on his feet in seconds, practically vibrating with energy as he tossed his hoodie to the side and nearly tripped over an empty can in the process.

“Yeah, let’s go!” he whooped, hopping on one foot to yank off his sneakers before kicking his jeans aside.

Divina barely looked up, raising an unimpressed brow as she reclined on her elbows. “If you die, I’m taking your computer.”

Kent shot her a thumbs-up, grinning over his shoulder as he jogged toward the rusted ladder bolted into the base of the scaffolding. Ajax followed close behind, the two of them climbing like it was second nature—fast, careless, and clearly not their first time doing something this dumb.

The ladder creaked beneath their weight but held. From below, the others watched with a mix of anticipation and exasperation as Kent reached the top platform. He backed up a few paces, bounced once on the balls of his feet, then sprinted forward and launched himself into a somersault. His body spun midair, arms tucked tight, legs kicking through the humid night until he crashed into the water with a cannonball splash that echoed off the factory walls like rolling thunder.

Ajax wasn’t far behind. He took a more straightforward approach—less flair, more altitude—and hurled himself feet-first into the pond, disappearing beneath the surface in a clean, vertical plunge.

The group on the boardwalk erupted into cheers and scattered applause, half-sarcastic, half-genuine.

“Screw it,” Bianca muttered, standing up and peeling off her tank top and jeans in one swift, practiced motion. Her mismatched black-and-grey underwear caught the moonlight as she stepped toward the edge. “I’m going in.”

Divina followed without hesitation, shimmying out of her shorts and hoodie. She turned and handed the bundled sweatshirt to Yoko with a sly grin. “Hold this, will you?”

Yoko looped it around her shoulder and leaned in to steal a kiss, lips brushing against Divina’s cheek.

“You going in too?” Divina asked as she stepped into the shallows, water lapping up to her ankles.

“Still cold as shit for me.” Yoko shook her head, amused. “Only brought one towel. I’m not getting my seats wet for your whims.”

Bianca was already airborne by then, her leap ending in a splash that sent a wave rippling across the pond. Divina followed a beat later, laughing as she surfaced, her hair slicked back, droplets catching the light like falling stars.

Enid, still perched at the edge of the boardwalk, reached down to the waistband of her pants and unclipped a small Bluetooth speaker dangling from a pink glittery carabiner. She held it up with a grin, the metallic flash catching the moonlight.

“I’m hitting the platform too!” she announced, already rising to her feet.

With zero hesitation, she slipped out of her fitted purple pants, then pulled off her shirt in a quick, fluid motion. Left in a yellow sports bra and light blue boy shorts, she stretched her arms overhead with a satisfied sigh and handed the speaker to Xavier as she passed him.

“Play something good,” she said, breath slightly quick from excitement.

Xavier accepted it with a nod, his fingers already flying across his phone screen as he synced the device.

From the water, Kent’s voice rang out, echoing slightly off the rusted beams. “If you play that weird emo shit, I swear—”

Xavier didn’t bother looking up. “Relax,” he said dryly. “I’m curating the mood.”

After a few beats of scrolling, he selected a playlist filled with trendy summer bangers—rhythmic, upbeat, the kind of bass-heavy tracks that vibrated faintly through the wooden boards underfoot. The humid night seemed to pulse with it, the air thick and alive.

Enid had just reached the base of the ladder, hand wrapping around the first cold, rust-speckled rung, when a voice rang out behind her.

“Wait!”

She paused mid-step and twisted around, brow raised.

Eugene stood a few feet away, halfway through kicking off his sneakers. His hoodie was halfway over his head, tangled at the elbows in his haste to remove it. His glasses had gone slightly askew from the motion, but he shoved them back into place with determined fingers.

“I—I’m going up too,” he said, breath a little uneven, voice cracking just slightly.

Enid leaned against the ladder, studying him. “You sure?” she asked, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Nobody’s gonna clown you if you back out.”

Eugene hesitated for only a moment before offering a shaky smile, his eyes wide with a mix of nerves and resolve. “Yeah, but... I gotta conquer this fear sometime, right?”

Her smirk widened, and she gestured toward the ladder with a sweeping hand. “Alright, champ. You first, then.”

Eugene nodded, exhaled deeply, and moved forward—barefoot, nervous, but determined.

They climbed slowly, the rusted rungs cool and slick beneath their hands. Eugene stayed one step ahead, his breaths coming in shallow bursts, each exhale tremoring with nerves. The ladder creaked with every movement, and though the platform wasn’t especially high, it felt like a mountaintop to him.

At the top, Eugene crouched low and crawled toward the edge on all fours, his palms flat against the warped metal grating. When he peered down, the pond seemed impossibly distant—farther than it had looked from below. His legs trembled, calves tight, toes curling against the squared gaps as if trying to root himself there.

“Let’s go, Eugene!” Ajax shouted from the water, his voice buoyed by the splash and echo. “You got this!”

“Just do it!” Kent called. “Gravity’s free!”

Enid reached the top moments later. She stepped carefully across the groaning metal and came up beside him, her chest rising and falling with steady breath. She extended a hand, her expression open and calm.

“We’ll go together,” she said gently.

Eugene looked at her, eyes wide behind his glasses. Slowly—hesitantly—he lifted his hand and placed his palm over hers, fingers curling in uncertain trust. His other hand gripped the ledge tightly, knuckles white. 

Enid began to count, voice firm but kind. “Three… two… one—”

And she jumped.

But Eugene didn’t.

The instant she pushed off, her hand began to slip from his. His eyes widened in panic, body flinching back instinctively. But Enid’s momentum had already shifted him forward—just enough.

Their fingers unlatched, but it was too late. Her weight had pulled him forward, disrupting his fragile balance.

Eugene’s scream tore through the night, sharp and unrestrained, pure terror unraveling in midair as he tumbled headfirst off the platform.

Mid-fall, Enid twisted in the air, her eyes finding his. “Eugene!” she shouted, arm outstretched, alarm breaking across her face.

But there was nothing she could do. It was already too late.

Enid hit the water first, the impact a harsh, jarring slap against her side that knocked the breath straight out of her lungs. A sharp bloom of pain flared across her ribs, fiery and relentless. She swallowed hard, forcing air back into her lungs.

A heartbeat later, Eugene plunged into the pond with a thunderous splash, the water roaring around him as he disappeared beneath the surface.

The cold, murky water swallowed them both whole.

Enid broke the surface first—gasping, coughing violently as the stinging water burned her eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blur, and the first thing she registered was the distant, scattered cheering—relief and celebration echoing from the boardwalk above. For a brief, fragile moment, it felt like everything was going to be okay.

Then Yoko’s voice sliced through the haze, sharp and urgent:

“Eugene’s hurt!”

Enid’s head whipped around, heart pounding in her chest. The moon cast fractured reflections across the water’s surface, shimmering like broken glass. And there he was—floating just beyond reach, motionless. His face tilted slightly upward, eyes closed, limbs limp and unmoving.

Her chest tightened, breath caught in her throat.

Pain flared anew along her ribcage as she twisted her body, but she pushed it aside, ignoring the sharp ache. She forced her arms to churn through the cold water, each stroke jagged and desperate. The pain in her side deepened, a fierce burn that spread to her shoulder, but she clenched her teeth and kept moving, breath ragged and shallow.

“C’mon, c’mon…” she whispered fiercely to herself.

She reached Eugene, sliding one arm beneath his back and drawing him close against her chest. His skin felt icy—unnaturally cold—and the weight of him was almost unbearable, heavy in the unforgiving water. She cradled the back of his head to her shoulder, tilting his face just enough to keep his nose above the surface and prevent him from swallowing any more pond water.

“Hold on, Eugene. Please,” she murmured, voice trembling but resolute.

Yoko’s and Xavier’s voices shouted from the dock, their silhouetted forms leaning dangerously over the edge. Arms reached out, fingers trembling as they called for Enid to hurry.

The water churned behind her—Kent and Ajax splashed closer, their panic rising in frantic gasps and curses.

“Shit, we gotta go!” Kent yelled, voice raw with urgency.

Ajax muttered a string of curses under his breath. “We’re so screwed. So screwed.”

Enid didn’t respond. Her focus narrowed, locked onto the shore and the outstretched arms waiting for her. Her legs kicked furiously beneath the surface, pounding through the cold pond water. Her arms trembled with effort, struggling to keep them afloat under Eugene’s heavy, unyielding weight. Her breaths came fast and shallow, each inhale a ragged gasp.

Suddenly, Bianca slipped silently into the water beside her, calm and determined. She eased beneath Eugene’s other side with ease.

“I got him,” Bianca muttered, voice taut with urgency.

Together, Enid and Bianca pushed harder, muscles burning, cutting through the water with synchronized strokes. The dock loomed closer, the worn wooden planks rough against their aching fingertips.

“We’ve got you!” Yoko called out, crouched low at the water’s edge, arms stretched wide.

Xavier knelt beside her, fingers gripping the wood so tightly his knuckles blanched white. With coordinated effort, they hauled Eugene from the pond, carefully supporting his head and neck as they laid him gently onto the warped boards.

Kent and Ajax reached down, grabbing the girls’ slick, dripping arms and pulling them up. They stumbled backward, soaked and breathless but safe, the weight of adrenaline heavy in their chests.

Divina darted forward alongside Yoko, scooping up scattered clothes and belongings with frantic, hurried movements. She stuffed them into a bag, hands shaking with panic.

Just then—a sharp beam of light flashed from across the pond, slicing through the darkness like a knife.

“Shit!” Ajax barked, backing up instinctively, eyes wide with alarm.

The light swayed, drawing nearer, its glow harsh and unforgiving. A low, commanding voice rang out, laced with anger.

“Hey! You kids aren’t supposed to be here!”

For a heartbeat, they all froze—then chaos erupted.

“Run!” Xavier shouted.

Enid and Bianca crouched beside Eugene, muscles straining as they struggled to pull him upright. His eyelids fluttered weakly, barely opening, and a soft groan escaped his lips. He couldn’t stand—not like this.

Enid’s chest heaved with exhaustion and panic as she glanced back toward the parked cars, then shifted her gaze to a figure sprinting toward them. The flashlight beam jerked wildly in the darkness, slicing erratically through the night.

“We have to move!” Xavier shouted again, urgency ringing through his voice.

“I’ll stay,” Enid said firmly, turning to face them.

Xavier froze, eyes wide. “What?! No. No, you’re not—”

“Listen to me!” she snapped, her tone sharp and urgent. “Xavier, you don’t need another fight with your dad. And Bianca—”

Bianca’s hands hovered helplessly over Eugene’s shoulders, torn between staying and fleeing. “Enid—”

“You can’t get caught,” Enid pressed, voice tight and trembling now. “You lose your scholarship, your valedictorian spot. You’ve worked too hard. Please. Just go.”

Bianca hesitated for a heartbeat, then grabbed Xavier’s arm and yanked him backward. He resisted for a moment longer, eyes locked on Enid’s with fierce determination.

“Good luck,” he said firmly.

Enid nodded once, grim but resolute. “You too.”

Without another word, they were gone—sprinting toward their cars. Doors slammed with sharp clangs, engines roared to life, and tires tore over gravel as they sped away into the night.

Enid gently lowered Eugene’s head into her lap, fingers brushing through his damp curls as she cradled him close. His breathing was shallow and uneven, fragile like the flicker of a dying flame. Blood trickled from a wound at his temple, weaving through his curls and streaking across his cheek—a diluted pink, bleeding into the water still dripping from his hair.

In the distance, sirens wailed, growing louder. Red and blue lights flashed behind the treeline, cutting jagged lines across the dark sky like shards of shattered neon.

Enid took a steadying breath, tightening her arms around him.

“You’re okay, Eugene. I’ve got you.”

The flashing lights pulsed rhythmically across the pond, casting the dock and the surrounding trees in a surreal wash of stuttering color. Enid remained still, knees pressed into the soaked, warped wood beneath her, arms wrapped protectively around Eugene’s limp form. His head rested heavy in her lap, the blood from his temple now half-dried, blending with the moisture clinging stubbornly to his curls. The only sounds were the gentle lap of water against the dock’s edge and the distant hum of chaos fading into an uneasy silence.

Suddenly, a cruiser’s tires screeched to a halt on the gravel path, sending a spray of loose stones into the night air. The siren’s wail cut off sharply with a piercing chirp as the engine settled into a steady idle. Its headlights stabbed across the dock, harsh and unyielding, like the glare of an interrogator’s lamp.

A car door slammed.

Boots crunched against gravel and old pine needles—quick, firm steps with the clipped cadence of someone already irritated. The beam of a flashlight swept through the humid night air, cutting through the mist like a blade, before landing directly on Enid’s face.

She squinted, but didn’t raise a hand, didn’t move. Her entire body felt leaden, her limbs heavy with fatigue and cold. Only the throb in her ribs and the sharp, searing ache in her shoulder reminded her she was still conscious.

“You!” a voice barked, deep and authoritative. “On your feet! Step away from him!”

Enid didn’t move. She didn’t even flinch.

“He’s hurt,” she said. Her voice was low, rough at the edges, but steady—just loud enough to rise above the crackle of the cruiser’s radio. “He hit his head. He needs help.”

Another officer jogged into view, his flashlight swinging wildly until it steadied on Eugene’s still form. He dropped to one knee without hesitation, fingers moving quickly across Eugene’s neck and wrist, checking for a pulse with the ease of routine.

Enid blinked, adjusting her gaze as the afterglow of the first flashlight faded from her vision. Her eyes drifted to the embroidered name patch on the officer’s vest: Lefebvre, L.

“Where are the others?” Lefebvre demanded, his gaze snapping back to her, sharp and assessing.

“They ran,” Enid replied quietly. The words caught in her throat, brittle and raw. “I stayed.”

The flashlight beam dipped, sweeping down the length of her body. It caught the glint of dried blood on Eugene’s brow, then the angry scrapes running along her thighs and shins. Her teeth started to chatter, an involuntary tremor breaking through the numbness, despite the sticky warmth of blood and pond water clinging to her skin.

Then something heavy settled over her shoulders—a dark patrol coat, thick and still warm from body heat. She glanced up and saw the second officer, a woman—Walsh, the tag read—stepping back after draping the coat around her.

The gesture was wordless. Gentle. And it undid her more than anything else so far.

“Are you under the influence?” Walsh asked, now crouching beside her. Her voice was clipped, professional, but not unkind.

Enid shook her head quickly, the motion sharp with desperation. “No, ma’am. I’m the designated driver.”

Walsh nodded once, expression unreadable.

“Then what the hell happened out here?”

Enid’s mouth felt dry, her tongue thick with grit and panic. She inhaled through her nose, the scent of algae and fear caught in her throat.

“He jumped,” she said, voice cracking. “From the platform. He got scared at the last second, but I was already in motion. I think—I think I pulled him. He hit the water wrong.”

Walsh’s jaw flexed, the muscle twitching as her eyes scanned the rotting platform above them—the rusted ladder, the warped boards slick with moisture, and the black water still rippling below.

“And you didn’t call for help?” she asked, incredulous. 

“We panicked,” Enid snapped before she could stop herself. Her voice cracked like a bell struck too hard. “Everyone was yelling—I was already in the water. I had him. I wasn’t gonna leave him floating there.”

Walsh didn’t respond right away. Her expression shifted—eyes narrowing slightly, brows knitting as if reevaluating the girl crouched in front of her. There was no denial in Enid’s words, just urgency, instinct, and something raw beneath the surface.

Behind them, Officer Lefebvre rose from Eugene’s side, lifting his radio to his mouth.

“Concussion, minor laceration,” he reported crisply. “Calling for a 10-52. We need paramedics now.”

Walsh echoed the call, her fingers rising to her shoulder mic. “Dispatch, this is Officer Walsh requesting a 10-52 at coordinates four-two-alpha. Possible head trauma.”

She turned back toward Enid, her tone a notch softer. “What’s your name?”

“Enid Sinclair,” she said, breath catching on the second syllable.

Lefebvre stepped over and crouched beside her, his gaze scanning for injuries. “You mind if I take a look?”

Enid shook her head, but said nothing. It wasn’t until Lefebvre reached gently toward her that she realized she was still gripping Eugene’s shoulder with both hands, her knuckles white with tension, as if letting go might undo everything.

Carefully, he pried her fingers free. The moment her right arm moved, pain tore through it like a live wire. Enid gasped sharply, recoiling, her body jerking as the white-hot agony flared down to her fingertips.

“Possible dislocation or fracture,” Lefebvre muttered, eyes flicking to Walsh. “Radio in another injury.”

The scream of sirens rose again in the distance—closer now. This time, it didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like help and incoming dread.

Red and white lights swept across the trees, pulsing over the dock in rhythmic flashes as the ambulance rolled up near the slope. The back doors swung open before the vehicle had fully stopped, and two paramedics sprinted down the incline, a stretcher between them. Mud and pine needles scattered in their wake, flung up by the urgency in their boots.

Enid remained kneeling beside Eugene, unmoving, even as they approached. She didn’t want to let go—not until she had to.

One of the medics crouched beside her, murmuring something gentle and soothing, while the others lifted Eugene’s limp form with practiced care. They strapped him to the stretcher securely, buckles clicking into place, before hoisting him up and carrying him toward the waiting ambulance.

Walsh stepped closer, extending a hand. Her voice was softer now, steady but kind. “Come on, hon. Let’s get you up.”

Enid reached for it and tried to rise—but the moment she put weight on her right foot, pain surged up her leg like a lightning strike. Her ankle gave with a sharp twist, and she cried out, nearly collapsing. Walsh caught her under the arm just in time.

“Sprained or worse,” Walsh muttered, tightening her grip. “Easy now.”

Between Walsh and Lefebvre, they half-supported, half-carried her up the path, slow and careful with each step. Enid’s breath came in shallow gasps, her body trembling from the cold, from adrenaline, from everything catching up to her all at once.

Halfway up the slope, one of the paramedics jogged back with a second stretcher.

“We’ll take it from here,” she said briskly, her touch gentle as she helped Enid ease down onto the canvas surface. Every shift sent new spikes of pain shooting through Enid’s shoulder and ankle. Her jaw clenched, and her fingers dug into the sides of the stretcher as straps tightened across her torso.

She was shaking now, teeth chattering, vision blurring—not just from fear, but from sheer exhaustion.

The inside of the ambulance was harshly lit, the fluorescent bulbs casting everything in a sterile, almost unreal glow. The air hummed with the low thrum of machinery and the sharp sting of antiseptic, the clean scent doing little to steady the storm still churning inside her.

Enid sat on the narrow metal bench, stiff and trembling beneath the yellow emergency blanket draped over her shoulders. Across from her, Eugene lay strapped to the gurney, still unconscious but breathing with more regularity now. A clean line of gauze was taped to his temple, stained faintly pink where it pressed against the wound. His face, normally animated with nervous energy, looked pale and bruised, all the color drained by pain and cold.

From outside, the low murmur of voices drifted in—clipboards rustling, boots crunching on gravel. Officer Walsh’s voice cut through clearly.

“You’ll be answering some questions later,” she said, pen scribbling across the page. “Count on that.”

Before Enid could muster a reply, the ambulance doors slammed shut, sealing her inside with a hollow finality. A second later, the sirens screamed to life again—sharp, rising, relentless. The sound pressed against the quiet forest around them, swallowing the stillness of the trees and the dark, rippling water they left behind.

Enid didn’t answer. She didn’t move. She just sat there, hunched beneath the blanket, staring at Eugene’s motionless form. Her fingers curled tighter around the fabric, knuckles white, as she shivered in silence.

Morning light filtered through the kitchen window in soft, golden beams—far too gentle for the weight Enid carried in her body. It painted the tile floor in warm ribbons, but did little to lift the heaviness clinging to her limbs. She moved slowly, one crutch tucked under her arm, her other leg dragging slightly with each step. Every motion sent a dull throb up her ankle, while her shoulder pulsed in rhythmic, stubborn pain that hadn't faded with sleep.

The smell of bacon and eggs hung in the air—familiar, comforting, curling like steam around the edges of a memory. Her father stood at the stove, spatula in hand, his back to her. The gentle sizzle of the pan filled the quiet room, mingling with the clink of utensils and the soft hum of the refrigerator.

Enid exhaled slowly through her nose, adjusting her grip on the crutch as she limped toward the dining table. The wooden chair creaked beneath her as she sank into it with a restrained groan, every muscle aching, seeping deep into her bones.

At the sound, her father turned slightly, his gaze meeting hers across the quiet kitchen. His eyes still held the same warmth she’d always known, but today they were shadowed by a sulking look that made her stomach churn uncomfortably. There were new lines at the corners of his mouth, drawn deep by worry and sleepless hours.

Guilt knotted in her throat, thick and tight. She looked down.

He didn’t speak. He just offered a small, quiet nod—acknowledging her presence, her pain, maybe even her silence—before turning back to the stove.

A moment later, he brought over a plate and set it down in front of her—two eggs, toast, and three strips of bacon, arranged just the way she liked. He stepped away briefly, opened the cabinet above the fridge, and returned with a pill bottle and a glass of water.

Without a word, he placed two painkillers beside her plate.

“Take those first,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Then eat something.”

Enid nodded, eyes fixed on the table. She reached for the pills with her left hand—the one that didn’t tremble—and swallowed them down with a sip of water. The taste of chalk lingered behind the ache in her throat.

“Orange, apple, or milk?” her father asked, already reaching for the fridge handle.

Enid picked up her fork and gently pressed it into the yolk of one egg. It quivered under the pressure, unbroken, the tension in the surface mirroring her own. Her voice came quiet, barely audible.

“Just water’s fine.”

She didn’t look up, only flicked her eyes in his direction when he nodded and closed the fridge without grabbing anything.

He finally sat down across from her, a folded newspaper tucked under one arm, his other hand cradling a steaming mug of coffee. The scent of dark roast drifted between them, mingling with the warm smell of eggs and bacon. Silence settled in like fog. Time stretched.

Enid shifted slightly in her seat. The vinyl cushion squeaked beneath her as she adjusted her weight, her shoulder protesting the movement. She sighed, then finally stabbed the egg. The yolk burst, golden liquid bleeding slowly across the plate in lazy arcs.

From behind the half-lowered edge of his paper, her father’s voice broke the quiet.

“You need to eat. Your body’s healing—you can’t do that on an empty stomach.”

Enid gave a slow nod but didn’t lift her eyes. She reached for a piece of bacon, its edges brittle and hot between her fingers, and bit into it mechanically. After a moment, she spoke again—flat, emotionless.

“Why aren’t you yelling at me?”

Her father didn’t respond right away. He folded the newspaper slowly, creasing the pages like it mattered, like order still had a place in the world. Then he set it aside, took a long sip of coffee, his eyes distant and thoughtful above the rim. The quiet tick of the wall clock filled the gap.

When he finally set the mug down, his gaze met hers directly—calm, unwavering.

“I’m not going to lie, Enid. I am disappointed. Not in you,” he said, carefully emphasizing the distinction, “but in what happened. In the choices that led there. But I’m also...” He paused, choosing his next words with care. “Grateful. Relieved, really.”

His tone didn’t waver.

“You’re banged up, yeah. But you’ll heal. Nothing permanent.”

Enid’s shoulders tensed, the muscles bunching as if bracing against a storm. Her hair slipped forward, veiling her face as she bowed her head, letting it fall like a curtain between them. Her fingers curled tightly around the fork, knuckles whitening from the pressure.

Across the table, her father reached out and gently laid his hand over hers. His palm was warm, his touch light but steady—an anchor in the silence. That simple, familiar weight unraveled something inside her. Her throat tightened instantly, breath catching like a frayed thread pulled too taut.

“And I’m proud of you,” he said softly, his voice dipping lower, steadier. “You didn’t run. You stayed. You made sure Eugene got help. That matters more than the mistakes that were made.”

The flood came before she could brace for it.

Her shoulders trembled, the first sobs escaping in silence, no sound but the hitch of her breath. Then the dam broke. Her body shook with wracking sobs, each one pulling deeper than the last. Tears spilled freely, soaking into her jeans in heavy, stinging drops, dripping through her hair and onto the uneaten eggs cooling on her plate.

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. The grief, the shame, the guilt—all of it came pouring out with no words to shape it.

Her father didn’t pull away. He didn’t speak again or try to stop her. He simply kept his hand over hers, still and grounding, the same way he had when she was small and bleeding from scraped knees, or curled in bed afraid of the dark. No judgment. No rush.

Just presence.

Enid stayed close behind her father, her pace slow and measured. The old wooden cart creaked softly as he pushed it along the uneven gravel path, its wheels jolting over roots and scattered stones. It was piled high with freshly bottled milk—still chilled from the cellar—and blocks of pale cheese wrapped in wax paper and string. Enid carried a plastic storage bin tucked against her good side, gripping it tightly with one arm while her crutch dug into the damp earth every third step. Her focus narrowed to the ground ahead—watching for ruts, loose gravel, or patches of hidden grass where the rubber tip might catch. 

As they left the gravel behind and crossed onto sun-warmed concrete, the plaza opened up before them—the familiar ring of the local farmer’s market. A wide, circular spread of cement framed by canopies and collapsible tents in bright patchwork colors. The air was rich with the scent of sweet bread, bruised mint, and earth still damp from the morning dew.

At the center of the circle stood the modest performance platform, a raised wooden stage just a few feet off the ground. This morning’s performer had already set up—a sleek, oversized black violin rested on a stand beside a single folding chair and small table. The instrument’s strings shimmered faintly in the early sunlight, catching glints of gold.

Enid’s lip twitched, not quite a smirk, but something close. Relief, mostly. No moody SoundCloud rapper this time—no droning beats through cheap speakers or half-baked freestyles about capitalism and cows. Last week’s performer had worn a backward cap and tried to rhyme “existential dread” with “cheddar spread.” The cringe still lingered. Today’s act, at least, looked quiet. Classical. Tasteful. She could live with that.

Their family stall was tucked just beside the stage—prime placement for foot traffic and, admittedly, also prime exposure to whatever soundtrack would accompany the morning. Enid gave a small, one-armed wave across the circle to Kent and Divina, who were already set up beside rows of hand-knitted hats, beaded earrings, and patterned tote bags dyed in soft, earthy tones. Kent raised a thermos in salute while Divina offered a sleepy smile, mid-bite into something flaky and pastry-like.

Enid inhaled through her nose and got to work. She helped her father unpack, her movements careful but practiced. She began lining the front table with milk bottles, setting them into the ice-filled cooler one by one, making sure the hand-drawn labels faced outward in neat rows. The glass was cold to the touch, beads of condensation forming beneath her fingertips. Beside her, her father moved quietly stacking the smaller cheese blocks in wooden crates, centering the large wheel on a cutting board, and placing a clean paring knife beside a box of herb crackers meant for tasters.

Around them, the plaza was slowly filling with life. Early shoppers filtered in, many of them locals—older folks with sun-weathered faces and canvas bags worn from weekly use. A few tourists lingered near the coffee cart, a teen with a DSLR camera slung around their neck, taking wide-angle shots of jam jars and croissants. Kids tugged at their parents’ hands, leading them toward the bakery stall with wide eyes and sugar-laced hopes.

The light shifted through the canopy above, soft and golden. Under the yellow canvas, everything took on the hue of warm butter—gentle, glowing, and slow.

Her father unfolded a metal chair behind the cheese display, tied a red-and-white checkered cushion to the seat, and patted it twice. “Sit,” he said simply.

Enid lowered herself slowly onto the chair, biting back a groan as her shoulder flared with a sharp twinge. Her crutch clattered softly against the table as she leaned it carefully against the side. Her father stepped away briefly, then returned carrying a worn cloth. He tied one end to the front tent pole, stretched it overhead to cast a makeshift shade over her seat, and secured the other end around a water bottle filled with sand to weigh it down—an improvised canopy against the morning sun, which was beginning to tilt toward her side of the market.

The corners of Enid’s mouth lifted despite herself. The effort was small but thoughtful, and for a fleeting moment, her heart warmed—only to sink again, the gesture felt undeserved. She watched him silently as he placed the lockbox of cash in front of her before returning to straighten the tablecloth’s edges.

Setting up had taken longer than usual—Enid knew that. She knew he’d done most of the heavy lifting and arranging. Usually, she’d be out front by now, greeting regulars, offering samples, teasing teenagers into buying the pricier cheese blocks. But today she was stuck behind the table—on register duty, forced to sit still, wrapped in gauze and wrapped tighter still in regret.

To distract herself, she reached for the logbook, but it did little to ease the gnawing guilt inside her.

Coins clinked into the register tray as Enid finished the transaction, tapping the calculator with quick, practiced fingers. Her nails still bore faint stains of jam from the breakfast she’d barely managed that morning. “Safe travels back to Indiana,” she said with a polite smile, handing the customer their change with a slight nod. The customer smiled back, thanked her, then melted into the slow-moving crowd of market-goers.

As soon as the next person in line stepped away, Enid logged the sale, her good hand moving reflexively across the page. Then she froze.

A sound sliced through the noise of chatter and rustling bags—not loud or brash, but commanding. Music, deep and strange and lovely, uncoiling into the air like incense. Rich layers built and fell in soft, deliberate waves—tones heavy with longing yet light enough to drift on the breeze. The melody stilled footsteps and hushed conversations alike.

Enid looked up from her notebook, eyes drawn immediately toward the stage just a few feet from her stall.

There, seated beside the black violin stand, was a girl—small and solemn, twin braids neat against a crisp black blouse. Her boots barely touched the stage as she shifted slightly in her seat, back straight and chin lifted with quiet confidence.

Enid’s breath caught.

Wednesday Addams.

The violin in her hands looked like it had been carved from shadows, the finish gleaming under the sun in muted streaks of lacquered black. Her bow glided across the strings with the precision of someone born to wield it—fingers taut yet graceful, posture poised like a sculpture caught in motion. Her face remained unreadable, almost cold, but the music was anything but.

Enid recognized the song. She couldn’t name it, not exactly—it was one of those classical pieces she’d heard in passing before, during movie scenes or late-night youtube playlists with titles like “haunting beauty” or “songs to break your heart quietly” . But it didn’t matter. The melody gripped her, swelling in a crescendo that seemed to spiral upward through the plaza’s morning bustle.

Children paused mid-run. An older woman placed a hand over her chest. Even the air itself seemed to still.

Wednesday closed her eyes as the final notes unfurled—her bow floating slowly, drawing out the silence before the last vibration slipped away. Then, as if nothing had happened, she reached beside her to a small tablet propped on the table, tethered to a speaker by an aux cable. She tapped the screen with a single finger and leaned back into position.

What followed was a classical rendition.

The speaker came alive with an echoing harmony—overlaid layers of her violin, pre-recorded and stitched into a gentle, aching backdrop. The first notes of the next piece began, and Enid tilted her head, puzzled. The melody was familiar, but reimagined entirely through strings. The low, mournful swell. The soft pulse of longing.

Then the chorus formed in her mind.

Mitski. Nobody .

Enid’s stomach tightened.

Wednesday’s bow moved with deceptive ease, each stroke pointed and deliberate. Her eyes opened—and this time, they searched. She scanned the crowd, her expression still as unreadable as ever, until—

Their eyes met.

Enid froze.

She expected Wednesday to glance away—to let her gaze glide indifferently across the crowd, as if Enid were just another blur in the background. But she didn’t. Her stare rooted itself, unwavering, like a blade stabbed deep and left to hold steady against the wind. There was no warmth in it. No apathy, either. Not even the distant, clinical curiosity Wednesday sometimes wore when watching people like specimens behind glass.

What Enid saw instead was something sharper. Harder. Like obsidian, dark and gleaming, heated just enough to sear. That look—it sent a chill down her spine. Her hands went cold. Her shoulders locked.

Resentment.

No words passed between them, but the message was clear—louder than the music still echoing from the speaker, louder than the hum of voices and footsteps in the market.

Enid swallowed hard and dropped her gaze, unable to withstand it a moment longer. It didn’t matter. The moment had already carved itself into something irreversible.

Of course she hadn’t just stumbled upon a gifted violinist. Of course this wasn’t just another familiar face in the crowd.

Wednesday Addams was Eugene’s best friend.

And Enid had been the one who brought him home broken.

Mondays. Enid hated them with a quiet, marrow-deep exhaustion. The sky still wore its morning gray—soft, hazy, and reluctant to brighten—as she sat on the porch swing outside her house. Her crutch was propped against the armrest, and a cooling cup of coffee sat untouched by her side, steam long since vanished into the chilled air. Her thumb moved slowly over her phone screen, scrolling without urgency.

She double-tapped Kent’s latest post—a photo of a weirdly-shaped rock nestled in his palm, probably the newest addition to the ever-growing collection cluttering his desk. She paused to comment under Xavier’s newest piece: a haunting charcoal rendering of what looked like a cathedral half-swallowed by fog. Then, without thinking, she tapped through Bianca’s Instagram stories. Midway through typing a sarcastic compliment about her ‘fit check’—something about slaying before sunrise—Enid heard it.

The low, familiar purr of a Highlander’s engine rounded the corner.

She glanced up just as the silver SUV pulled into the driveway, tires crunching over gravel. Yoko sat behind the wheel, one arm lazily draped over the steering wheel, sunglasses perched atop her head despite the clouded sky. The windows were half-rolled down, letting faint traces of music drift into the morning air. From the passenger seat, Divina leaned out slightly, her braided bun swaying with the motion.

“Need help getting in, limpy?” Divina called, grinning—teasing.

“I got it,” Enid replied, forcing herself upright with a soft grunt. Her crutch wobbled slightly as she hooked her arm through the strap of her school bag and slung it over her good shoulder. The sudden shift sent the weight of the bag lurching sideways, swinging hard into her ribs and knocking awkwardly against her injured side. The strap bit into her shoulder, the corners of textbooks jabbing through the thin fabric to dig into her skin—but she didn’t adjust it. She welcomed the sting. It felt deserved, in a way.

Getting into the backseat took a full minute—balancing the crutch, angling her weight just right, bracing one arm against the doorframe. It was an awkward shuffle, every movement calculated, but Enid managed it without asking for help. Still, by the time she buckled her seatbelt, her breath was shallow and her limbs ached from the effort.

Divina launched straight into a tirade as Yoko pulled away from the curb, declaring loudly that Mondays were a cosmic punishment sent to crush joy under a bureaucratic boot. Enid groaned in agreement, letting her head fall gently against the cool windowpane. The glass was smooth against her cheek, a small relief from the persistent throb in her shoulder.

From the driver’s seat, Yoko nodded at intervals, eyes on the road, but didn’t contribute much. Enid caught a glimpse of her in the rearview mirror—a knowing smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. Yoko secretly liked Mondays. Enid was almost sure of it. Maybe it was the routine. Maybe it was the potential for chaos. Yoko struck her as the kind of person who found poetry in structure and gossip in every fresh start. A habitual romanticizer of the mundane.

When they finally pulled into Nevermore’s lot, the others were already there, gathered under the sprawling shadow of the old oak that loomed near the front entrance. The scene looked like a promo shot for a teen drama—Kent gesturing animatedly with a protein bar as if reciting a sermon, Ajax leaning with casual indifference against the tree trunk, hoodie pulled low over his eyes, and Bianca, of course, at the center like gravity, arms crossed, chin tilted, looking absolutely done with whatever Kent was saying.

Divina hopped out first, looping Enid’s crutch from the floor and extending it to her like a sword in a knighting ceremony. Enid muttered a thanks and swung her legs out carefully, bracing for impact as she eased herself down. Her bag slid sideways in the process, smacking hard into the tender spot on her ribs with renewed sting. She flinched—but didn’t fix it either.

She didn’t have the energy to keep avoiding pain that felt earned.

As they neared the oak tree, Kent stepped forward, his brow creased with concern. “I can carry your bag, if you want. We’ve got three classes together anyway.”

Enid shook her head, managing a faint smile. “I’m good, but thanks.” Her voice was light, almost breezy—too practiced to be casual. She appreciated the offer, genuinely. But she couldn’t let herself take it. Not when every ache felt like a consequence she was supposed to carry.

Xavier rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes. “So… what’s the damage?”

Enid lifted a brow and tilted her head, expression dry. “Physically? Emotionally? Or legally?”

He gave a helpless shrug, both hands raised in surrender. “All of it?”

She exhaled slowly, leaning slightly into her crutch as her other foot scuffed at the dirt near the tree roots. “Didn’t give them any names,” she murmured. “The cops know we were there as a group, but I only talked about Eugene’s fall. Nothing else. They suspect and stuff, but they can’t prove anything.”

Her gaze dropped to her own feet—to the clunky black ankle brace strapped tight over her sock, a glaring contrast to her pink high-top Converse. “Sprained ankle. Bruised ribs. Torn something in my shoulder, probably. Nothing compared to Eugene.” She gave a half-laugh, dry and bitter. “They didn’t even have the brace in pink. Guess that means I got off easy.”

Ajax winced, his posture stiff. “How’d your dad take it?”

Enid adjusted the bag strap that had slipped off her shoulder, the motion stiff and unthinking. “Didn’t yell. Just… said he was glad I wasn’t in the ICU. He’s disappointed, though. About the trespassing. The ‘reckless pond dive.’” She quoted the words with air quotes and a grimace. “Can’t say he’s wrong.”

Bianca, without a word, snatched the strap of Enid’s bag from her shoulder and shoved it into Kent’s chest. He caught it with a startled grunt, nearly fumbling it.

“Thanks for saving our asses,” Bianca said flatly. “Now shut up and let us help you.”

Enid opened her mouth to protest, but Bianca cut her off with a sharp gesture—one finger pointed in the air like a warning blade.

“Zip it. We all screwed up that night. You staying and taking the heat doesn’t make us less responsible.”

Yoko groaned dramatically and flung herself sideways against Ajax, who staggered back a step but managed to stay upright. She pressed a hand to her forehead like a tragic stage actress mid-monologue.

“I’m a monster. I left my platonic soulmate behind to be arrested and slowly eaten alive by guilt.”

Divina rolled her eyes and gave Enid a crooked smile. “We thought you were right behind us, E.”

Ajax shrugged, his shoulders lifting and falling in a lazy arc as he gently nudged Yoko off him. She gave a small pout but straightened without complaint.

“My parents would’ve lost it,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Car’d be gone for a month. Grounded for life. But... that wouldn’t have been the end of the world.” His voice dipped lower, quieter. “Still—I shouldn’t have run. I just... freaked out.”

Bianca exhaled hard through her nose, hands planted on her hips with a kind of sharp finality. Her stance was commanding, her tone no-nonsense.

“Everyone panicked, Ajax,” she said. Her voice was clipped, but not cruel. Then her eyes cut toward Enid—narrowed slightly, but not with judgment.

“But you’re not the only one who made a mistake,” she added. “So stop acting like you’re the only one who has to pay for it.”

Enid opened her mouth to reply—probably with some offhand comment, something light and dismissive to downplay how much guilt she was actually carrying—but something shifted in the group’s atmosphere.

It was subtle at first. A flick of Yoko’s eyes. A stiffening in her shoulders. But it was enough to make everyone still. She flinched, gaze darting sharply to the side, her lips pressing into a thin line.

They all followed her line of sight.

Wednesday Addams approached like a storm veiled in monochrome. She wore black jeans and heavy combat boots that moved silently over the pavement. A long-sleeved fishnet top peeked from beneath a fitted, striped shirt, tight at the shoulders and tucked into a high low ruched ruffle waisted midi pleated skirt. In her arms, she carried a cardboard box brimming with delicate chaos—skewered paper models, bright wires twisted into abstract shapes, clay figures perched precariously on platforms, and loose sheets curling at the corners like they were alive. The entire mess jostled with every step she took, yet her grip remained steady.

But it wasn’t the box that made everyone fall silent.

It was the expression on her face.

Even more shocking than the color—yes, actual yellow —buried in the chaos she carried, was the look in her eyes. Cold. Unforgiving. A contempt so potent it felt radioactive, like it could burn straight through skin and bone. Her stare dragged across the group with brutal weight, not searching—judging. Every flicker of her gaze landed like a death sentence.

Even Bianca—who once looked Wednesday dead in the eye and said she wasn’t afraid of “a girl who wore pigtails like a serial killer Barbie”—looked away.

And then, in an act of breathtaking idiocy, Xavier stepped forward.

“Hey, Wednesday!” he called, cheerful and hopeful, like a Labrador retriever blissfully unaware it was stepping into oncoming traffic. “Need help with that?”

Time stopped.

Enid felt her soul physically evacuate her body.

Wednesday halted mid-step, the muscles in her jaw tightening with controlled fury. She turned her head slowly—deliberately—as if granting the moment the full weight of theatrical disdain. Her glare sharpened, radiating so much scorn it felt almost tangible, like it could melt tungsten on contact.

“I’d rather gouge out my eyes,” she said, her voice low, icy, and laced with venom, “with a rusted spoon serrated at the edges.”

Without another glance, she turned and walked away, her stride brisk and unrelenting. The box in her arms rattled with each step, bits of paper and wire shifting violently with her momentum.

The group groaned in unison.

“Oh my god, Xavier,” Yoko muttered, dragging a hand over her face in mortified disbelief.

Kent gave Xavier a light smack on the shoulder. “Nice going, genius.”

Xavier winced, rubbing the spot with a sheepish grin. “What? I was just trying to be helpful…”

“Yeah, well, she’d probably rather burn the school to ash than accept help from any of us right now,” Divina said, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

Enid said nothing. She stood motionless, her crutch shifting slightly beneath her as her fingers flexed around the handle. The dull throb in her ankle echoed the ache in her shoulder, but she barely registered it. Her eyes remained locked on Wednesday’s retreating form, unmoving and unreadable.

Enid sat in the principal’s office, body slack against the molded curve of the Eames chair. Her shoulders drooped, legs stretched out just enough to suggest defeat—but not full surrender. The maroon cushion beneath her creaked faintly, the fabric dipping just enough to cradle her in reluctant comfort, as if even the chair pitied her. If it were possible to melt through the seams and vanish between the screws and padding, Enid would’ve done it without hesitation.

Across the desk, Principal Weems sifted through a stack of papers, the crisp rustle of each turn slicing through the thick silence like static. Her pen clicked in steady rhythm against the dark oak surface, occasionally brushing past a framed photo or the edge of a miniature Big Ben statuette. The desk, cluttered but intentional, was a snapshot of curated chaos—every item purposeful, every detail hinting at a long history of careful control.

Finally, Weems exhaled and removed her glasses, setting them beside a crystal paperweight shaped like the London Eye. She looked up, her gaze locking on Enid’s with that distinct, steel-edged calm that always cut deeper than shouting ever could.

“Enid,” she said, voice level, arms folding over the papers. “I want to start by saying I’m fully aware you’re a good student.”

Enid’s fingers, buried deep in the cuffs of her varsity jacket, twisted around a loose thread. She knotted and unknotted it compulsively, her stomach tangling right along with it.

“You’ve maintained above-average grades, your teachers either sing your praises or, at the very worst, list you as ‘occasionally tardy,’ which I’d wager is due to your schedule rather than any deliberate defiance,” Weems continued, her tone steady but not unkind. “You’re a respectable student athlete, and you’ve represented Nevermore well.”

“You’ve maintained above-average grades. Your teachers either sing your praises or, at worst, note you as ‘occasionally tardy,’ which I’d wager stems from your schedule rather than any deliberate defiance,” Weems continued, her tone steady but not unkind. “You’re a respectable student-athlete, and you’ve represented Nevermore well.”

Enid tugged at the cuff of her varsity jacket, twisting the fabric around her fingers. Her gaze drifted to one of the photos perched behind the desk—a younger Weems dressed in full fencing gear, standing stiffly in the old, now-renovated fencing hall. Her smile in the picture was smaller, more hesitant. Enid wondered, distantly, what it might have been like to know Principal Weems when she was still just Larissa.

Weems’s expression softened, and she leaned forward slightly. “Your position on the basketball team is not at risk. I spoke with Coach Dorian this morning. Given your injury, you’re already benched, and frankly, that’s punishment enough. But the consequences don’t end there.”

Enid’s heart lodged somewhere between her ribs. Her teeth found her bottom lip, pressing down just hard enough to feel the sting. She held her breath, bracing herself for the inevitable. Please—not the scholarship. Please— not the scholarship .

“I spoke with the owners of the factory,” Weems said, folding her hands together, elbows resting lightly on the desk. “We were classmates long ago. I was able to persuade them not to press charges. You’ll assist the custodial staff after school until further notice.”

Relief flooded Enid’s lungs in a rush so sharp it nearly made her dizzy. She let out a breathless laugh, the corners of her mouth twitching into a nervous smile. “Is it too hopeful to ask if that janitorial work comes with a wage?”

Weems smirked, her stern demeanor softening just enough. “The inner satisfaction it brings should be more than enough.”

“Right,” Enid mumbled, her voice low but resigned. “Free labor for the soul.”

“That will be after classes,” Weems continued. “And on Saturday mornings, you’ll be assisting with tutoring at our sister school in Broadwater. Several students there could benefit from peer support.”

Enid’s face fell, the weight of the news settling in. “Broadwater’s over an hour away.”

“Which is why you’ll be taking the bus provided with the other volunteers,” Weems said crisply.

Enid blinked, the reality sinking deeper—two hours round-trip for what sounded like unpaid labor. Her Saturdays, gone. Even the small sliver of joy she used to find in arriving early to team practice, sharing water bottles and dumb banter with her teammates—that was slipping away, too. She slumped lower into the chair, the heavy silence pressing down like a physical weight.

Weems paused, shuffling some papers into a neat stack. Enid took it as a sign the conversation was finally over and shifted forward, bracing herself to stand.

“And one more thing,” Weems added casually, as if it were an afterthought.

Enid froze halfway to rising.

“With your recovery preventing you from participating in sports, the Theater Club has requested additional assistance,” Weems continued smoothly. “You’ll be filling in for the student who dropped out of their upcoming production.”

Enid blinked, her mind short-circuiting at the absurdity. “You want me to… act?”

“Not necessarily,” Weems said, though a smirk tugged at her lips. “You may be running lines, helping with sets, moving props. But you will be involved.”

“Involved,” Enid repeated flatly. “As in… theatre theatre?”

“Yes,” Weems replied, smiling as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “You’ll report to Mrs. Cabot on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons starting next week.”

Enid leaned back against the chair, staring at the ceiling as if it might open and swallow her whole. Failing that, she imagined a demonic chair beneath her—jagged wooden teeth and velvet arms—dragging her down into the underworld. Anything to escape the looming weeks of cleaning hallways, tutoring strangers, and somehow becoming a theatre kid by proxy.

She pictured the echoes of her screams bouncing off the walls, and Weems calmly noting it down as a disciplinary footnote.

Somewhere between custodial work, tutoring, and this new community theater purgatory, Enid decided she was officially cursed.

“Welcome to consequence,” Weems said lightly, sliding her glasses back on. “You’re dismissed.”

Enid stood slowly, the crutch thudding gently as she shifted her weight.

Outside the office, the hallway stretched impossibly long before her.

She muttered under her breath, “I should’ve just let the pond drown me.”

Chapter Text

The gymnasium buzzed with faint chatter—the low hum of forced enthusiasm, punctuated by the occasional squeak of sneakers on waxed wood. Harsh overhead lights cast everything in a yellowish hue, washing out the colorful posters and making the plastic folding tables look more drab than festive. It was late in the afternoon, the STEM Exhibition clearly limping toward its end. Most students sat slouched beside their tri-fold displays, some scrolling through their phones in quiet rebellion, others half-heartedly explaining projects to equally disinterested peers.

Enid Sinclair focused on the path ahead—both literal and metaphorical. She pushed the wide, industrial flat mop across the gym floor with steady effort, the long metal handle secured against her waist with a folded towel tucked beneath it to prevent the hard edge from bruising her stomach. The damp mop dragged up a mixture of dirt, shoe prints, glitter flecks, and the crumpled remains of a Doritos bag that skittered like a defiant insect before being swallowed by the mop.

Her injured ankle pulsed with dull heat at every pivot. When she turned too fast, her sneaker let out a high-pitched squeak that made her flinch. The mop head kept snagging on the strips of tape marking the display zones, yanking her off balance and drawing glances she could feel like static against her skin. She hated how visible her limp was under these sterile lights. Hated the heat that flushed her face every time someone looked at her—not out of sympathy, but out of judgment or plain curiosity.

Most of all, she hated how close she had to be to her .

Enid paused, shifting the towel to readjust the pressure on her waist. She leaned heavily on her good leg, exhaling softly. Her eyes, unbidden, wandered across the gym.

Across the gym, at a table beneath the edge of the lower bleachers, stood Wednesday Addams.

The monochrome of her outfit was punctuated by something jarringly out of place: the vibrant yellow borders of the black presentation board she held in both hands. The display was meticulously organized, text typed in precise font sizes, headings in bold, cutouts of bee illustrations lined up with the same eerie symmetry that defined Wednesday’s aesthetic. Beside her, a lineup of glass jars—some holding preserved insects, others housing fragments of honeycomb—rested atop a table draped in black velvet, as though the project were attending its own funeral.

Wednesday’s voice cut through the air, cool and precise, unfazed by the indifference of the three students seated across from her.

“In a honey bee colony, there are between ten thousand and fifty thousand female worker bees. In a bumblebee colony, the number is drastically smaller—fifty to four hundred, depending on the species.” She tilted the board slightly, revealing a labeled diagram with stark anatomical sketches. “The queen is the only reproductive female. The rest are sterile. Their lives are spent tending the brood, collecting pollen, and defending the colony.”

Her audience—three students with the energy of wilting plants—barely responded. One yawned into their sleeve. Another checked their phone, the screen’s glow reflecting in apathetic eyes. The third just blinked, clearly waiting for the presentation to end. Wednesday didn’t so much as twitch in response. Her fingers tightened slightly on the edges of her board as she continued, gaze flicking to the next section of her display.

“The drones—the males—leave the hive to mate.”

Enid, halfway through dragging the mop across a strip of taped floor, had stilled again. One hand on the handle, the other resting limply at her side, she stared.

As if drawn by invisible thread, Wednesday’s eyes shifted—cutting through space, through noise, through everything—until they landed on her.

Her voice dropped in pitch, quieter but no less sharp.

“Then die,” she said. The words dropped like a blade.

Their eyes locked.

There was no warmth in Wednesday’s stare—no civility, no invitation. It wasn’t even anger anymore. Whatever fire had once lit her glare had long since burned down to something colder, heavier. The words she’d spoken didn’t feel like a casual dig or a passing insult. They felt like a sentencing. Her gaze was judgment given form—chiseled from stone, honed to a lethal point.

Enid dropped her eyes instantly, her face flushing with heat and shame. She adjusted her crutch with a small jerk and resumed mopping, dragging the head of the mop across the floor in a wide arc. The sound of wet fabric against linoleum was rhythmic, numbing—something to lose herself in, something that could scrub at the ache rising in her throat. If she could clean hard enough, fast enough, maybe she could erase the heaviness coiled tight in her chest.

Behind her, Wednesday turned back to her presentation as though the moment had never happened. But Enid still felt it—still felt her. Like the sting of an insect bite long after the bee had flown away. A phantom burn under the skin.

The gym’s heavy doors creaked open again, metal hinges shrieking faintly over the dull hum of fluorescent lights and low murmurs of the science exhibition. Bianca, Yoko, and Divina stepped inside, each with the kind of practiced nonchalance that came from knowing exactly where not to look. 

Their eyes barely skimmed the rows of tables before they veered, in unspoken sync, away from the stage-side displays. Away from the stall wrapped in yellow borders and lined with jars of preserved insects. No one said it aloud. They didn’t have to. Avoidance spoke volumes.

But subtlety had never worked on Wednesday Addams.

Wednesday’s head tilted just slightly, enough to catch them in her peripheral vision. Her dark eyes didn’t shift fully toward them, but the sharpness of her profile and the slow, deliberate way she stilled made it clear: she noticed. And she was not impressed.

Divina faltered for half a step, her mouth pressing into a tight line. Yoko, always quick to speak, muttered under her breath, “Creepy sixth sense, I swear.” Bianca didn’t glance once in Wednesday’s direction.

None of them stopped walking.

They reached Enid without breaking stride, their voices low and quick, careful not to draw attention.

Without waiting for permission, Yoko plucked the crutch from Enid’s hand with the smooth mischief of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. “Well, look at you,” she said, tucking the handle under her arm and hobbling in an exaggerated half-circle around Enid. “Triumphing over injustice like a stylish war veteran.”

Enid chuckled under her breath, the weariness in her posture briefly lifting.

Divina snorted and reached out, snagging the crutch from Yoko mid-pirouette and handing it back to Enid with a look of mixed affection with long-suffering patience. “Give that back, chaos gremlin.” she turned her attention to Enid more seriously. “Seriously, though—you need help with this whole forced-labor thing? It’s criminal they’ve got you scrubbing floors with a busted ankle.”

Enid adjusted the crutch under her arm, shifting her weight carefully. “Nah, it’s fine,” she said, brushing back a strand of sweat-damp hair from her temple. “If they see me handing off the mop, they’ll think I’m trying to get out of it. I’d rather just get through it without making it worse.”

Bianca crossed her arms, gold bangles catching the fluorescent light. “Fine. But if it gets to be too much, you better ask.” Her voice was firm, protective in the way that only someone who’d fought Enid's battles before could manage.

Enid met her gaze, a small, grateful smile tugging at her lips. “I will. Promise.”

Yoko lounged against the lower bleacher row, legs casually crossed at the ankle, her expression somewhere between mischievous and wistful. “Still,” she murmured, voice pitched just low enough for their circle, “I should’ve stayed behind that night. Would’ve made detention way more entertaining. Or at least helped distract from the fact that you’re being punished like a Dickensian orphan.”

Enid leaned a little more comfortably on her crutch, the tension in her shoulders easing. Her stance, though still off-balance, had settled into something steadier. “It’s okay,” she said simply. “There was a lot going on. It was chaos. I don’t blame any of you.”

Divina let out a quiet snort, rolling her eyes with a crooked smile. “Saint Enid of the Crippling Guilt Complex,” she muttered under her breath.

“I try,” Enid replied, flashing a lopsided grin.

Yoko barked a laugh and pushed off the bleachers, spreading her arms theatrically. “Fine, your holiness, we’ll hang out until you’re done. That way we can escort you home in style—crutches and all. Think of us as your post-trauma fairy godmothers. Only hotter.”

She gestured broadly at the mop beside Enid, raising an eyebrow. “Look at the bright side. At least now you’ve got a fallback career. The custodial arts are criminally underrated.”

Enid raised her crutch in mock threat, aiming it like a spear. “Say that again and I’ll test how good you are at dodging.”

Yoko ducked low, laughing as the crutch whiffed over her head. “Try me, mop queen!”

Enid swung again. 

Yoko ducked with a dramatic squeal as the crutch swooshed harmlessly overhead. “Abuse!” she cried, stumbling backward in exaggerated horror. “Truly, no good deed goes unpunished!”

Divina shook her head, lips twitching with amusement as she dropped into a seat beside Bianca, who was already smirking at her phone, likely recording the chaos for future blackmail. Without needing to be asked, the girls made themselves comfortable—content to wait, to keep Enid company until her sentence was up.

The week had hollowed her out. Guilt gnawed at Enid Sinclair from the inside, relentless and raw, while the weight of whispered judgment and passing stares clung to her like wet wool—heavy, suffocating, impossible to shake. So when sleep held her tightly that Saturday morning, she welcomed it like a shield. She burrowed deeper into her sheets, clinging to the warmth, resisting the waking world with every ounce of stubbornness she had left.

But the hand that touched her hair was gentle. Familiar. It smoothed down the tangled strands with the quiet tenderness only years of practice could bring. The scent of fried eggs drifted in on a wave of flannel and warmth, just before her father’s voice settled beside her ear like a fond sigh.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and comforting, fingers brushing back her hair. “It’s Saturday.”

A groan escaped from beneath her pillow. “Exactly. Saturday. No school. Let me die in peace.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and knowing. He leaned down beside her with the same wry smile he wore whenever she tried to weasel out of chores or those 5 a.m. milking shifts. “Tutoring,” he reminded gently, rubbing his thumb across her temple in a slow, grounding motion. “You’ll feel better once you’re up.”

Enid let out a breath of theatrical defeat and curled briefly into his side, letting the flannel of his shirt soak up some of her sleep-heavy warmth. Then, slowly, she allowed herself to be eased upright. Her ankle throbbed the moment it touched the floor, a dull protest wrapped in a beige ankle support appropriate for sleep, and her arm ached with that deep, lingering bruised kind of pain that never quite faded after a fall like that.

Still, she nodded. She took the water bottle he handed her, the plastic cool and beaded with condensation. Her fingers were slow, clumsy, as she cracked it open and took a sip, but she didn’t complain. There was no point.

She was already beginning her slow, reluctant journey toward being human again.

Now, hours later and nearly sixty miles from home, Enid Sinclair sat in a stuffy corner of Broadwater Middle School’s modest library. The space felt forgotten—bookshelves low and chipped at the edges, a thin layer of dust clinging stubbornly to each surface despite the sharp tang of lemon-scented cleaner that lingered in the air. A single rickety fan oscillated in the corner with all the determination of a dying star, its every turn a hopeful, useless attempt to stir life into the stagnant room.

She was hunched at a rectangular table that had clearly seen better decades, one leg shorter than the others and padded with a folded flyer to keep it from wobbling too much. The laminated surface was peeling at the corners, revealing cheap particleboard beneath. Her crutch was leaned awkwardly against the chair beside her.

Across from her slouched a boy—maybe twelve, at most—with a mop of unruly brown hair that nearly obscured his face. He sat so low in his seat it looked as though he were trying to become part of it, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves half-covering his hands.

The boy lifted his gaze just enough to give her the kind of dead-eyed look usually reserved for dentist appointments and broccoli. “A dumb one,” he muttered.

Enid’s smile came automatically, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Funny. But seriously, can you try? We’re almost done.”

Without warning, the boy lurched forward—not to engage, but to slam his hands against the edge of the table. The jolt made her workbook jump and land askew on the floor. “This is a waste of time,” he snapped, his voice cracking slightly. “I’m not gonna need triangles in real life!”

And then, with the melodramatic finality only middle schoolers could truly master, he shoved back his chair and stormed off, sneakers squeaking angrily across the linoleum tiles.

Enid sat there, stunned into silence. Her pencil slipped from her fingers and rolled toward the edge of the table, unnoticed. The fan droned on, its lazy rotations doing nothing to dispel the lingering tension. From the corner of her eye, she caught the slight movement of someone else rising from a nearby seat—quiet, cautious, watching.

Wednesday Addams stood at a neighboring table, one hand resting lightly on the back of her student’s chair, a laminated grammar chart held firmly in the other. She had been close enough to hear everything—of course she had.

Her expression was unreadable, a mask of impassivity. Yet when her dark eyes met Enid’s, the connection was brief but steady. No gloating, no sympathy—just quiet, detached observation, like a scientist watching an insect futilely struggle to climb out of a glass jar.

Then, without missing a beat, Wednesday turned back to her tutoring, her voice low and steady as she corrected her student’s sentence structure. Her tone was calm, measured, completely detached from the tension that had just filled the room.

Enid slumped forward, resting her forehead on the table’s worn surface. Her cheek pressed against the edge of the workbook, the pages crinkling softly beneath the weight of her arm. A dull throb spread through her shoulder, muscles and tendons protesting, but she ignored the pain. Lately, everything ached—in body and in spirit.

Maybe triangles really were dumb.

Enid stepped onto the bus last, the soft click of her crutch echoing faintly against the metal steps. She kept her head bowed low, deliberately avoiding eye contact, not wanting to draw attention. Every movement was practiced and quiet—she didn’t want to be the cause of an impatient sigh or the shifting of a backpack-wielding student in irritation. She hated the pity, but she loathed the attention even more.

As she reached the aisle, her heart sank. The front seats—clearly marked with blue stickers and accessibility symbols—were all taken, occupied by students with their backpacks sprawled beside them like territorial claims. None glanced up. None offered space. Enid hesitated, crutch planted firmly on the floor, debating whether to speak up. But no one even acknowledged her presence.

With a soft, resigned sigh, she hobbled further down the aisle, the rubber tip of her crutch catching on the ridged flooring now and then. The bus rocked gently beneath her weight as it idled. She scanned the remaining seats, searching for one she could slip into without inconvenience.

Her eyes landed on Wednesday Addams.

The girl sat alone, wrapped in a sharp black coat despite the mild weather. Her chin was tilted just so toward the window, her face half-reflected in the glass—still, unreadable. Across the aisle lay one of the few empty seats left.

Enid slid into the spot carefully, mindful not to jar her injured leg or bang her crutch against the metal frame. She exhaled softly, dropping her bag into her lap. Her eyes flicked toward Wednesday, catching the way those dark, assessing eyes briefly met hers before returning to the quiet world outside the window.

The engine revved, and the bus lurched forward. Enid’s gaze dropped to her phone, which she spun slowly in her hand. No signal yet. Still deep in the dead zone. Her thumb hovered hesitantly over apps she didn’t want to open, notifications she had no desire to read.

She inhaled sharply, then glanced sideways at the window, her eyes briefly catching Wednesday’s profile.

This couldn’t go on. She couldn’t keep flinching every time Wednesday entered a room, couldn’t live trapped in this in-between where silence felt heavier than a shout. She recalled what Wednesday was capable of—everyone did.

The locker infestation in third grade—the swarm of crawling insects pouring out like something from a nightmare. The thermos filled with motor oil. The infamous poolside piranha scandal, whispered about in middle school halls for years: a boy missing a testicle, Eugene covered in bruises, and Wednesday suspended for a week. No one really knew the full story, but everyone knew who was behind it.

Enid’s throat tightened. Still, she forced herself forward. Time to put on her big girl pants.

She shifted in her seat, scooting forward with a stiff groan, and cleared her throat.

No response.

She tried again, quieter but steady. “Wednesday?”

Still nothing.

Leaning slightly closer, she raised her voice just enough. “Wednesday.”

Silence.

Her grip on the phone tightened. “I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry. About Eugene. It was—” She hesitated, swallowing hard. “It was an accident.”

Wednesday didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Her eyes stayed fixed on some unseen point beyond the window, cold and distant.

Enid huffed, her breath pushing sharply through flared nostrils as her shoulders rose, then sank in frustration. She tapped her phone against her thigh, the soft thump breaking the thick silence between them—once, twice, a steady rhythm of nerves and effort. “I didn’t know you volunteered for tutoring,” she offered, her voice lower now, uncertain. “That’s... nice of you.” A beat passed. “The bee thing—your chart? I thought it was really interesting.”

Wednesday turned to face her with a precision so sharp it felt rehearsed. Her jaw clenched tight, the corners twitching with restrained fury. Her eyes were like flint—dark, glinting, dangerous beneath the sunlight that filtered through the windows.

“If this is your idea of small talk,” Wednesday said, voice low and venom-laced, “I’d rather hurl myself out of this bus and pray the nearest car crushes my skull beneath its tires.”

Enid sucked in a breath, her teeth clenching so hard it made her jaw ache. “I get it, okay?” she snapped, the edge in her voice cutting through the stale air between them. “You’re pissed. You have every right to be—at me, at all of us. But it wasn’t on purpose. We didn’t mean for Eugene to get hurt.”

“You don’t know a thing about me,” Wednesday replied coldly.

Enid’s brow furrowed. “Yes, I do,” she shot back before she could stop herself. “You’ve always liked bugs and dead things. Even in kindergarten, you brought a snake to school after recess. All throughout elementary and half of middle school, you were at the top of every writing competition—even the ones where you didn’t show up to collect your award. You play an oversized violin. You keep to yourself. Parker, Eugene… sometimes your little brother. That’s it.”

Wednesday didn’t say a word, but her gaze sharpened—like a blade drawn an inch further from its sheath.

“And you’re vindictive,” Enid continued, her voice dropping—low, razor-edged, unwavering. “You don’t forget. You don’t forgive. You catalog every offense like a serial killer scrapbook, just waiting for the perfect moment to strike back.” She paused to swallow, her mouth dry and bitter. “I just wanted to make sure you’re not out here stitching together a voodoo doll in my likeness or prepping a coffin with my name already carved in.”

Her hands tightened around the crutch balanced between her knees. Her pulse thundered in her ears, her chest rising and falling with a rhythm that felt far too fast. Still, she pushed forward, adrenaline burning away what little hesitation remained.

“You’re weird as shit,” she spat, the words cracking like glass. “And a cold, manipulative asshole. And honestly? If anyone in this school was capable of orchestrating a bloodbath on my friend group and making it look like performance art, it’d be you.”

She let out a harsh breath, part laugh, part challenge. “How’s that sound for someone who doesn’t know you?”

Wednesday didn’t react at first. Then, with deliberate slowness, her eyes rolled upward and to the side, as if she were physically trying to shake Enid’s words from her skull—like they were flies buzzing against glass, persistent but meaningless.

“How original,” she muttered, her voice flat and cold. “Truly groundbreaking. I’ve only heard that sentiment a thousand times. Most of the time, it’s phrased with more creativity.”

Enid blinked, momentarily stunned by the indifference. There was no anger, no spark of irritation—just that infuriating, impassive calm. Her words hadn’t landed; they hadn’t even grazed the surface.

“And it’s a cello,” Wednesday added without looking at her.

“What?” Enid asked, thrown by the abrupt correction.

“It’s not an oversized violin. It’s a cello.”

Enid stared at her, the fire in her chest dimming beneath a rising confusion. “But… you don’t care?” she asked, ignoring the instrument clarification. Her voice faltered slightly, breathless, desperate. “You don’t care what anyone thinks of you?”

Wednesday turned her head just enough to glance at her again—through her lashes, half-lidded, her gaze dripping with contemptuous disinterest.

“No,” she said, voice crisp and final.

Then she turned back to the window. The conversation, as far as she was concerned, had ended. Her spine remained perfectly straight, shoulders squared, every inch of her held in a kind of disciplined stillness that made her seem carved from something colder than stone.

Enid watched her for a beat longer, something knotting up tightly in her chest. Guilt. Frustration. And something else—something harder to name, heavier to carry. She leaned back against the seat with a quiet exhale, defeated. The low hum of the engine filled the silence, vibrating through her bones like a reminder of the weight she couldn’t shake.

She didn’t know what she’d expected—maybe an argument, maybe a crack in that impenetrable shell. Something. Anything.

All she got was dismissal.

And somehow, that hurt worse.

The incident had passed—at least, for everyone else. Hours blurred together, folding into one another with the false comfort of company. Laughter, idle chatter, background noise—they covered it up just enough to pretend it was over. But for Enid, it lingered like a deep bruise: invisible to others, but constantly aching. Throbbing when touched. Darkening with time.

She stepped through the front door the moment Yoko dropped her off, offering nothing more than a distracted wave. Her father’s warm voice floated in from the living room, but she didn’t respond. Not because she didn’t care—she just didn’t have the words. Every second of silence felt like an invitation to think, to remember. So she gave herself over to movement instead, hoping it might be enough to drown it all out.

In the kitchen, the warm hush of a lazy Saturday hung thick in the air, but Enid didn’t allow herself to settle into it. She filled the sink with hot water and soap, rolling up her sleeves before plunging her hands in. She scrubbed every plate until it gleamed—even ones that were already clean—scouring each fork and spoon until the skin on her fingers went pink and raw. Her crutch leaned unused against the counter, forgotten. She balanced clumsily on one leg, the injured one throbbing in its brace. Every shift of weight burned. The ache in her shoulder flared every time she reached too far. Still, she kept going—fast, forceful, punishing. There was no room for stillness. Stillness meant remembering. It meant thinking.

When the kitchen finally sparkled to her impossible standard, she grabbed her jacket and slipped out the back door. The evening air bit at her arms, the sky washed in orange and violet, casting long shadows across the farm. Limping toward the barn, she forced her body to move faster than it should, as if urgency might make her forget.

The cows mooed lazily as she stepped inside, already settling into their stalls for the night. The soft rustle of hay and slow tail flicks filled the air, but Enid didn’t pause. She hauled the stool into place with a dull scrape of wood on concrete, grabbed the pail, and sat down beside the first cow with a kind of harsh, anxious energy that didn’t belong in a barn. Even the cows seemed to sense it, their wide eyes tracking her as if waiting for her to either break or calm down.

Enid sank down beside the first cow and pressed her cheek against its warm side—not with affection, but desperation. Trying to ground herself in something real. Something steady. The cow shifted gently but didn’t move away, and for a brief moment, Enid let her eyes close, hoping her heartbeat might slow to match the animal’s quiet rhythm.

Then she began to milk.

The soft, repetitive sound of it filled the space like a heartbeat, comforting in its familiarity. But her ribs ached with every reach and pull, sharp pain flaring under the bandages. Still, she didn’t stop. Her jaw clenched. Her arms trembled. She focused on the barn wall ahead, on the chipped pink paint and the shadows stretching long from the setting sun, as if looking away would cause her to unravel completely.

When she was done, she brushed their coats, smoothing rough hair with mechanical focus, whispering apologies under her breath. It wasn’t clear who she was talking to—maybe the cows. Maybe herself. Maybe Eugene. Maybe Wednesday. Maybe all of them.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, so softly the words barely stirred the hay-dusted air. “Sorry.”

Inside the barn’s back room, she inspected the cheese rounds, flipping each one like she’d been taught, separating the good from the flawed. Her motions were slower now, precision slipping into fatigue. The room was quiet. Still. Her shoulder ached. Her ankle throbbed. Her fingers were stiff from the cold and the strain.

She still didn’t stop.

Not even when the moon climbed high and the scent of dinner, long gone cold, wafted faintly through the night air. She forced herself to haul hay bundles, her ribs flaring with every lift, pain lancing through her side like fire. Her breath came in ragged puffs, her eyes glassy with exhaustion. But she gritted her teeth and kept moving, willing herself not to collapse under the weight.

It was well past midnight by the time she finally trudged back into the house. Her limbs trembled with every step, the world swaying faintly around her. She changed into pajamas with jerky, uncoordinated motions, barely managing to pull the blanket over her before collapsing into bed.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

And when it finally did, it brought no peace—only fevered, restless dreams. Guilt clamped around Enid’s chest like a vice, tightening with every breath, every flicker of memory flashing behind her closed eyes in chaotic fragments. Eugene’s limp body bobbing in the water. The sickly sheen of blood blending with algae and pond scum. The shrill echo of sirens. And worst of all—Wednesday’s face. That look. Cold and distant, like a door slammed shut and locked forever.

She dreamed of diving again and again, the cold water swallowing her whole each time. But in the dream, no one surfaced. Not Eugene. Not her. The water stayed still. No screams. No bubbles. Just silence.

Enid jolted awake with a sharp inhale, her chest heaving as if she were still drowning. The sheets were a twisted mess around her body, tangled like restraints. Her skin was damp with sweat, her shirt clinging to her back. Pain pulsed beneath her ribs, hot and aching from the strain she’d forced on herself earlier.

She didn’t move.

She just lay there, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling like it might crack open and offer her a way out. But there was no relief. No comfort. She was too exhausted to cry, too wrung out to feel anything but the low, churning nausea of shame.

Too tired to sleep.

Too guilty to rest.

Next thing she knew the door creaked open early in the morning.

At first, Enid didn’t move. She lay on her side, facing the wall, her body curled tightly beneath the thin blanket. Every muscle felt heavy, as if made of lead, and each breath came shallow and stiff. Damp strands of hair clung to her neck, the faint scent of hay and sweat lingering on her skin. She thought—hoped—that whoever it was would take the silence as a sign and leave.

But the footsteps were soft. Familiar. Slow.

Her father didn’t speak right away. She heard him shift his weight near the door, and she could almost picture the furrow in his brow, the way he always rubbed the back of his neck when uncertain how to start a conversation. After a moment, the floorboards creaked under his boots as he stepped further into the room.

“You missed dinner,” he said quietly. Not accusing. Not scolding. Just… present.

Enid said nothing. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket, but she stayed curled up, eyes fixed on the wall.

A pause stretched between them. Then the soft sound of him lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. He didn’t reach out—not yet—letting the silence fill the space between them like morning fog settling over a field.

“I saw the barn,” he said after a while. “You did a full round. Even stacked the hay.”

Enid swallowed, her throat tight. When she finally spoke, her voice was rough and raspy. “Wasn’t that much.”

“I saw you limping more than you were yesterday morning coming back from the barn.”

She shut her eyes tightly. “I’m fine.”

“Enid…” His voice was low and gentle. He reached out then, brushing his palm lightly over the blanket covering her shoulder. “You don’t have to punish yourself to make things right.”

Her jaw clenched tightly. “I messed up.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But messing up doesn’t mean you have to bleed for it.”

A beat passed. Enid’s breath hitched—quiet and shaky. She turned just enough for him to see her face, eyes rimmed red but dry. “What if I want to?”

His expression softened, a gentle understanding in his gaze. He nodded once, as if he knew that kind of thinking all too well.

“Then let me stay a while,” he said, easing down beside her. “You can feel it. Lay in it. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Enid didn’t answer, but she didn’t pull away. When her father reached down to gently tuck the blanket higher over her shoulder, she let him.

The heat clung to Enid’s skin like a second layer—humid and stifling even beneath the shade of their tent. The Farmer’s Market buzzed with an unusually large crowd: an endless stream of chatter, footsteps pounding against the pavement, bursts of laughter, and the occasional clink of jars or coolers being set down too hard. Enid adjusted the cashbox again, her fingers fumbling slightly over the buttons of the calculator. Her eyes darted anxiously to the growing line snaking toward their stall. A wheel of soft goat cheese practically vanished in neatly sliced wedges. The crackers were long gone—even the gluten-free ones she’d always thought were too bland to touch.

Each reach and twist sent a sharp pang radiating through her ribs. She fought to keep from flinching as she handed change to a family with three toddlers who reached eagerly for everything within grasp. The plastic smile she forced felt brittle, more a shield than a greeting. “Safe travels,” she murmured, voice barely audible.

Across the booth, her father was in his element—warm smile, light-hearted jokes, and expertly precise slices of aged cheddar offered to a pair of sunhat-wearing tourists sporting sensible sandals. It should have soothed her nerves, but it didn’t.

Instead, her gaze kept drifting next door.

Honey. Candles. Beeswax soaps stacked in neat, orderly rows. Labels adorned with hand-drawn bees and pressed flowers. Enid didn’t need to read the sign to know it was Eugene’s family’s stall.

Janet’s voice floated through the air—light, melodic, and practiced. “This one’s lavender-lemon. Very soothing for the skin.” A soft laugh followed, and Susan chimed in with a story about how Eugene used to chew on the wax as a kid, mistaking it for gum. The customer laughed, but Enid’s stomach twisted painfully.

And it wasn’t just them.

It was Wednesday.

Sleek and unreadable in her black skirt and long-sleeve mesh blouse, the sleeves rolled just past her elbows, Wednesday’s fingers moved with quiet efficiency—counting bills, handing back change, sliding wrapped soap into a brown paper bag—all without once touching the calculator beside her. Her dark hair was braided tightly, and her sharp eyes tracked every movement around her stall with steady, unyielding focus.

And somehow, she made it all look effortless.

And somehow, she made it look effortless.

Enid’s breath hitched the moment Wednesday leaned forward slightly, her posture poised and deliberate, and began speaking to a couple in what sounded like fluent French. Her voice was smooth, confident, almost musical in its cadence. Then, as if language were no more difficult than flipping a switch, she transitioned mid-sentence into German—fluidly, seamlessly—the only indication of the shift a subtle tilt of her head and a small, knowing nod.

The couple lit up in delighted surprise, their expressions softening with unexpected admiration. They began chatting animatedly, gestures quick and warm as they loaded tote bags with candles, honeycomb, and tiny glass jars filled with golden syrup. The entire interaction seemed choreographed—elegant, impressive, and infuriatingly effortless.

Enid turned away.

Her pulse thudded in her ears like a war drum.

From the center of the market, a xylophone rendition of a decades-old rock song rang out—bubbly, bouncy, and completely inappropriate for the mood gnawing at her chest. A small group of elderly attendees clapped along, cheerfully and offbeat. The sound grated against her nerves like sandpaper on raw skin.

Too much noise.

Too much sun.

Too many eyes.

She rubbed her cheek, willing the chill of her fingertips to anchor her, to pull her back from the growing static building behind her ribs. But the wire inside her chest only tightened further, wound taut by the weight of things left unsaid. Each customer blurred into the next—cash, cheese, thank you, receipt, next. Her hands moved mechanically, her mouth repeating rehearsed lines she could barely hear over the rush in her head.

The numbers on the calculator stopped making sense. She couldn’t remember which milk bottles needed rotating. The stall spun just slightly, not enough to lose her footing, but enough to fray her concentration.

Across the table, her father caught her eye. He had just finished helping a couple with a wheel of sharp cheddar, his face bright as always. But the smile faltered—just for a second. Then he ducked beneath the table, rifled through the cooler, and emerged with a chilled bottle of water. He passed it to her quietly, his touch lingering just long enough to say, I see you.

Enid took it without a word. The condensation slicked her fingers. She uncapped it and drank deep—too fast, almost choking—but she needed it. Needed something cold to extinguish the fire building inside her.

Then she felt it.

A shiver that ran down the length of her spine. That now-familiar, crawling sensation that told her she wasn’t alone in her headspace anymore.

She didn’t need to look.

She knew Wednesday was watching her.

Enid stared down at the water bottle in her hand, the ridged plastic crinkling slightly under her grip. Her knuckles whitened.

Maybe being murdered wouldn’t be so bad, she thought bitterly. At least then, the guilt would stop eating her alive. At least then, she wouldn’t have to sit here—mere feet from the family she’d wronged, the ones who hadn’t spoken a word to her since the accident—trapped beneath the unrelenting gaze of the one person whose silence cut deeper than any scream ever could.

Yoko’s car engine rumbled to a halt just outside the small, stucco-walled community center nestled between neatly trimmed hedges and cracked sidewalks. As the vehicle idled, Enid shoved her phone into the side pocket of her tote bag with a sigh, bracing herself for the social landmine she was about to walk into.

“You should suggest they do Beauty and the Beast ,” Yoko said with a devilish grin, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “You’d kill it as the ottoman. Puppy energy, check. Bouncy, check. Literal furniture? Wouldn’t even be your first time playing an inanimate object.”

Enid snorted and gave her a playful shove. “I was a talking tree, thank you very much. There’s a difference.”

“Sure,” Yoko chuckled, leaning toward the window as Enid opened the door. “A bark is a bark.”

The door creaked as Enid eased it open with a wince, carefully climbing out with her crutch wedged beneath one arm. The warm air hit her skin as she adjusted her bag over her shoulder.

“Break a leg, wolf girl—but not literally. You’re already running on discount bones,” Yoko called, offering a mock-salute from the driver’s seat.

Enid raised her middle finger in fond farewell, grinning despite the tension coiled in her gut, before turning toward the shallow concrete steps.

Standing at the center like a one-woman orchestra was Mrs. Cabot—their tireless, theatrically-inclined instructor—draped in a floor-length scarf that fluttered every time she turned. Her laminated clipboard was tucked into one elbow while she gestured with the other, her voice filled with animated flair.

“—a story of burning passions and blazing rivalry,” she declared, pacing slowly in front of the chairs. “A medieval fantasy. All original. Written by our very own Parker Needler. Music and lyrics by—” her tone shifted, reverent and theatrical, “—Wednesday Addams.”

There was a smattering of claps. Reserved, obligatory. More polite than excited.

Enid’s foot hovered at the threshold.

Of course. Of course.

The moment her shadow crossed the doorway, Wednesday’s eyes snapped toward her with laser precision—cold and unreadable, like she’d expected this exact moment and was already cataloging its weight. Her stare didn’t waver. It didn’t blink.

Parker, who had been distributing script booklets, followed the invisible thread of Wednesday’s attention and turned to look. Her face lit up the moment she saw Enid.

That, somehow, was worse.

Enid froze. Her fingers clenched tighter around her crutch. For a fleeting second, she considered turning around—maybe faking a stomachache. A heart murmur. Sudden onset blindness. An allergic reaction to fluorescent light. Anything. 

Anything that would get her out of this.

But the doorway stayed open. And so did Wednesday’s eyes. Watching. Waiting.

But Mrs. Cabot spotted her immediately. “Ah, Miss Sinclair! Our radiant late arrival!” she trilled, her voice echoing across the modest stage. With arms spread wide like she was greeting a long-lost relative, she gestured for Enid to come forward. “You’re just in time!”

Fan- fucking - tastic .

Enid managed a weak wave, biting back the instinct to turn and bolt. She shuffled in and sank into the first empty chair she could find—strategically positioned as far away from both Parker and Wednesday as possible. Her crutch clattered lightly against the metal leg of the chair as she sat, earning a few brief glances. She tried to ignore them. Her hands gripped the script Parker handed her like it might explode on contact. Her eyes skimmed the cover, then the first few pages—something about warring kingdoms, magical bloodlines, forbidden love.

Wonderful. Her week of community service now included medieval fanfiction live .

Mrs. Cabot dove straight into her element, assigning roles with the energy of a casting director on a tight deadline. Names and jobs were tossed around like confetti—set design, costume crew, background villagers, and “ethereal woodland ambiance” (whatever the hell that meant). Enid waited quietly, praying for something safe. Stage crew. Chorus member number five. Tree again. Anything forgettable.

But Mrs. Cabot paused, eyes twinkling with far too much excitement.

“Enid Sinclair,” she announced, practically glowing. “You’ll be playing one of our leads. Congratulations!”

Enid’s head snapped up. “I—what? Wait. No. There has to be a mistake. I haven’t acted since third grade! And I was literally a flower. I had one line. Four words. I still messed it up!”

A few students chuckled. Somewhere behind her, someone muttered “ photosynthesis ” under their breath, earning a round of stifled laughter.

Mrs. Cabot waved her hand like she was batting away a fly. “Oh, don’t be silly, dear. It’s a low-pressure role! Very collaborative, lots of support. And your ankle will be fine by the time we hit rehearsals. Besides,” she added with a bright smile, “we’re not looking for the next Idina Menzel—just heart, commitment, and a willingness to grow!”

Enid stared blankly at the script in her lap, wondering if this counted as a violation of the Geneva Convention.

Enid slumped back into her seat, letting her head thud against the cold steel frame of the folding chair with all the drama of someone accepting their doomed fate. Her eyes fluttered shut in pure, unfiltered existential defeat. Low-pressure role , her ass. It was a major part. Leads were never low-pressure. That was like calling a guillotine a gentle haircut.

Across the room, she could feel it—that prickling weight of a stare, like a spider crawling between her shoulder blades. Wednesday. Watching. Probably smug. Probably summoning some ancient curse as they spoke. Maybe something with stage fright baked into the bones.

Enid cracked open one eye.

Yep.

Still watching.

Still eerily composed. Still unnervingly unreadable. Still sitting like a statue someone accidentally dressed in goth couture.

Enid dragged a hand down her face and let out a groan that was mostly air and despair. She was half-convinced Wednesday had orchestrated this entire thing. Quietly. Methodically. A long game of psychological warfare wrapped in a script and sealed with passive-aggressive theater kid energy.

Maybe if she flubbed her first line hard enough, she’d get recast.

Or exorcised.

Honestly, she’d take either at this point.

The rest of the afternoon blurred into a slow, aching crawl. Enid sat slouched in the third row of folding chairs, script booklet limp in her lap, her cheeks burning despite the constant drone of the old air conditioning unit overhead. The chill in the theater barely registered against the heat blooming along her neck and into her face. Her fingers trembled faintly each time she turned a page, betraying nerves she couldn’t quite bury.

She tried to focus— really focus—but her mind darted from one pit of anxiety to another, like a bee trapped in a glass jar. Her own inadequacy. The snickers when she stumbled over her lines. Mrs. Cabot’s well-meaning but frequent corrections. And worst of all—Wednesday Addams and Parker Needler seated front and center, whispering between scenes while Parker’s pencil scratched smugly along the margins of her script.

What made it even worse was the knowledge that Wednesday wasn’t just doing the music—she was in the play. A lead role. Central. And of course— of course —one of Wednesday’s main scenes involved her and Enid alone on stage. No ensemble to disappear into. No chorus to cushion the fall. Just the two of them, under the stage lights, reciting lines that now felt like some cruel joke from the universe itself.

By the time Mrs. Cabot finally clapped her hands and dismissed everyone with a glowing, “Wonderful work, everyone!” Enid was already half out of her chair. Crutch in one hand, script in the other, she limped her way to the exit like it owed her a favor. The moment the sun hit her face—low and orange in the late sky—she nearly flinched, but the burn of it still felt better than the pressure she left behind in that auditorium.

Unfortunately, fate hadn’t clocked out yet.

“You looked like you were seconds away from melting into the floorboards.”

Enid didn’t need to look to know who it was. She groaned under her breath and turned her head anyway. “Of course,” she muttered, as Wednesday Addams fell into step beside her, the measured click of her boots matching the beat of Enid’s ever-growing resentment.

Wednesday’s gaze flicked sideways, her expression unreadable, voice cool and dry as ever. “Would it cause you to hemorrhage if you put even the slightest effort into your lines?”

Enid stopped, shoulders sagging as if gravity had simply had enough of her, too. “You think I’m happy about this?” she snapped, her tone strained. “You think I want to be here? That I asked for any of this?”

“You presume again to know my feelings,” Wednesday said, folding her arms with mechanical grace. “I said nothing of my own happiness. But if you plan on infecting this production with your barely-there competence, at least act like you give a damn. Parker’s worked on this script for a year. And I, for one, would like to avoid her inevitable operatic breakdown if it all collapses because you can’t project or remember your cues.”

Enid clenched her jaw so tight it hurt. She stepped forward, nearly putting weight on her injured ankle before catching herself. Her whole body burned now, not with shame—but with fury. With exhaustion. With the pressure of carrying guilt like a second skeleton.

She turned, voice sharp and shaking—not from fear, but from finally being done . “God,” she breathed, words cracking. “You, Wednesday Addams… are a fucking bitch .”

Wednesday didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. If anything, she looked vaguely pleased.

But before the confrontation could spiral into another passive-aggressive duel of disdain, Enid’s phone buzzed sharply in her jacket pocket. The sound cut through the tension like a blade. She snatched it out with a muttered, “Thank God ,” already pressing it to her ear as she pinched the bridge of her nose—half from relief, half from the headache steadily blooming behind her eyes.

Yoko’s voice came through in a frantic rush, underscored by the chaotic symphony of a distant crash, sharp barking, and what unmistakably sounded like shattering glass.

“Family emergency,” Yoko said breathlessly. “Tried calling Ajax but he’s high as the stratosphere. Xavier’s stuck until later. Kent's jeep is in the shop. I’m so sorry—can you find a ride?”

Enid’s heart dropped. Of course. Because why wouldn’t the day end with her stranded, humiliated, and now transportation-challenged? She swallowed her frustration and tried to keep her voice even. “Yeah,” she said, casually enough. “I’ll ask my dad. No worries.”

Yoko didn’t sound convinced. “Text me once you're home, okay?”

Enid forced a tight smile that had no business being called a smile. “Will do.”

She hung up and slowly lowered the phone, thumb hovering over the lock screen. Her reflection glinted back in the black glass—tired, flushed, eyes ringed with frustration she didn’t have the strength to hide.

Enid let her arm drop limply to her side, fingers slack around the fraying strap of her tote bag. The weight of it dug into her bruised shoulder, but she didn’t bother to adjust it. Her forehead rested against the padded top of her crutch, the firm pressure leaving a shallow indent just above her brow. She welcomed it. The ache was grounding—sharp, simple, and far easier to endure than the tangled mess clawing at her chest.

She inhaled through her nose—slow, sharp, like it might puncture something—and started to move. Or rather, hobble. Each step was uneven, the rubber tip of the crutch tapping irregularly against the cracked sidewalk as she forced herself forward. The sun hung low behind her, casting long shadows and soaking the pavement with lingering heat. Enid began to calculate: if she cut through the old, overgrown dog park and didn’t rest too long at the bench near the diner, she could maybe make it home by sunset. She could tell Yoko that she and her dad had gotten caught up somewhere—stopped for food, maybe. She could send a text later. Much later. When her throat stopped catching and her eyes stopped stinging.

Footsteps followed behind.

Enid’s stride faltered, her jaw tightening. She didn’t want pity. She didn’t want anyone witnessing this pathetic, unraveling version of her. With a twist of her torso, she turned sharply on her heel, crutch anchoring her with a small, graceless hop.

“What are you doing?” she snapped, her voice cracking more from exhaustion than anger.

Two paces behind, Wednesday stood still, hands clasped calmly behind her back. Her black boots were planted with unnerving symmetry on the concrete. She tilted her head slightly, studying Enid like she was a specimen under glass. “You haven’t called your father.”

Enid’s fingers curled into tight fists. “Why do you care?” she hissed, turning again—this time too fast. Her balance tipped, and she had to swing her crutch wide to steady herself. Her jaw clenched tighter, humiliation searing her cheeks.

Wednesday, of course, made no move to help. She merely fell into step once more, her boots clicking rhythmically behind Enid’s halting gait—steady, quiet, always a half-beat behind.

They walked that way—if it could be called walking—for nearly a block, the silence stretched taut between them. Finally, Enid’s shoulders sagged. Her energy drained with each step, her spine bowing under the weight of everything left unsaid. She turned her head just slightly, catching Wednesday’s profile from the corner of her eye—still impassive, still unreadable.

“What do you want ?” Enid asked, her voice low and defeated, like she was asking the sky to stop being blue.

Wednesday didn’t answer at first. Her eyes wandered—a bird balanced on a powerline, another darting between tree branches, narrowly missing a passing car. She watched them, silent, before her gaze finally returned to Enid.

“I can give you a ride,” she said, simply. No inflection. No mockery. Just a fact laid bare.

Enid blinked, taken aback by the straightforwardness of it. Her lips parted, but no words came. She looked down the block. The sidewalk stretched on, cracked and uneven. Her ankle brace was soaked through with sweat. Her shoulder throbbed. Her ribs ached. Her whole body screamed for rest. And yet…

She considered saying no—just to keep some part of her pride.

But then again, if Wednesday was planning to murder her, maybe that was fine. Maybe she deserved it. At the very least, it would quiet the guilt gnawing at her from the inside out.

“…Fine,” she muttered, dryly. “But if I disappear, I hope you write a really dramatic monologue about it.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched—just barely, the faintest ghost of amusement. “I already have three drafts.”

They walked side by side in silence, the rhythm of their footsteps echoing faintly against the pavement as they rounded the back corner of the community center toward the small parking lot on the east side. The last remnants of daylight clung stubbornly to the treetops, casting elongated shadows that stretched across the cracked blacktop. Nestled among a modest lineup of minivans and aging compact cars was one vehicle that stood out like a velvet coffin at a child’s birthday party: a gleaming, jet-black hearse. 

Its paint was polished to a mirror finish, absorbing the dim light with an almost ominous sheen. The windows were tinted pitch black, and the chrome detailing gleamed. Its paint was polished to a mirror finish, absorbing the dim light with an almost ominous sheen. The windows were tinted pitch black, and the chrome detailing gleamed. It didn’t just contrast with the other vehicles—it challenged them, announcing its presence like a funeral procession at a Fourth of July parade.

Enid stared at it, her mouth slightly ajar. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or run. Of course Wednesday Addams drove a hearse.

She fully expected Wednesday to stalk to the driver’s side, mutter a curt “Get in,” and leave Enid to figure out the rest while wrestling with the massive door on her own. But instead, Wednesday kept walking—past the driver’s seat—and without a word, opened the back passenger door. Then she stood there, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe, holding it open for Enid with a composure that was startlingly... considerate.

Enid hesitated at the curb, blinking. It was a small thing—simple, wordless—but from Wednesday, it landed with the emotional weight of a sonnet. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her tote bag as she murmured, “Thanks,” without quite meeting Wednesday’s eyes, then ducked her head and climbed inside.

It was spacious—absurdly so—and pristine to the point of feeling curated. Not a single smudge marred the deep black leather seats. No forgotten receipts. No fast food wrappers. No faint scent of perfume or dust. It was like stepping into a perfectly preserved time capsule, dark and quiet and still.

Enid shifted, stretching out her legs for the first time all day. The relief on her ankle was immediate, and she exhaled quietly as she awkwardly positioned her crutch between her knees and the door. A small luxury, but one that felt monumental.

Wednesday slipped in beside her, closing the door with a soft, decisive click. The sound echoed in the cavernous hush of the hearse’s cabin. A moment later, the front seat creaked as Lurch—immense and impassive—turned his head just enough to glance at them through the rearview mirror. His deep-set eyes met Wednesday’s. She gave him a single, imperceptible nod.

Without needing to be asked, Wednesday recited Enid’s address with crisp precision, the numbers rolling off her tongue like a memorized spell. Her voice didn’t waver, not even for the street name or zip code. It was clinical. Certain. Etched into her like an old scar.

Enid turned to stare at her, brows furrowed in wary confusion. “How do you know where I live?” she asked, suspicion lacing the edges of her voice.

Wednesday arched a single brow, unbothered. “You invited me to your fourth-grade birthday party,” she replied, as if the answer were self-evident. As if that should explain everything.

Enid blinked. “I—what?”

“You had a mermaid theme,” Wednesday elaborated with detached clarity, her voice as calm and precise as ever. “There were balloons shaped like sea creatures, and someone hired a woman in a sequined fin to sit in a plastic kiddie pool. I distinctly remember the cake being grotesquely sweet. I believe I threw it at Xavier’s face—frosting and all—when he refused to leave my side.”

Enid stared at her, slack-jawed, caught between disbelief and a dawning sense of horror. Somewhere in the distant backrooms of her memory, a faint echo stirred—glittery invitations her dad made, an inflatable octopus arch, sticky fingers and fake smiles. It had been one of those birthdays—performative, chaotic, curated for photos and relatives. A blurry footnote in the scrapbook of her childhood.

“I don’t even remember inviting you,” she muttered, more to herself than to Wednesday.

“You did,” Wednesday said, tone flat. “You handed out invitations after gym. Mine was folded into a paper shark.”

Enid’s face contorted, unsure if she wanted to laugh or dig a hole in the hearse floor and vanish. She didn’t get the chance to decide.

“Why didn’t you call your father?” Wednesday asked suddenly, voice cutting through the silence.

Enid stiffened. Her hand closed a little tighter around the crutch resting against her lap. Her throat felt dry.

“He’s out of town,” she murmured. “Won’t be back until Thursday.”

There was no judgment in Wednesday’s expression. No pity. No probing. Just a nod—subtle, brief. The kind that said: Noted. Understood. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The rest of the ride passed in silence. But it wasn’t the suffocating, heavy quiet they shared on the bus—it simply existed, a calm presence between them. The engine’s steady hum thrummed beneath them, a low, constant vibration that seemed to sync with the steady click of Enid’s crutch shifting softly against the cold door. Outside the window, the farmland melted into streaks of green and gold, the horizon ablaze with the last fiery orange of the setting sun. A faint breeze stirred the tall grass, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil and wildflowers.

Lurch eased the hearse onto the gravel driveway with a gentle crunch under the tires. The cool air shifted as they pulled up to the farmhouse, where the porch light flicked on with a soft buzz, casting a warm, amber glow over the weathered wood steps.

Enid pulled her phone from her jacket pocket and quickly thumbed out a message to Yoko, the smooth glass cool against her fingertips. She opened the door, feeling the metal frame’s chill bite at her palm as her crutch scraped quietly against the threshold. Stepping down, the gravel crunched faintly beneath her shoe. She inhaled deeply, the smell of fresh-cut grass and evening air filling her lungs. She glanced back at Wednesday, who remained seated, her dark eyes steadily on her. 

She wanted to say something—maybe a thank you, maybe another half-assed apology—but the words stuck somewhere between her throat and her pride. So she just gave a small nod.

Wednesday didn’t respond. Her gaze held on Enid’s figure framed by the porch’s golden light until the door softly clicked shut.

The hearse rolled forward, tires crunching rhythmically on the gravel driveway, then disappeared down the lane, swallowed by the encroaching dusk.

Enid let out a slow, shaky breath, sliding down against the doorframe. Her heart pounded unevenly beneath her palm, each beat a sharp reminder that she was still here—still alive. The cool wood pressed against her back, grounding her as the evening’s chill settled around her like a cloak.

She hadn’t been murdered.

Maybe Wednesday was just biding her time.

Or maybe she was planning something far darker.

Mass homicide, probably.

RIP to her friend group.

The sun hung low over the horizon, casting amber streaks through the gaps in the porch lattice. Enid paced slowly across the weathered wood, careful with each step. The rubber tip of her crutch tapped softly against the boards, a steady, muted thud marking her cautious rhythm. In her free hand, she held the script loosely, its edges curled and worn from constant flipping. Her brow furrowed with concentration as her lips moved silently, rehearsing lines under her breath.

Across from her, Yoko lounged on the porch bench with practiced ease. One knee was bent casually, the other leg draped over the armrest. A throw pillow supported her lower back, another cushioned her head—likely pilfered from the living room. The second script lay open across her stomach, her fingers lazily flipping pages without urgency.

Enid halted mid-step and took a steadying breath, straightening her shoulders. She glanced down at the script one last time before snapping it shut. Her face tightened with focus. “I will not yield to fear,” she declared, voice firm as she tried to channel the conviction her character demanded. “Even as the dark—”

Her words faltered, slipping away like water through her fingers. “Even as the dark…” She clenched her jaw, frustration mounting. “Ugh—what was it?” With a sharp huff, she yanked the script open again and muttered the rest, “Even as the dark breathes down my neck, I will rise with fire at my heels.”

Yoko responded with a theatrical golf clap, grinning widely. “Beautiful. Inspiring. Riveting. Maybe a little breathy near the middle, but we’ll blame that on the ankle.”

Enid groaned in exasperation. “It’s like my brain fries the second I try to go off-book.”

Yoko flipped a page with her thumb, smirking. “Honestly? It could’ve been worse. At least it’s not Fiddler on the Roof . That would’ve been actual community theater hell.”

Enid barked a laugh and playfully smacked Yoko’s shin with her script. “I told you! It’s original—written by Parker and scored by Wednesday, of all people. Supposed to be fantasy, with political drama and inner turmoil or something.”

Yoko raised an eyebrow. “So… fantasy Hamlet but with swords and sapphic tension?”

Enid rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “More like if The Witcher was written by a teenage girl with a grudge.”

“At least it’s more sapphic than Fiddler ,” Yoko teased smugly.

“You haven’t even watched that,” Enid huffed, feeling her frustration melt in the warmth of their easy banter. She was still stumbling through lines, unsure of her delivery, but with Yoko around, it felt less daunting.

Yoko sat up a little straighter, snapping the script shut. “Don’t worry. I’ll be front row on opening night. Me and Divina will bring tomatoes—just in case.”

“You’re the worst,” Enid said, mock glaring and pretending to jab at Yoko with her crutch. But Yoko ducked effortlessly, laughing.

Before their playful tussle could escalate, a voice called out from the driveway. “Girls! Can I get some help with the groceries?”

Enid turned toward the gravel drive, surprised to see her father already home. She hadn’t even heard the car pull up.

Yoko sprang to her feet like a cat, seizing the opportunity. “Duty calls!” she declared dramatically, bolting down the steps before Enid could stop her.

Enid narrowed her eyes, muttering, “Coward,” before slowly making her way toward the porch steps, the wooden boards creaking softly beneath her careful footsteps.

Chapter Text

The parking lot outside Nevermore had mostly emptied, its earlier chaos now replaced by the peaceful stillness of late afternoon. The hum of engines was gone, giving way to birdsong and the occasional whisper of wind pushing leaves and discarded flyers across the pavement. Only a small cluster of cars remained parked near the main doors—a familiar formation that had become tradition among the group.

Ajax’s Jeep sat with its back hatch open, parked beside Yoko’s polished silver Highlander. The low thrum of music drifted from the Jeep’s speakers, mingling with the distant sounds of nature. Behind them, Xavier’s sleek dark green Continental idled in place, windows rolled down, the heat of the day finally beginning to fade.

Enid perched on the edge of the Jeep’s rear bumper, her legs swinging idly in the warm air. The rubber tip of her crutch rested beside her, leaned against the open tailgate. Beside her, Ajax sat in a curled position—one leg hanging off the edge, the other pulled up with his chin resting on his knee, curls tousled by the wind.

Inside the Jeep, Kent sprawled across the backseat like a corpse at a murder scene, one leg flung carelessly over the backrest, his mouth slightly open as he snored loud enough to make the windows vibrate.

Bianca leaned comfortably against the hood of Xavier’s coupe, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on top of her head. Xavier was stretched out beside her, one arm tucked behind his head while the other held his phone above his face, scrolling with idle disinterest as he half-listened to the conversation.

Golden hour light poured across the parking lot, casting long shadows and bathing the group in warm amber tones. The sun’s low angle painted streaks of orange across the pavement and the vehicles, tinting the world with that perfect, cinematic kind of calm.

Enid, phone in hand, angled the camera upward. She raised her hand to cover her face, palm facing the camera, smiling just enough to catch the light on her cheek. The photo captured her face in warm hues, the sunlight filtering through her fingers. Ajax’s knee and a hint of his curls were visible in the corner of the frame. She checked the image, nodded in satisfaction, and happily posted it to her Instagram story.

“I’m honestly surprised you even made it through Squid Game, ” Bianca said, casting a teasing side glance at Enid, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “I thought you couldn’t handle gore.”

Enid grimaced, letting out a sheepish laugh. “I barely did,” she admitted, shoulders hunching as she leaned back on her palms. “It took me months to finish. I had to pause, like, every time someone so much as twitched too hard. I almost passed out during the glass bridge scene—legit had to look away and wait until someone told me the coast was clear.”

Ajax gave a dreamy hum from beside her, not bothering to lift his head. He simply turned it a little, his cheek squishing harder against his bent knee. “Hwang Jun-Ho is definitely my type,” he declared, voice low and thoughtful.

Enid snorted, amused. “You mean looks or personality?”

He cracked a lazy grin, eyes half-lidded as he replied, “¿Por qué no los dos?”

Bianca chuckled, shaking her head. “Honestly, fair. But I was devastated when Player 199 died. He was such a sweetheart.”

“Was that the Pakistani guy?” Xavier asked from where he lay stretched across the hood of the sedan. His eyes didn’t leave his phone, but his tone had shifted—curious, listening.

“Yeah,” Bianca said, her voice softening. “Ali. He deserved better.”

Enid let out a groan and flopped back with a dramatic sigh. “I kept going just for Ji-yeong and Kang Sae-byeok. I was obsessed with those two.”

Ajax squinted, trying to recall. “Wait—which ones were they again?”

“Sae-byeok made it to the final three,” Enid explained, gesturing vaguely with one hand as if drawing their outlines in the air. “And Ji-yeong was the one girl who looked so cool. That girl who—” she winced slightly, “—died because. You know… the one who helped the cowardly boy in certain rounds.”

Bianca let out a short snort and nudged Xavier with her knee, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Weren’t those the TikTok edits that triggered her bisexual awakening?” she teased, her grin downright wicked.

Enid groaned, blushing furiously as she covered her face with both hands. “God, don’t remind me.”

Xavier finally looked up from his phone, a knowing grin spreading across his face. “Yeah, and then a week later, Ajax had his bisexual awakening—right after Enid confessed to us.”

Ajax, completely unbothered, gave an exaggerated shrug as he leaned his chin back onto his knee. “What can I say? Enid’s awakening was contagious.”

Their laughter echoed across the parking lot, light and unrestrained. Behind them, a muffled snort cut through the laughter—this one loud, guttural, and entirely unintentional.

Kent shifted in his sleep, mumbling incoherently as he stirred in the backseat of the Jeep. He made a valiant attempt to sit up, only for his leg to catch awkwardly on the headrest. The moment he pulled, he yelped in confusion and panic, flailing with wild limbs as he toppled forward. His body thudded against the Jeep’s interior with a grunt, his foot still wedged behind him, sticking straight up like a limp, defeated banner.

“Dude!” Ajax groaned, whipping around on his knees to face the chaos. “If you break my car, I swear to God— ” He reached over, trying to wrestle Kent’s shoe free with little success, his grip slipping on the laces.

Enid, struggling not to burst out laughing, lifted her crutch with a smirk. With the ease of someone used to improvising, she prodded the stuck foot with the rubber end, wiggling it until the angle shifted just right.

With a soft pop, the foot finally came loose, sending Kent sprawling across the backseat in a pile of limbs and indignity.

Ajax rocked back onto his heels with a chuckle. “That works too. Thanks for the assist.”

Enid gave him a cheeky salute with her crutch, still grinning from ear to ear. Kent groaned dramatically from the floor of the Jeep, rubbing at his face as he muttered something about betrayal and rude awakenings.

Bianca shook her head from where she still leaned against the hood of Xavier’s car. Her arms remained folded across her chest, and a smirk tugged at one corner of her mouth as she watched the chaos unfold. “You idiots exhaust me,” she said dryly. “Anyway—what should we do once Yoko and Divina get back from practice?”

“Arcade?” Xavier offered lazily without glancing up from his phone, still reclined across the sedan’s hood like it was a lounge chair.

Enid wrinkled her nose in immediate protest. “Ugh, no thanks. It’s always too crowded, too loud, and too many sticky joysticks.”

Kent popped up from the back seat of the Jeep, finally managing to sit upright with his legs folded beneath him. “What about karaoke?” he suggested, grinning wickedly. “Enid needs the practice anyway—for the spring musical.”

Enid barked out a sharp, incredulous, “Hey!” and immediately raised her crutch like a makeshift sword, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “You want a black eye to go with that tragic haircut?”

Kent let out a yelp and dove toward the front seat in exaggerated terror. “I take it back, I take it back!” he cried, fumbling with the seatbelt as if it could protect him from Enid’s wrath.

At that moment, the gym doors creaked open, and Yoko and Divina stepped out into the late afternoon light. Divina moved with a light bounce in her step, a damp towel draped around her shoulders to keep her freshly washed hair from soaking through her shirt. Behind her, Yoko followed with casual ease, Divina’s gym bag slung over one shoulder and a neon water bottle in hand, sipping as she walked.

Divina’s brows lifted the moment she spotted Kent clumsily half-falling into the front seat of Ajax’s Jeep. Her pace slowed as she watched him completely miss the cushion and land with a graceless thud in the footwell.

She let out a long-suffering sigh. “Every time I think he’s reached peak embarrassment, he breaks his own record.”

Yoko snorted, amusement dancing in her eyes. “At this rate, he’s gonna need his own trophy.”

Without breaking stride, Yoko turned and tossed Divina’s gym bag into the trunk of her car with a practiced flick of her arm. The bag landed with a solid thump , the hatch closing behind it with a satisfying slam .

Meanwhile, Enid carefully hopped down from the back of Ajax’s Jeep, landing neatly on her good foot. A faint wince flickered across her face as she shifted her weight, gripping the side of the Jeep for support. She limped toward the backseat with quiet determination, gripping the doorframe to steady herself.

Bianca clapped her hands once, the sound sharp and commanding. “Okay, focus. We still don’t have a plan. What are we doing?”

Kent, finally managing to extricate himself from the floor of the Jeep and crawl properly into the passenger seat, raised a finger with mock-serious conviction. “Karaoke,” he declared. “Obviously. Best option on the table.”

Yoko turned toward him with an unimpressed look, arms folding into a tight X across her chest. “Absolutely not,” she said, shaking her head for good measure. “Unfair advantage. Only decent singers in this whole squad are you, Divina, and Bianca.”

Ajax, still loitering near the rear of the Jeep, flicked an imaginary mane of long hair over his shoulder with a theatrical flourish. “Excuse you,” he said. “My voice? Literal sound of an angel.”

Xavier sat up straighter on the hood of his car, one brow raised in amusement. “Yeah,” he drawled, “a biblically accurate angel.”

Ajax grinned, undeterred, and pointed at him with pride. “See? He agrees.”

Enid bit down on her bottom lip, her shoulders trembling with the effort to hold back a laugh. Her eyes shone with amusement as she ducked her head slightly, trying to compose herself. Bianca, less entertained, rolled her eyes toward the sky and muttered, “You do realize biblically accurate angels sound terrifying, right?”

Divina, still toweling off her damp hair with slow, thoughtful movements, paused and glanced around the group. “We could help Enid with her lines for the spring musical,” she suggested, her tone neutral but kind. “She’s been struggling with them, right?”

“Nope. Absolutely not,” Enid blurted, cutting off any further discussion. She waved one hand for emphasis, causing her crutch to wobble slightly against the pavement. “It’s already bad enough that I embarrass myself in front of the entire theater group—I’m not giving you guys extra material to roast me with.”

Ajax closed the back door of his Jeep with a soft thunk , then leaned casually against the side, elbow braced on the edge. “Okay, okay. So no karaoke. No dramatic readings of tragic high school scripts. Let’s go bowling. It’s not too loud, not super packed, and everyone ends up humiliating themselves at some point. It’s the great equalizer.”

Bianca raised an eyebrow, her expression contemplative. Yoko tilted her head in thought, while Xavier gave a relaxed shrug from his spot by the coupe.

Enid exhaled slowly, then leaned back into her seat with a resigned groan. “Fine. But I’m calling it now—I get the bumpers.”

Kent grinned like he’d just won a bet. “Deal. But I’m still bringing my karaoke mic. Just in case destiny calls.”

Divina let out a groan, dragging the towel down her face. “Please don’t get us kicked out for public disturbance.”

Given Enid’s obvious disadvantage, the group unanimously agreed to a modified bowling challenge: everyone would take their turns using only one foot and the crutch. What began as a silly gesture of solidarity quickly devolved into a chaotic spectacle of increasingly absurd techniques—each player more determined than the last to outshine the others with flair, style, or sheer ridiculousness.

Kent, of course, had brought his karaoke microphone from the car and now wielded it like a professional sportscaster. He narrated every throw with exaggerated commentary, his voice echoing through the bowling alley and drawing a few amused—or confused—looks from nearby lanes. When it came time for his turn, he limped dramatically to the line, crutch tucked beneath his left arm, mic still in hand like a performer mid-show.

He paused, gave the group a theatrical nod, then, with all the confidence in the world, swung the bowling ball with his right hand while hopping on one foot.

The ball rocketed down the lane at a wild angle, seemingly destined for the gutter. But then, at the last moment, it curved sharply and clipped the lead pin. It teetered, wobbled—and then, as if in slow motion, toppled into the others. One by one, the pins clattered down in a lazy domino chain until not a single one remained standing.

The group froze in stunned silence.

Then came the eruption.

Ajax and Yoko leapt to their feet, whooping as they launched themselves at Kent, tackling him in a tangle of limbs and celebration. They dragged him off the lane like he’d just won an Olympic medal. Xavier and Divina both threw their arms up, yelling over each other in disbelief—insisting that the throw defied the laws of physics, fairness, and maybe even basic morality. Enid was doubled over with laughter, one hand braced on Bianca’s shoulder for support as she tried not to collapse. Bianca, still holding her phone, laughed through her nose; she’d been recording to catch Kent’s inevitable embarrassment but instead had captured what could only be described as a divine accident.

By the end of the game, it was Ajax who came out on top. Despite the absurd handicap, he displayed a surprising level of coordination and balance—adapting to the one-footed, crutch-assisted rule as if it were second nature. His throws were clean, consistent, and—most infuriatingly to the others—effortless, earning him the crown of the night’s most competitive disaster artist.

Enid didn’t tell them that he plays bowling with his family a lot in Greece.

They eventually migrated to the tables on the far side of the bowling alley, collapsing into the worn tables with the giddy exhaustion that came from shared laughter and mild chaos. Divina, Ajax, and Xavier crowded around one phone, flipping through photos and replaying video clips between bursts of uncontrollable laughter. Bianca and Kent had wandered off to the front counter, arguing over toppings as they ordered burgers, fries, and a generous stack of pizza for the group.

Enid lingered near a vintage pinball machine not far from their table, drawn in by its flashing lights and the retro glow of its blinking displays. Something about the rhythmic chime of the bumpers and the crackle of static-laced sound effects pulled her in like gravity. Xavier, catching the way she glanced at the machine while shifting her weight off her injured leg, moved without a word. He dragged a nearby chair over with a low scrape, positioning it carefully beside the machine so she could rest her ankle.

She gave him a small, grateful smile, adjusting the crutch against the wall before easing down, one knee bent on the seat. The relief was instant. She leaned forward and pressed the start button.

The machine lit up with a cheery fanfare of color and sound. Bright, cartoonish artwork lined the glass, and Enid quickly became absorbed in the game—eyes darting to follow the glinting silver ball as it bounced chaotically across bumpers and tunnels. The steady rhythm, the tactile thump of flipper buttons, the vivid lights

After a while, the last of her quarters clinked into the coin slot, and she realized her small pouch only held nickels, pennies, and dimes. With a soft sigh, she shifted forward to get up and rejoin the others.

Then came the metallic clack of another quarter dropping into the machine beside her.

Enid froze, her fingers still loosely gripping the edge of the machine’s side panel. She turned, expecting one of her friends.

Instead, she found herself face-to-face with Parker.

The tall girl stood casually beside her, framed sharply against the neon-streaked shadows of the arcade corner. Her black denim jacket was studded with silver safety pins and worn patches—none matching, all intentional. Her cargo pants and scuffed combat boots blended seamlessly into the low-lit gloom. The only thing that disrupted the monochrome palette was the subtle peek of warm brown at the roots of her otherwise jet-black mohawk, now styled into an impeccably tight French braid that coiled from her left temple across the back of her head.

It was so neat, so exquisitely made, that Enid found herself momentarily distracted by the flawlessness of it. Whoever had braided it had done it with care. Maybe Parker herself.

Parker raised a brow, her gaze drifting from the flipper buttons to Enid’s face. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” she said smoothly. “You looked like you were on a good run.”

Enid blinked, her fingers twitching slightly on the side of the machine as she cleared her throat. “Oh—no, not at all. I, uh, ran out of quarters.” She gave a vague gesture toward the pinball machine. “I wasn’t trying to hog it or anything…”

Parker smirked, the corner of her mouth lifting in a way that was both friendly and faintly mischievous. “Relax, Sinclair. I didn’t come here to dethrone you.” She stepped closer, arms folding across her chest with casual ease. “Consider it a... bonus life. For your last round.”

Enid stared at the machine, then flicked her eyes back to Parker, uncertain whether to accept the gesture or step aside entirely. They’d exchanged words before—mostly during rehearsals, in the liminal space of warm-ups and blocking directions. But this? This was uncharted territory. Casual, unguarded. And Enid still hadn’t figured out if Parker’s permanent scowl was just her default or part of the brooding goth aesthetic.

“Thanks,” she said finally, trying not to let the hesitation bleed into her voice as she placed her fingers back on the buttons. “I mean—it’s really nice of you. I didn’t think you were into pinball.”

“I’m not,” Parker replied coolly. “But watching you get hyper-focused and mildly frustrated? Surprisingly entertaining.”

Enid let out a short laugh, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure this thing is rigged. Or cursed. Which… actually sounds like something you’d enjoy.”

Parker chuckled, and the sound was unexpectedly soft—not sharp or sarcastic, but low and genuine. Her posture relaxed further, and for the first time, her expression lost its usual guarded sharpness.

“You’d be surprised what I appreciate,” she said, voice quieter now.

Enid’s fingers trembled slightly over the flippers. She glanced up, catching Parker’s expression in the flickering arcade light. There was no sarcasm in her tone—only an unexpected softness, like Parker was quietly waiting to be trusted. The overhead bulbs reflected off the pinball glass, casting shifting shadows that softened the sharp edges of Parker’s face and made Enid feel like maybe this moment was more fragile than it seemed.

“Well,” Enid said, trying to keep her tone light as she pulled the plunger back, “let’s see if your quarter brings better luck.”

Parker leaned casually against the side of the machine, arms crossed. “No pressure,” she said. “But if you break your personal best, I’m taking full credit.”

Enid grinned. “Deal.”

The machine roared back to life with a symphony of buzzers and flashing lights as the steel ball launched into the playfield. For a moment, the world around them melted into a hazy blur of ambient arcade noise. The only things that seemed to exist were the game, the blinking bumpers, and the strange, steady presence of Parker beside her.

Enid focused hard, her body instinctively tensing each time the ball careened off a bumper. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth, brows furrowed in quiet determination. She was good—surprisingly good—and each flick of the flippers was timed with practiced instinct. Still, her voice slipped out between the chaos, soft but clear.

“Why are you so nice to me?”

She didn’t look at Parker when she asked. Her eyes were fixed on the ball, which had just ricocheted off a spinner and shot dangerously close to the center drain. Enid jerked sideways as if her own body could shift the outcome, nearly overbalancing on her good foot. With a last-second flick, she managed to slap the ball back into motion. Her breath caught in her throat.

Parker hadn’t moved. She now leaned against the side of the adjacent Pop-a-Shot machine, one arm slung across its rim, the other loosely resting on her hip. Her stance was relaxed, almost disinterested, but her gaze never left the pinball machine—or Enid.

“Why are you asking why I’m being nice?” she replied coolly.

Enid inhaled slowly, somehow finding a rhythm again, the points stacking higher and higher on the LED scoreboard. Her hands danced over the flipper buttons with growing confidence. But her voice remained hesitant, almost guilty.

“I just... I mean, you’re one of Wednesday’s best friends. Right?” she said, licking her lips. “At least, I think so. You guys have been close since freshman year. Everyone thought it was weird at first—how Wednesday Addams, who only really hung out with Pugsley and Eugene, walked in on the first day with you .”

The ball hit a spinner and came dangerously close to a side drain. Enid gasped and jerked the machine slightly before slamming both flippers. Somehow, miraculously, she kept the ball alive.

“So why... aren’t you mad at me?” Enid added, her voice dropping with the weight of the question. “Like she was.”

Parker hummed a low, three-note tune—off-key and a little flat, like an old lullaby half-forgotten. Her eyes never left the steel ball as it pinged upward, disappearing into a tunnel of lights. “Did you have any malicious intent toward Eugene?”

Enid’s fingers tightened on the buttons. “No,” she said, too quickly—too forcefully. It came out like a slam, like she was trying to strike down the very idea of it.

Parker shrugged. “Then why would I be mad at you?”

The ball escaped her control, slipping between the flippers faster than she could react. The machine lit up with cascading lights and a burst of victory music as the game ended. Enid stared at the screen, breathing hard. The final score blinked in garish colors.

Her hands clutched the sides of the machine as she spoke, quiet now. “Because...it was my fault. What happened to Eugene. He got hurt because of me. ”

Parker tilted her head, face impassive, still watching. “Is it?”

Before Enid could answer, a pair of identical figures approached—two dark-haired twins, nearly as tall as Enid, clad in matching colorful outfits that mirrored each other like reflections in a cracked mirror. One wore silver buckles lining her boots; the other sported a choker with a jagged obsidian charm. Enid recognized them as the other two students who on very rare occasions hung out with Wednesday—Kayla and Layla—dressed in sharp contrast to Parker’s dark, brooding style.

“Our lane’s ready,” one of them called out excitedly, nodding toward the far end of the arcade.

Parker straightened from her slouch and shot Enid a quick two-finger salute. “Later, Sinclair. Congrats on your new high score.”

With that, she turned and followed the twins, disappearing behind a row of neon-lit skee-ball machines.

Enid remained rooted in place, blinking after them. Her fingers twitched at her sides as she slowly pivoted back toward the scoreboard. Her name glowed in the top right corner, flashing alongside a celebratory chime—one hundred points past her personal best. She hadn’t even noticed.

“You okay?” a voice asked from behind.

Enid turned to see Bianca balancing three pizza boxes against her hip, an eyebrow raised in silent inquiry. Ajax and Kent passed nearby, carrying trays piled with burgers, fries, and drinks.

Enid nodded, the daze lifting slightly. “Yeah. Just… ran out of quarters.”

Bianca jerked her chin toward a table tucked in the corner. “Good. We’ve got garlic bread, too.”

Enid pushed the chair back into place, cast one last glance at the pinball machine, then followed Bianca to rejoin the group—her shoulders still a little tense, her mind buzzing with too many thoughts to name.

Enid’s boots scuffed against the worn barn floor as she paced in tight circles before Buttercup, one of their older dairy cows who had long since grown immune to Enid’s theatrical outbursts. Clutched in her hand was the script booklet—dog-eared and scribbled with frantic marginalia. She gripped it like a lifeline, flipping it open and shut as she stumbled over her lines.

“I—uh—‘I shan’t believe your sweet words, for they are... they are nothing more than—’” Her voice faltered, lips twisting in frustration. “What the hell are they more than? Empty echoes? Poisoned air?”

Buttercup responded with a long, patient moo.

Enid groaned, rolling the booklet into a loose tube before gently tapping herself on the forehead. “Ugh. I know, I know. I’m terrible at this.”

She exhaled sharply, snapping the booklet open again, fingers darting to the page she’d been on as she scanned for the line she’d forgotten. Buttercup mooed again—shorter this time, almost judgmental, as if to say, Get it together.

“Oh, please,” Enid muttered, throwing her hands up in defeat. “Don’t act like you’re some veteran stage cow. You don’t know theater, Buttercup!”

From behind her, a quiet chuckle echoed through the barn. Enid jumped with a sharp yelp, nearly slipping on her injured left foot as she spun around, clutching her crutch to steady herself.

Her father stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a bemused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t think Buttercup’s the one forgetting her lines,” he said lightly.

Enid narrowed her eyes at him. “I swear I already did most of my chores. This is my break!”

“Reciting Elizabethan monologues to cows doesn’t exactly sound like a break,” he replied, scratching at the beard lining his jaw thoughtfully.

Enid huffed and slammed the script down onto a nearby barrel. “Yeah, well, when I do chores, I just turn my brain off. It’s all muscle memory at this point—sweep, feed, carry, repeat. So if I’m taking a break, might as well use my brain.”

Her father raised his eyebrows, not unkindly. “And why not ask one of those theater kids to run lines with you?”

Enid crossed her arms, her gaze dropping to the worn barn floor. “Because they always laugh when I mess up. Not the ha-ha-you’re-funny kind of laugh. It’s more like the oh-wow-you-really-don’t-get-it kind. Every time I forget a cue or stumble over the words, it feels like I’m back in third grade getting laughed at for mispronouncing asparagus .”

Her father stepped closer, running a hand gently along Buttercup’s broad side before turning and leaning his hip against the barrel where Enid’s script lay. “Surely not all of them are like that. There’s got to be at least one or two you’d feel comfortable working with.”

Enid sighed deeply, her shoulders sagging as her eyes softened, drifting into thought. “Maybe… maybe one.” Her mind flickered to Parker—stoic, a little intense like Wednesday, but more approachable, less likely to insult. Parker stood beside her during rehearsals, never keeping her distance, even now.

“Hmm.” Her father grunted, reading her expression the way only a parent could. “You thinking of someone?”

“Maybe,” Enid murmured, kicking at a stray tuft of hay. “She’s… never really laughed at me. Said she didn’t blame me for what happened with Eugene, either. I dunno. She’s kind of hard to read, but… I think she’s cool.”

Her father smiled, stepping forward to gently squeeze her shoulder. “Then maybe give ‘cool’ a chance to help. Even if you mess up. Especially if you mess up. That’s how you get better.”

Enid cracked a small smile and leaned into the touch. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

Buttercup mooed loudly, a long, sonorous sound as if offering the final word.

“I said you don’t know theater!” Enid shouted, throwing her hands up again.

Her father laughed, turning to leave the barn. Over his shoulder, he called, “Maybe she doesn’t. But she knows you, and that might be good enough.”

“Nope.”

Enid blinked rapidly, her heart fluttering with a mix of surprise and disappointment. The cool air of the room seemed to press closer, the faint hum of the overhead lights blending with the soft clatter of forks against plates.

Layla spoke first, absently picking at her pasta salad. “We’ve got that massive project"

Kayla nodded, their voices syncing like a practiced duet, “Due in like, two weeks?”

“It’s gonna eat up every second of our time,” they finished together, their voices overlapping almost melodically.

Parker, mid-bite, her mouth still chewing, jerked her head toward the twins with a soft, muffled, “What they said. Sorry.” Her tone was almost gentle, but carried an unmistakable finality.

Enid shifted awkwardly, the rough fabric of her jacket brushing against her arm as she leaned harder on her crutch, the cold metal grounding her amid the swirl of emotions. She fought to keep the sting from showing on her face, but the tension pulled at her shoulders, making them slump just a fraction.

“Oh. No, yeah. That’s okay,” she said with a weak laugh that trembled at the edges, like a fragile leaf caught in a breeze. “Guess I’ll just go back to performing the play for our cows. I think Buttercup’s really starting to grasp the nuances of sapphic yearning tragedy.” Her voice was dry, tinged with a quiet, ironic sadness.

Parker paused mid-chew, a twitch of amusement curling the corner of her mouth. She shrugged, the casual movement belying the weight behind her next words. “You could always ask Wednesday.”

Enid’s breath caught, and a flicker of dread spread across her chest. Her heart beat unevenly, a bitter taste settling in her mouth. “What?”

Parker swallowed, the slight clink of her glass as she took a slow sip, before turning to meet Enid’s eyes with a steady, unreadable gaze. “I’m serious. Ask Wednesday. She knows the play inside and out. Probably better than I do—she even beta-read it.”

Enid stared, waiting for the sarcasm, the smirk, the joke that would soften the blow. But Parker’s raised eyebrow and quiet seriousness left none.

Enid’s fingers twitched, tightening around her crutch, knuckles white. “You do realize she wants to kill me, right?” Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “I can feel it—every time she looks at me.”

Kayla giggled softly, the sound light and carefree, while Layla muttered, “A little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“No. No, I’m not.” Enid’s finger jabbed the air, trembling slightly. “I’m literally the person she blames for Eugene’s accident. She looks at me like she’s calculating how to fit my body into a casket she built when she was eight.” The weight of the accusation hung in the space between them, thick and bitter.

“She was six and the acoustics sounded nice apparently, but you know,” Parker murmured through another slow bite of her sandwich. “It’s either her… or the cows.”

Enid’s eyes drifted upward, tracing the cracked ceiling tiles as if searching for an escape. Her breath hitched, a silent plea for strength or divine intervention. “God, just let me slam my head against the wall now and spare everyone the secondhand embarrassment of watching me butcher your play on stage.”

Parker lifted her half-eaten sandwich in a mock toast, her voice low but playful. “Choose your death, Sinclair.”

Enid limped forward, her crutch tapping a steady rhythm beside her, each step sending a dull ache up her leg. Clutched tight against her side was her battered script—creased at the edges, its margins filled with scribbled notes and lines she still couldn’t seem to remember. It felt less like a script now and more like a lifeline, a fragile hope wrapped in printer paper.

At the far end of the hallway stood Wednesday Addams, unmistakable in her monochrome severity. She was dressed in black from collar to heel, a stark silhouette against the brighter lockers around her. Her weight rested subtly on one leg, the other knee slightly bent as she arranged her books inside her open locker. The interior was painted entirely matte black. How she’d gotten approval for that was anyone’s guess—likely through sheer intimidation. Her textbooks were all wrapped in matching black protective covers, spines labeled in precise silver ink. Even her folder tabs gleamed like they’d been dipped in midnight.

Enid came to a stop a few feet away, suddenly uncertain. Her fingers tightened around the script, hugging it against her chest like a shield. She hesitated. Just long enough for Wednesday to notice.

“To what do I owe the disturbance?” she asked, voice flat. “In all our years at this institution, not once have you approached me to say hello. So I assume this is not a social call.”

Enid exhaled slowly, gripping the handle of her crutch until her palm ached. “I need help with my lines.”

There was a pause. 

Then Wednesday scoffed softly and pivoted away, heels clicking as she moved. “Enid Sinclair begging me for help. An unexpected plot twist. Do you also intend to sell your soul for a passing grade? Or is this just step one in a full-blown identity crisis?”

Enid groaned and quickly stepped forward, cutting in front of her path with an outstretched hand. “Please. I’m not getting anywhere practicing alone. Yoko tried to help, but she can’t give me actual feedback. She just smiles at everything I say and then tells me I was ‘so good.’ That’s not helpful.”

Wednesday didn’t slow, but her voice grew icier. “Have you somehow forgotten that I want your head on a pike? That hasn’t changed.”

Enid kept pace behind her, crutch clicking fast to match the shorter girl’s strides. “No. I haven’t forgotten. You make that pretty clear every time you look at me—or my friends. Believe me, the homicidal rage is noted. But you were the one who said you didn’t want this play to be a disaster. I’m trying, Wednesday. Really. And if trying means asking you for help, then... here I am.”

She braced for impact. Emotionally. Maybe physically, too. With Wednesday, one could never be sure.

Without warning, Wednesday came to an abrupt halt. Enid stopped just in time, heart leaping to her throat at the near-collision. She was so close she could see the faint movement of fabric as Wednesday inhaled, the soft shine of her hair catching in the sterile lighting. The sudden eye contact startled her—Wednesday’s dark eyes locked onto hers with a hawkish steadiness that made Enid feel like she was being dissected under a microscope.

Enid’s throat dried. She tried to decipher the look—anger? Curiosity? Disgust? But Wednesday’s expressions were infamously opaque. The glower remained, etched into her features like it had always been there. And yet, in that strange, suspended stillness, Enid noticed something she hadn’t before.

Freckles.

A light dusting of them across Wednesday’s nose and upper cheeks, just visible in the right lighting. Like ink spatters on porcelain. They softened her in a way Enid hadn’t expected—more human, less unyielding. It was... cute. Which was annoying. Because Wednesday Addams was infuriating, and intimidating, and cold, and still somehow—unavoidably—cute.

Enid blinked, flustered. She hadn’t meant to stare.

Wednesday’s gaze remained unbroken.

“Well?” she asked flatly. “Are you expecting an answer or planning to faint dramatically against the lockers?”

Enid swallowed hard, pulse fluttering. “I—uh... That depends. Is fainting still an acceptable way to get out of the play?”

Wednesday tilted her head slightly, arms folding across her chest with the kind of poised stillness that made even silence feel confrontational. “So this is your strategy,” she said, voice flat but sharp. “Corner me in public, evoke guilt through sentimentality, and use my friendship with Parker as leverage.”

Enid blinked, flustered. “I’m… what? No—I wasn’t trying to—”

“It’s effective,” Wednesday cut in coolly. “I’ll allow it. On one condition.”

Enid stared, her brow furrowed in cautious confusion. “Okay? What’s the condition? And just saying now—I’m not giving up any internal organs. Or my soul. Or like… a toe.”

There was the faintest twitch at the corner of Wednesday’s mouth. Not quite a smile—more a ghost of one. “Pity. But no. My condition is simple.”

She stepped in, closing the space between them by just a breath, her voice dropping low—measured and exact, yet somehow still intimate. “Don’t fall in love with me.”

The hallway around them seemed to quiet in that instant, like the world held its breath. Enid’s own breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat. Her eyes widened. Her brain stuttered.

Then, after a beat, a startled laugh burst from her—quick and unsure, caught between disbelief and nervous panic. “Wait—was that… was that a joke? Or are you seriously that full of yourself?”

Wednesday blinked, expression—infuriatingly—unreadable. “Yes.”

Enid had no idea which question she had answered. The ambiguity was worse than either option. Her face burned, cheeks warming in a slow, mortified flush as she looked away, lips curling in a breathy, stunned chuckle. “Okay. Sure. No falling in love. Not a problem. Zero percent risk.”

Wednesday didn’t respond. With the same smooth fluid movement, she turned on her heel and resumed her walk down the corridor, the faint click of her doc martins echoing in the space between them.

Enid stood frozen for a moment, script still pressed against her chest, heart hammering in a rhythm that had absolutely nothing to do with stage fright.

The drawing room carried the subtle scent of wax-polished mahogany and fresh roses, clipped just that morning from the southern gardens. Golden afternoon light streamed through the tall arched windows, bathing the gothic interior in a warm, near-sacrilegious glow. Shadows stretched long across the floor, wrapping around the edges of antique furniture like familiar ghosts.

Morticia sat as if painted into the scene, serene and unbothered. Her form-fitting black gown clung to her like a second skin, her posture perfect, one long leg crossed elegantly over the other. In one hand, she held a novel—its cover dark and worn, spine gently cracked. The other hand drifted lazily through Gomez’s hair as he lay with his head cradled in her lap, eyes half-lidded in contentment, a soft smile on his lips.

The faint scrape of shoes against the marble threshold interrupted the stillness. Both parents turned their attention toward the doorway as Wednesday stepped inside, framed by the light behind her like a shadow stitched into the house itself. Her posture was textbook straight, hands folded neatly behind her back, chin lifted with restrained purpose.

She did not speak immediately, nor did they press her to. Wednesday seldom announced herself unless the matter was of importance—and it was rarer still for her to approach them during a moment of domestic calm. Morticia’s crimson-lined gaze softened with curiosity. Gomez blinked away his daze and slowly propped himself up on one elbow.

“There will be a guest arriving shortly,” Wednesday said, voice clipped and coldly articulate.

Both parents blinked.

Morticia was the first to recover, carefully marking her page with a black satin ribbon and closing the book with a soft thump . Her brow arched delicately. “A guest?” she echoed. “How… unexpected. What remarkable circumstances must have unfolded for you to extend an invitation to someone other than our horrid Parker?”

Gomez sat up with enthusiasm, a wide grin already stretching across his face. “A visitor! Marvelous! Shall we set the mood? Light torches? Ready the foils for a welcoming duel? Perhaps something somber on the harpsichord?”

“No,” Wednesday replied flatly. “None of that will be necessary.”

She took a few more steps into the room, the hem of her black skirt gliding noiselessly over the floor. Her gaze remained steady, as though each word required focus not to sound like a concession.

“Her name is Enid Sinclair,” she said. “She is, regrettably, cast in a lead role for the spring musical. Her inability to retain dialogue and project any form of presence onstage is already compromising Parker’s meticulous work. I’ve agreed, against my better judgment, to assist her.”

A moment of silence followed. Morticia and Gomez exchanged a look—part intrigue, part amusement.

“And by assist,” Morticia prompted gently, “you mean…?”

“I will be running lines with her,” Wednesday answered, her tone suggesting it was the gravest of burdens.

Truthfully, it wasn’t.

Not that she would ever say as much aloud.

What Wednesday would also never admit—not even under the most creative forms of torture—was how much satisfaction she’d drawn from watching Enid scramble to find her earlier that day.

The poor girl had clearly forgotten to ask for her address. A critical oversight. And Wednesday had exploited it with quiet, meticulous delight.

She’d made herself elusive on purpose, weaving through the school like a shadow. Every time Enid turned a corner, Wednesday had just disappeared down the next. In the library, she vanished between towering shelves; in the hallways, she melted into crowds or slipped through doors the moment Enid spotted the swish of her coat. Once, she let just the edge of her braid peek out around the corner—enough to spark a hopeful call of “Wednesday!”—only to be gone again when Enid rushed forward.

It had been a game. One she fully intended to stretch out until the final bell.

If not for Parker.

Parker, with her relentless perceptiveness and that intolerable well of compassion, had intercepted Wednesday on the stairs with folded arms and a leveled stare. She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t scold—but the message was clear, firm, and deeply irritating.

“Cut it out,” Parker had said. “She’s injured. She's tired. Stop being cruel.”

Wednesday hadn’t replied—just blinked at her once, the way she often did when calculating something. Internally, she filed Parker’s betrayal away, already drafting a three-point revenge plan for future execution.

Back in the present, standing in the drawing room of the Addams manor, Wednesday could still feel her parents' eyes on her. They hadn’t moved since her announcement.

Morticia’s smile lingered, soft and knowing—the one she only wore in those rare, fleeting instances when Wednesday did something she’d claim to hate but clearly didn’t. Her gaze flicked over her daughter with warm amusement, as though she saw straight through the layers of scorn and deadpan delivery.

And Gomez? Gomez looked seconds away from organizing a parade. His entire face glowed with paternal pride, practically vibrating with the urge to cheer.

He clutched his heart dramatically and grinned from ear to ear. “How generous of you, mi pequeña tormenta. ”

Wednesday inhaled slowly, her breath as measured as her tone. “We’ll be using the second drawing room,” she announced. “I would prefer no interruptions. Sinclair’s attention span is already tragically limited, and I’d rather not lose what little progress I might wring out of her.”

Gomez chuckled, rising from the couch with the slow stretch of a satisfied cat. “Understood, mi brillante escorpión venenoso. Not a whisper, not a footstep. We shall haunt the halls in silence.”

Morticia smoothed the folds of her dress with effortless grace and stepped to stand beside him. Her eyes gleamed with indulgent mischief. “Do let us know if you need anything… perhaps poison for stage fright, or candied thistle for vocal clarity?”

“I will not,” Wednesday replied flatly.

And with that, she pivoted on her heel and strode out of the drawing room.

Moments later, the deep, sonorous chime of the Addams family doorbell reverberated through the manor, more funereal toll than welcome. It echoed down the halls like a summons from some forgotten underworld.

Lurch began his slow, lurching journey toward the door, but Wednesday raised a pale hand to stop him.

“I’ll get it,” she said simply, already veering toward the entrance.

When she opened the grand front door, she was met with a riot of color.

She pulled the heavy front door open and was immediately met with a blast of color. Enid Sinclair stood bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, her oversized sweater a pastel storm of blue, purple, and pink that practically vibrated against the dark threshold of the Addams estate. Wednesday winced, ever so slightly. The jeans—dark blue—were a welcome compromise, a small mercy to her eyes.

Enid gave a shy wave, her fingers fluttering at shoulder height. Her eyes darted around the gothic entryway with the anxious energy of a trapped hummingbird. Eventually, her gaze landed on Wednesday—and stayed there, steady and uncertain.

Without ceremony, Wednesday stepped aside and held the door wider. “Come.”

She didn’t look back to see if Enid followed. If the girl got lost amid secret passageways, cursed heirlooms, or portraits with blinking eyes…well, that was the price of entry.

They made it as far as the base of the grand staircase. Beside it stood a tall-backed chair upholstered in faded grey velvet, trimmed in ornate black woodwork that curled like vines. It looked like a throne someone had stolen from a mausoleum.

Wednesday turned and gestured to it. “Wait here. I’ll retrieve the script.”

And just like that, she ascended the staircase, disappearing into the upper shadows of the manor—leaving Enid to stare after her.

Enid stood where she’d been told, fingers laced tightly behind her back, shifting her weight awkwardly onto her good leg. Her eyes wandered despite herself, unable to stop drinking in the world around her. She’d heard bits and pieces about Wednesday’s home over the years—vague rumors, casual comments, wild exaggerations. Wealthy. Gothic. Probably haunted. But no amount of hearsay had prepared her for the reality of it.

It felt like stepping into the nave of a cathedral built for ghosts: part mausoleum, part museum, every inch curated to unsettle. The towering ceilings loomed above her like judgment. Everything—walls, furnishings, floorboards—was a cascade of dark elegance: black, charcoal grey, aged walnut, and the glint of dull silver. The scent in the air was old and heavy—antique polish laced with something darker and more elusive. Clove, maybe. Or incense. Or the kind of dust that carried memories too stubborn to fade.

A soft creak overhead made her flinch. She glanced up.

A pale boy with a downturned mouth leaned over the upper railing, staring down at her with wide, curious eyes. He looked so much like Wednesday it startled her—if Wednesday had been shorter, slightly rounder in the face, and still held onto a boyish awkwardness. Pugsley Addams. He blinked, glanced in the direction his sister had vanished, then looked back at her.

Enid lifted a hand and offered a small, uncertain smile.

He raised one in return—half-hearted, hesitant—then vanished down the hallway without a word. Enid didn’t take it personally. From what she’d heard, he’d been bullied for years before transferring to Nevermore. If she were in his shoes, she wouldn’t hang around strangers either.

Left alone again, she turned her gaze back to the unsettling decor.

A towering suit of armor stood sentinel in one corner, its eye slits dark and empty. Along the walls, mounted taxidermy trophies glared down at her—razor-toothed predators, their frozen snarls preserved in glossy death. Antlers from a stag stretched toward the vaulted ceiling like reaching bones.

Then her eyes landed on something worse: a row of Matryoshka dolls resting on a velvet-lined display table. At first glance, they seemed ordinary, if a bit out of place. But as she looked closer, her stomach flipped.

Each doll wore a hand-painted face contorted in anguish. Wide, screaming mouths. Tiny tear tracks smeared beneath their eyes. One had red rivulets running from its eyes, painted like it was crying blood. A chill crawled up her spine. Enid took a step back without meaning to.

“That’s creepy ass sh—”

She turned away mid-sentence, trying to shake off the image, only to let out a shriek of pure shock.

“JESUS!”

A tall figure had materialized soundlessly at her side. Enid stumbled, nearly losing her balance, heart jackhammering against her ribs.

Morticia Addams stood there, poised and composed, as if she had simply emerged from the shadows. Her long black gown clung like water to her form, sleeves trailing like silk banners. Her hands were delicately folded at her waist. She smiled serenely, not at all perturbed by the outburst.

“No, dear,” she said in a smooth, unhurried voice. “Just Wednesday’s mother.”

Enid gasped for air, gripping her crutch tightly. “I—I’m so sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t hear you come in—I wasn’t trying to curse or yell or—”

Morticia lifted a graceful hand and waved the apology off with effortless poise. “It’s quite alright. I do have a tendency to move… quietly.”

Enid drew in a shaky breath, trying to force her nerves into submission. Her palms itched with residual anxiety, but she kept them clasped neatly behind her back, standing a touch straighter—as if posture alone could make up for screaming profanity in front of Wednesday’s mother.

“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Addams,” she said, her voice softer than usual, but sincere. “I really appreciate the hospitality.”

Morticia’s smile deepened, the corners of her crimson lips curving with serene amusement. “Such horrid manners,” she said warmly. “It’s dreadful to have you in our home, Enid.”

Before Enid could reply, the faint sound of approaching footsteps echoed from above. She looked up just as Wednesday appeared at the top of the grand staircase, her own copy of the script in her hand like a ledger of impending doom. Her expression, as always, was unreadable.

“Mother,” Wednesday said, voice cool and composed. “We’re going to begin.”

Morticia turned her head toward her daughter, all elegance and quiet pride. “Very well. I’ll leave you two to your rehearsal.” She offered Enid a final glance, eyes glittering with something that might have been mischief. “Lurch will bring refreshments shortly—honey, for mental clarity, and sage tea to enhance memory retention.”

Enid blinked. “Oh. Um. Thank you?”

Wednesday began her descent, every step measured and smooth, her boots tapping rhythmically against the polished wood. She moved with the quiet grace of a pendulum.

Enid swallowed and forced herself to follow without gawking. She kept pace behind her, hobbling slightly on her crutch, trying not to let the grandeur of the hallway swallow her whole. The walls were lined with shadowed oil portraits, and the sconces flickered as if moved by unseen hands.

Behind them, Morticia lingered just a moment longer, watching the pair disappear into the darkened corridor. Her smile remained as she turned and glided soundlessly into the depths of the manor, her silhouette folding into shadow like a silk curtain drawn closed.

The second drawing room echoed the gothic grandeur of the rest of the manor but felt slightly less oppressive—perhaps due to its lower ceiling and the softer glow of the fading evening light. Heavy velvet drapes framed arched windows, filtering the amber slants of sunlight that spilled gently across the worn wooden floor. At one end, a massive stone fireplace stood silent and cold, its mantle cluttered with urns, tarnished candlesticks, and a cracked bust that Enid assumed was a distant ancestor. Above it hung an oil painting depicting a brutal battle scene, so vivid and raw it seemed to bleed from the canvas.

Wednesday motioned toward the leather chesterfield sofa near the hearth. “Sit,” she commanded without inflection, then crossed the room to a small table piled with books. Her own slender booklet script lay on top. She opened it with fluid, practiced fingers and flipped swiftly to a bookmarked page.

Enid lowered herself carefully onto the sofa, shifting her weight as she adjusted the crutch beside her on the floor. The cushions were firm and the leather stiff with age, but the silence and stillness of the room made her feel as if she were sinking.

Wednesday positioned herself at a sharp diagonal, her posture rigid and voice clipped. “We’ll begin at Act Two, Scene Three. Your entrance is late. The character is breathless, wounded. Much like yourself, though hopefully with more dignity.”

Enid shot her a sidelong glance. “Wow. Really motivational. Thanks.”

“Your sarcasm is unwelcome,” Wednesday replied, her tone dry and clipped. “Try acting instead.”

Heat flushed Enid’s cheeks as she flipped open her script, scanning the highlighted lines with fingers that trembled slightly. The scene was a confrontation—her character, a banished knight, facing Wednesday’s war-priestess, who carried a vendetta and favored dramatic speeches.

She drew in a shaky breath. “I didn’t come here to beg. I came for the truth.”

Wednesday’s reply was immediate and icy, dripping with disdain. “Then you are more foolish than I imagined. The truth burns, and you—fragile as you are—will not survive the flame.”

A hush settled between them.

Enid blinked, surprised. That had been good.

They tried again. This time, Enid threw more of herself into the words, her voice rising with the desperation her character felt. It was unsteady, but not hollow. Halfway through, she stumbled over a line and groaned, burying her face in the script.

An eyebrow arched sharply. “Is this your interpretation of death by embarrassment? Subtle.”

Peeking between trembling fingers, Enid shot back, “You know, for someone helping me, you’re really not helping.”

“You asked for my assistance. You did not specify kindness.” Wednesday stepped closer, the firelight catching in her dark eyes like glowing embers. “Again.”

The late afternoon sun filtered softly through the dusty windows of Ajax’s old Bronco, casting warm golden streaks across the worn dashboard as the truck rumbled steadily down the familiar backroad—a shortcut leading straight to the town center. Enid settled comfortably into the passenger seat, one leg tucked beneath her, while Ajax’s phone balanced lightly on her thigh. Her fingers danced across the screen with the confidence of someone who held full DJ privileges, queuing up songs that perfectly matched her mood—whether or not they’d actually hear them before arriving their next destination.

Her finger hovered briefly before selecting a track she hadn’t listened to in ages, purely on a whim. Just then, a notification banner slid across the screen. It was from their group chat, Divina asking for a headcount on who would be joining the sleepover that weekend.

A grin tugged at the corner of Enid’s lips. She tilted the phone just so, angling it for a quick selfie. Ajax kept his focus on the road ahead, one hand gripping the wheel, the other resting casually on the open window frame. Enid leaned in close, flashing a peace sign and a wide, toothy grin. She snapped the photo and quickly attached it to the chat, adding the caption:
“Package secured. En route to supply run 🛻🛒”

With the message sent, Enid exited the group chat and tapped into the direct messages with Ajax’s mom. Her thumbs moved swiftly over the keyboard, her tone light and cheerful:
“Hey, Mama P! Just a heads up, Ajax is helping me get groceries. He’s eating dinner at ours before heading home 😄”

Moments later, a reply bubble appeared—first a thumbs-up emoji, then a heart, followed by:
“I miss you, Enid! Visit soon, okay? Maybe you can bring the gang for a weekend? 🥺❤️”

Enid’s smile softened with warmth.
“Definitely! We’re planning a gaming night this weekend. Could turn into a sleepover!”

After a short pause, the response popped up:
“Then I better make Ajax deep clean the house. Especially the bathroom 😒”

Enid snorted, a laugh escaping before she could hold it back. Ajax glanced sideways at her, one eyebrow arching suspiciously.

“What are you telling my mom?” he asked, his tone a curious mix of accusation and amusement.

Enid flashed an innocent grin, locking the phone before dropping it into the cupholder between them. “Nothing important,” she said, her voice far too sweet. “Just giving her your weekend cleaning schedule.”

Ajax groaned but didn’t take his eyes off the road. “You’re evil.”

“Excuse me. I am your mom’s favorite child,” she retorted with a playful wink.

Ajax rolled his eyes and reached for the touchscreen on his dash, skipping the current song without warning.

The gentle opening notes of Feather by Sabrina Carpenter faded abruptly mid-beat, replaced by something louder, grungier.

Enid gasped dramatically. “You did not just skip a Sabrina Carpenter song. That’s—Ajax, that’s homophobic.”

Ajax snorted. “I’m also gay. It cancels out.”

“That’s not how that works!” Enid cried, crossing her arms and twisting in her seat to face him, her expression a mock look of betrayal. “You’re lucky you’re driving or I would’ve punched your shoulder.”

Ajax barked out a genuine laugh, the sound lighting up his face. “Lucky me.”

Enid grinned despite herself, settling back into her seat as the wind tousled her hair through the cracked window. The warmth of the late summer sun, the comforting scent of old car leather and pine air freshener, the way the two of them slipped into playful banter without trying—it all wrapped around her like a familiar blanket.

For a moment, she let her eyes flutter closed, the corners of her mouth lifting in a soft smile. Then, curiosity nudged her to crack one eye open, catching their reflection in the side mirror. The image made her pause—Ajax’s focused profile, jaw set as he steered, her own hair whipping softly in the breeze, and the endless ribbon of country road stretching behind them like a scene plucked straight from a movie.

Quickly, Enid fished Ajax’s phone out of the cupholder again, twisting in her seat to angle the lens just right. She snapped a photo of the mirror, capturing both their silhouettes bathed in the golden afternoon light. Not quite finished, she switched to video and hit record.

“Supply run vibes,” she murmured, letting the camera capture the jeep rolling steadily down the road, wildflowers blurring at the edge of the ditch, and the soft hum of tires meeting asphalt. She turned the camera on herself for a brief moment, flashing a small peace sign while muttering “chaotic good” under her breath, then ended the recording.

Adding a warm-toned filter with a gentle grain, she tagged Ajax, slapped on a sticker that read “roadtrippin’ 🚙🌻,” and posted it to his Instagram story.

Ajax caught the flicker of her movement in his peripheral vision and arched an eyebrow. “What did you just post?”

Enid smirked, setting the phone down with a casual flick of her wrist. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m definitely worrying about it.”

“You’ll live,” she said, stretching her arms overhead with a satisfied sigh, settling back into the easy rhythm of the drive.

The Bronco rolled smoothly into the Aldi’s parking lot, its tires crunching lightly over the loose gravel as close to the entrance as possible. Ajax pulled into one of the shaded spots near the cart return, killing the engine with a soft rattle. 

Enid eased herself out of the passenger seat, the air cool and fresh against her skin. A faint breeze carried the scent of budding flowers and clean pavement warmed by sunlight. Adjusting her crutch beneath her arm, she shifted her weight with practiced ease, the faint jingle of coins in her pouch adding a quiet rhythm to her steps.

Without needing to be asked, Ajax rounded the front of the Bronco to her side. His hand came to rest gently at the small of her back as they made their way toward the entrance, guiding without crowding. He subtly stepped to the outer side of the sidewalk, shielding her from the road. It was effortless, instinctive. Typical Ajax.

As they neared the store entrance, Enid reached for the nearest shopping cart—only for Ajax to dart forward and claim it first.

“Mine,” he announced, smirking triumphantly as he stuck out his tongue like a kid who just won a playground game.

Enid stopped, hands on her hips, and gave him a scandalized look. “Wow. Misogyny in broad daylight. Bold of you.”

“Uh-huh,” Ajax replied, unbothered, already pushing the cart with one hand. “Pretty sure your dad gave you the list for a reason, Sinclair. You read, I push.”

Grumbling for show, Enid pulled the folded piece of paper from her hoodie pocket. “Next time I’m bringing a new shopping partner,” she muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

“What was that?” Ajax asked without turning around.

“Nothing!” she replied too fast, unfolding the list and frowning dramatically at the handwriting as they passed through the sliding doors into the cool, fluorescent-lit store.

The automatic doors whooshed open and cool air hit their faces. The Aldi’s interior was bright and familiar—unpolished concrete floors, wide aisles, and shelves neatly stacked with both name-brand surprises and off-brand staples. Enid led them through the store like a seasoned commander, calling out items from the list.

“Bread,” she said, already pivoting toward the baked goods.

Ajax snagged a loaf of honey wheat before she could reach for it. “Same brand as last week.”

“Could’ve let me do it,” Enid muttered with mock annoyance, moving on.

Sometimes he beat her to the punch, plucking boxes or cans from the shelves without being prompted. Other times, she moved ahead, knowing exactly where the cheaper version of something sat on the lower shelf. They worked in sync like they always had, even when they were dating—like muscle memory in motion.

As they moved toward the back of the store where the meat coolers were, Ajax suddenly hopped onto the shopping cart with both feet, coasting a few feet before dropping back to the floor. The cart squeaked under his weight.

Enid glanced at him, unimpressed. “You’re gonna get us kicked out.”

“Nope,” he said, already hopping on again for another short ride before jumping down. “Three-strike policy. I’ve got one more.”

She came to a stop in front of the meat coolers, the chilly air brushing her face as she scanned the options. “Ground beef,” she announced, distracted.

Ajax reached into the cooler and grabbed two two-pound packs, tossing them into the cart without hesitation.

“So…” he said, pushing the cart along. “How was line practice with Wednesday?”

Enid exhaled through her nose, scratching the back of her head. “It was… fine. I mean, her house is insane. I thought Yoko’s place was big, but that? That was, like, Victorian ghost-in-the-attic levels of huge.”

Ajax raised a brow, clearly entertained. “Yeah? Any secret staircases? Talking portraits?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if there were,” Enid said, half-laughing. “I ran into Pugsley, but he disappeared before I could even say hi. The place is more gothic museum than house.”

She shook her head, smiling faintly as she glanced at the next item on the list.

“Anyway,” Enid continued, her voice a little lighter now, “Wednesday wasn’t exactly gentle with her critiques, but… I guess I got a little better. I don’t sound like I’m reading directly off a cereal box anymore.”

Ajax smiled, leaning in to nudge her shoulder lightly with his elbow. “Progress is progress.”

Enid chuckled, slipping the folded list back into her hoodie pocket as they made their way toward the dairy section. The chill from the nearby refrigeration units brushed against her skin like a whisper. “Yeah, but I don’t think I’ll ever be Shakespeare material.”

“Well,” Ajax said, steering the cart with one hand and casually pivoting around a corner, “you’re definitely cow-barn monologue material. And that’s a whole genre of its own.”

The laugh that burst from Enid was sudden and sharp, catching her off-guard—and startling a nearby woman who was reaching for almond milk. The woman shot a quick glance at her, raising an eyebrow before walking off.

Enid covered her mouth, trying to stifle her giggles. “Shut up.”

“Never,” Ajax grinned proudly, clearly pleased with himself.

They turned the corner near the cereal aisle, the bright boxes a blur of color on their left. Ajax reached up toward a towering shelf of bulk paper goods and tugged out a massive pack of toilet paper. With a huff of effort, he wrestled it into place beneath the cart. The plastic packaging crinkled loudly as it settled, the movement rocking the cart slightly.

“So…” he began after a beat, casting a glance sideways. “Is Wednesday still mad at us for what happened?”

The question deflated some of the laughter in Enid’s chest. She sighed, her shoulders sagging under the weight of it. Her gaze dropped to the scuffed tile floor beneath her boots, watching as it scrolled by in silence. The buzz of overhead lights mingled with the distant beep of scanners and murmurs of families around them—normal, everyday noise that somehow made the question feel heavier.

“I’m pretty certain she still wants to kill us for it,” she muttered at last, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. “But honestly? I’m not entirely sure.”

They rounded a final corner into the checkout area, where a line had already started forming near the self-checkout stations. Ajax slowed the cart and stopped behind an older couple who were unloading produce and canned goods with practiced rhythm.

He leaned forward over the cart’s handlebar, resting his elbows there. His body relaxed, but his eyes flicked toward Enid again, his tone thoughtful. “Well… she is helping you with your lines. That’s gotta mean she’s at least a little less homicidal now.”

Enid gave a half-hearted shrug, the corners of her mouth twitching downward. “I don’t know. I think the whole thing’s just for Parker’s play. She’s being… professional about it. During practice, yeah—she’s focused. Actually gives feedback. But outside of that?” She let out a dry, humorless laugh. “She either ignores me completely or looks at me like she’s calculating the most efficient way to bury my body under her rose bushes.”

Ajax winced dramatically and let his upper body droop over the cart like a wet towel, his arms dangling limply. “So… the usual, then.”

“Basically,” Enid sighed, rubbing her temple. “The exact opposite of progress.”

The line inched forward, the cart’s wheels giving a soft squeak under Ajax’s casual weight as he nudged it along with one foot. Enid tapped her fingers against the hem of her hoodie, the fabric muffling the steady rhythm of her nerves. Her gaze drifted toward the sliding doors, where the fading light of early evening spilled in through the glass in long, orange streaks, stretching like reaching fingers across the linoleum floor.

“I just wish I knew if it’s getting better,” she murmured, almost to herself, “or if she’s just… tolerating me.”

Ajax turned his head slightly, watching her with that easy, familiar empathy he always carried. The corner of his mouth lifted in a small, reassuring smile. “Well, if she really hated you, she would’ve killed you like a character in one of her murder mystery stories by now.”

Enid let out a soft snort, her lips twitching upward in reluctant amusement. “That’s comforting.”

They moved forward again as the couple ahead of them finished bagging their groceries. Ajax straightened and reached for the scanner. “Hey, if she lets you in her house and not die, then maybe you’re the final girl, not the body in the first chapter.”

That earned him a full laugh from Enid, quiet but genuine. “Here’s hoping.”

They made quick work of the checkout, sliding items into crinkling plastic bags and stacking them carefully in the cart. As they passed through the automatic doors, they were met with a gust of warm spring air. The scent of asphalt, faintly baked from earlier sun, mingled with the earthy promise of cooler evening breezes.

Outside, the sky was beginning to shift into the colors of a watercolor painting—lavender bleeding into rose gold, clouds tinged with apricot at the edges. The oppressive heat of the afternoon had mellowed into something softer, almost comforting, and the hush of twilight began to settle over the parking lot.

Enid adjusted her grip on her crutch, steadying herself before she began the short walk toward the Bronco parked a few rows down. The late spring breeze tugged gently at her hair, carrying the scent of asphalt, budding trees, and distant barbecues from a nearby neighborhood. She walked beside Ajax, the cart rattling softly over the gravel, its wheels clacking against uneven patches in the pavement.

Without needing to say a word, Ajax fell into step beside her, his hand instinctively finding the small of her back. He subtly guided her, always placing himself closer to the open lane where cars passed, shielding her out of habit.

As they neared the Bronco, Ajax pulled out his phone to check his notifications. A soft ding sounded just as he reached the home screen, and his eyes landed on a new message from his mom. His brows shot up.

“Wait. Wait, what ?” he blurted, voice climbing. “Enid! You got me bathroom duty?!"

Enid didn’t miss a beat. She twisted around just enough to flash him a devilish grin, mischief practically radiating off her. “You said your mom missed me!” she laughed, already picking up speed—at least as much as her crutch would allow. The rubber foot thudded rhythmically against the asphalt as she hurried toward the passenger side.

Ajax gaped at his phone, then looked up with theatrical betrayal. “That’s not what I meant! You absolute gremlin—you’re not getting away with this!”

He lunged after her with the cart, which clattered and squealed in protest at the sudden acceleration. The bulk pack of toilet paper wedged beneath it wobbled dangerously with every bump.

Enid shrieked with laughter and yanked open the passenger door, flinging herself into the seat as fast as she could. Her crutch clattered onto the floor of the Bronco, and she slammed the door just as Ajax skidded to a stop beside her.

Still giggling, she pointed a triumphant finger at him through the open window. “Maybe next time you won’t skip my songs.”

“You skipped Fleetwood Mac! ” he shouted in defense.

Enid stuck out her tongue. “Worth it.”

Ajax circled around the Bronco, muttering curses under his breath that were all bark and no bite. He threw open the back hatch and started loading the bags, shaking his head as he worked. “Oh, I’m making you scrub the tub with me now. Full punishment.”

Enid cackled even harder. “Not if I get to your mom’s good side first! ”

With the groceries secured and both doors slamming shut, Ajax started the engine. The old Bronco rumbled to life, backing out of the spot with a smooth turn. Laughter still lingered in the air between them, blending with the low hum of the road beneath their wheels—and Enid’s smug, mischievous smirk never once left her face.

By the time the third week rolled around, Enid Sinclair was running on fumes, caffeine, and the frayed ends of sheer willpower. The days blurred together like chalk smeared across a blackboard—white streaks of tasks and obligations dragging into one another until everything bled into gray. She wasn’t a stranger to pressure—basketball season had its own brutal rhythm—but this? This was something else entirely. This was endurance training for the soul.

Her weekdays were carved into rigid, exhausting blocks—each minute accounted for, each transition a sprint rather than a pause. Right after classes ended, she clocked in for custodial work: sweeping endless hallways, wiping fingerprinted windows, vacuuming classrooms left in chaos by their occupants. Her uniform was sweat and lemon-scented cleaner. She went to bed smelling like exhaustion and woke up feeling like she’d never really slept.

And when she wasn’t pushing a mop, she was pushing herself.

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays bled into long, focused evenings at the Addams estate. In the quiet, cavernous second drawing room, she rehearsed lines with Wednesday Addams—who, somehow, had transformed script practice into a trial by fire. Enid would drag herself in with hair barely restrained in a ponytail, shadows under her eyes, clutching her annotated script like it was her last tether to reality. But she showed up. Every single time.

Tuesdays and Thursdays were worse. Cruel, even. Custodial duties first, then a rushed ride—usually with Ajax or Yoko—to the community center for group rehearsals with Mrs. Cabot and the rest of the theatre troupe. Mrs. Cabot didn’t believe in mercy. Blocking, delivery, pacing, posture—every note came like a verbal whip. After rehearsal, it was straight home to trade her sneakers for boots and help her dad in the barn with the evening milking. She didn’t complain. She couldn’t afford to. But every time she dragged herself into her room, fingers aching from scrubbing buckets and brain fogged with dialogue, she barely had the strength to untie her laces before collapsing fully clothed onto the bed. Studying happened in desperate gasps—five minutes at a time, wedged between chores and the relentless pull of sleep.

Weekends didn’t bring rest. Not really.

Saturday mornings meant tutoring at Broadwater Middle School, trying to wrangle focus from kids who were either too hyper or completely disengaged. Some were sweet. Most were not. By Sunday, she was stumbling her way through the Farmer’s Market, plastering on a smile while tallying up milk and cheese sales, resisting the very real urge to pass out behind the cash register. Her dad always gave her a grateful pat on the shoulder, but even that started to feel heavier than she could carry.

The second she got home, her body would finally cave, pulling her under into the kind of sleep that made hours vanish in an instant.

Her friends noticed. Of course they did.

Yoko hovered like a vampire-shaped guardian angel—silent, stylish, and always within reach. Ajax and Kent took it upon themselves to walk Enid to class, flanking her like personal bodyguards through the congested hallways. They positioned themselves strategically, making sure no overzealous student or rogue backpack bumped her injured shoulder or clipped her recovering ankle. Divina, ever the planner, had extra notes printed and highlighted before Enid even thought to ask.

During their little study huddles, someone was always nudging a water bottle into her hands or handing over a granola bar with a knowing glance, gently steering her away from a diet of vending machine chips and soda. And whenever they dropped her off at the Addams estate, that look followed her. Concerned. Protective. Suspicious.

“You’re sure she’s not casting a spell on you or something?” Kent asked one afternoon, gripping the steering wheel like he expected the Addams manor to sprout fangs and devour them whole.

“She’s not, like, turning you into a Parker replacement, right?” Yoko added, her voice light but her eyes sharp behind her sunglasses. "All black is just sad on you"

Enid always laughed. “I’m fine. Really.”

And she meant it.

Sort of.

Because underneath the sleep-deprivation and the sore muscles, beneath the chaos of overlapping responsibilities and the lingering scent of lemon cleaner embedded in her clothes, something else stirred. Something she didn’t have a name for.

It was the way Wednesday watched her during rehearsals—sharp-eyed, assessing, like she was cataloguing her every word and gesture. It was the precision of her critiques, biting but focused, purposeful. It was the way her deadpan insults sometimes brushed against something warmer. Not kindness, exactly. But interest.

That strange undercurrent kept Enid going. It grounded her when everything else felt like it might collapse. It made her show up, even when she was running on empty. It made her try harder, push farther.

And then, by the end of the week, the unthinkable happened.

The ankle brace came off.

Enid stood in the hallway of the clinic, holding the thing like it was a relic of war—a chunk of molded plastic that had clung to her leg like a curse. She no longer limped as much, the pain now more of a shadow than a scream. She still favored the leg out of muscle memory, but that didn’t matter. It was off. She was free.

Later that afternoon, with the barn roof outlined against the setting sun, Enid stood in her room and stared at the brace and crutch lying on the floor like defeated enemies. Without a second thought, she opened her window, inhaled the spring breeze—and yeeted them both into the backyard with reckless delight.

They landed with a clatter somewhere near the garden hose.

“ENID DIANA SINCLAIR!” her father’s voice bellowed from downstairs, followed by the thud of boots hitting the porch and the clang of metal being retrieved. “What in God’s name was that?!”

Enid doubled over with laughter, breathless and wheezing by the time he marched past the back door door, scowling and holding the brace like a piece of cursed treasure.

“Don’t act like that wasn’t satisfying!” she called after him, wiping a tear from her cheek.

“Do not throw expensive medical equipment out the window!!” came his sharp retort, muffled by distance but no less serious.

She kept laughing anyway. Her sides ached, her eyes burned from fatigue, and her backpack still contained three unfinished essays—but for the first time in weeks, Enid felt something different.

She felt light.

Enid had been itching to get back behind the wheel ever since the brace came off. There was something liberating about it—the simplicity of sliding into the driver’s seat, turning the key, and feeling the engine purr to life. It felt like she was reclaiming a piece of herself, some long-lost sliver of autonomy she hadn’t realized she’d missed so badly.

Her car, a battered 2016 Honda Civic, wasn’t much to look at. The rear bumper was still dented from a fender bender two years ago, and no matter how many air fresheners or car washes she threw at it, there was always a fine layer of dust clinging to the dashboard. But it ran reliably, and more importantly, it had Bluetooth. She'd even picked up a cheap phone holder from the gas station to keep Google Maps from sliding off the dash—a small but mighty victory in adulthood.

Now she sat idling at the base of the Addams estate’s sweeping driveway, headlights off, engine humming low. It had been nearly twenty minutes since rehearsal ended, but she hadn’t quite found the will to drive off yet. Her seat was reclined just enough to be comfortable, and her thumbs flew across her phone screen, catching up on messages she’d ignored during her marathon of a day.

Yoko had sent a voice note—something about her cousin accidentally setting off the fire alarm at fencing practice. Ajax had followed up with a blurry photo of what appeared to be a possum peeking out from his laundry basket. Enid snorted, sending back a flurry of laughing emojis before typing her usual post-rehearsal check-in:

Heading home from Addams Manor. Still alive. Not cursed. Probably.

She had just hit send when her gaze drifted upward—half from habit, half from distraction—and froze.

A figure moved across the far edge of the estate grounds, slipping past the moonlit lawn and toward the woods. The shape was unmistakable: slim, sharp-shouldered, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder, stride brisk and unhurried.

Wednesday.

Enid blinked, checked the time on her phone—9:47 PM—then looked back out the windshield. A beat of hesitation pulsed through her.

She could go home. Take a hot shower. Pretend to study for chemistry and call it a night.

But something tugged at her. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was exhaustion’s reckless cousin, impulse. Or maybe it was just Wednesday —impossible, magnetic, and always halfway out of reach.

Screw it , Enid thought. I can copy Kent’s notes tomorrow.

Without giving herself time to reconsider, she pushed the driver’s side door open and stepped onto the gravel. The soft crunch beneath her shoes sounded too loud in the quiet. She raised her phone like a flashlight, the cold glow casting long shadows as she crept around the side of the house.

The grass was slick with spring dew, soaking through Enid’s sneakers as she jogged across the lawn, each step muffled against the soft earth. The trail Wednesday had taken wasn’t lit, but faint imprints in the grass and the occasional scuffed footprint gave her a rough sense of direction. Her phone’s flashlight cast a narrow, wavering beam, barely cutting through the tangle of trees ahead. The light flickered against budding leaves and low-hanging branches, illuminating little more than shifting shadows. Enid pressed forward, heart thudding as she strained to hear something—anything—beyond her own breath. A twig snapped somewhere ahead. Leaves rustled. The soft squelch of damp soil underfoot. She followed the sounds, her steps cautious now, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath.

But the forest swallowed sound whole. All she could hear was her own breathing and the occasional crunch beneath her feet.

She was just about to give up—already composing a sarcastic whatever in her head, ready to turn back and retreat to her car—when—

“ Why are you following me? ”

The voice came from behind her.

Enid screamed.

A sharp gasp escaped Enid as her hand flew to her chest, stumbling backward until her spine slammed against the rough bark of a nearby tree. Her heart pounded like a drumbeat in her ears. She blinked through the adrenaline, glaring at Wednesday with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “God, you’re just like your mom—sneaking up on people like that.”

Wednesday narrowed her dark eyes, clearly unimpressed by the comparison. Her lips twisted into a faint grimace before she exhaled slowly, the sigh long and pointed. Without dignifying the remark with a response, she brushed past Enid, her boots crunching steadily along the leaf-strewn path.

“Go home,” she said, voice flat. “If you stay out any later, you’ll be dead by the end of the week with sleep deprivation.”

Enid jogged a few steps to catch up, breath catching slightly as she forced her ankle to keep pace despite the lingering ache. “Since the play’s less than a couple weeks away, I’ll survive. Probably. With caffeine and blind optimism,” she said, trying to inject some confidence into her tone.

Wednesday glanced over her shoulder, her expression unreadable, then turned away again without comment.

Enid fell into step beside her, hesitating before asking, “Do you normally just walk into the woods alone at night?”

Wednesday’s reply was dry, delivered without inflection: “Maybe.”

Enid tilted her head. “Where exactly are you going?”

Without so much as a glance back, Wednesday responded, “Come and see.”

That was all the invitation Enid needed. She kept pace with her, following the narrow path as it curved deeper into the woods. The evening air grew cooler with each step, thick with the scent of damp earth, pine needles, and the ghost of winter fading from the soil. Around them, crickets chirped in rhythmic pulses while distant birds called from shadowed branches overhead.

Enid filled the silence the way she always did—with stories and chatter that poured out in an uneven stream. She talked about the new shows she’d been binge-watching—shows Wednesday dismissed with a single raised brow or unimpressed glance. She offered gossip overheard at lunch, which Wednesday occasionally corrected with exacting details and sharp retorts. She rattled off fun facts about marsupials and medieval torture devices and obscure tax codes, only to be fact-checked or scoffed at without missing a beat.

They emerged into a wide clearing, the tree line falling away behind them as thick spring grass brushed against their ankles. The clearing was quiet, wrapped in the hush of nightfall, and the air felt cooler in the open space. Enid paused, catching her breath as her gaze lifted to the sky above. The stars had begun to peek through the fading light, twinkling faintly in scattered constellations that sprawled overhead like distant freckles.

Beside her, Wednesday checked her watch with a practiced flick of the wrist, then reached into her worn leather satchel. From within, she retrieved a compact field hygrometer—sleek, metallic, and clearly well-used.

Enid tilted her head, curiosity piqued. “What’s that do?”

Wednesday didn’t look up as she answered, her voice crisp and clinical. “It measures humidity.”

She unfolded the little device, holding it out and watching the digital readout flicker before jotting notes in a small leather-bound notebook. holding it out at arm’s length as the digital readout blinked to life. Numbers scrolled across the small screen, and she studied them silently before pulling a small, leather-bound notebook from the satchel and scribbling quick notes in tidy, slanted handwriting.

Enid remained quiet, watching the scene unfold like she was afraid to break something delicate. There was an odd tranquility in watching Wednesday work—measured, focused, like the entire world had narrowed to the reading on that screen and the words etched into her journal. 

A soft breath escaped her lips, barely louder than a whisper. “Oh.”

She pointed gently toward a low patch of grass where a soft shimmer of light had begun to rise. Tiny pinpricks blinked in and out of view, floating lazily above the earth like sparks caught in a slow breeze—fireflies, dozens of them, dancing at ankle height in the dimness.

Wednesday’s eyes followed her gesture. She said nothing at first, only watching. Then, with a low hum of thought, she began counting them under her breath. Her pen scratched again across the page, as if each flicker held data worth cataloging.

“That’s really pretty,” Enid whispered, her voice quiet enough to be swallowed by the clearing. “Makes me miss camping with my brothers.”

Wednesday’s expression shifted—subtly, briefly. A shadow crossed her eyes, something like memory flickering just behind the usual stoicism. She thought vaguely of Enid’s brothers—four of them, if she recalled correctly. Older. Loud. Constant motion and noise. She’d encountered them only in passing, but they had always given her a wide berth. Whether out of respect for Pugsley or basic survival instinct, they’d never dared test her patience.

Then she closed her notebook with a soft snap and looked up at the fireflies again, her voice low and detached. “They’re mating.”

Enid blinked. “Wow. Way to ruin the magic.”

Wednesday shrugged, entirely unbothered. “It’s not magic. It’s biology.”

Wednesday’s eyes remained fixed on the growing number of fireflies flickering all around them. The clearing had transformed into a sea of delicate, pulsing lights, each tiny glow bobbing gently in the cool night air. Beside her, Enid had silently pulled out her phone, cradling it carefully in both hands as she recorded the scene. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, steadying the device against the subtle sway of the grass beneath their feet.

In contrast, Wednesday slipped her own phone from the pocket of her dark dress—a rare moment of indulgence, given she typically reserved it for messaging Parker, her parents, or emergencies. She tapped into the weather app, confirming what she already suspected: the temperature was ideal, and the humidity hovered in the perfect range. Everything was aligning.

She tucked the phone away and murmured, “You’re in luck, Sinclair.”

Enid hummed in response, eyes still fixed on the screen as she tried to capture the drifting glow. The fireflies were multiplying quickly now, like golden dust rising from the earth itself.

Wednesday began gathering her equipment with calm efficiency, sliding the hygrometer and her notebook back into her leather satchel. “You’re about to witness a very early synchronized firefly display,” she said, her voice low and matter-of-fact.

Enid turned to her, brows lifting. “Wait—what?”

Rather than explain further, Wednesday simply nodded toward the open field beyond them.

Enid looked, just in time to see the subtle shift. The chaotic twinkle of individual flashes began to settle into a rhythm—slow, hypnotic, like waves rippling through the air. Pockets of fireflies pulsed in unison, then cascaded their light down the length of the clearing in rolling, golden bursts. It was as if the forest had exhaled, releasing magic that danced in the hush of spring.

Even the fireflies tucked into the edges of the trees responded, blinking in time with those floating above the grass. It wasn’t just beautiful—it was eerie in its perfection, like the woodland itself was breathing light.

Enid’s mouth parted slightly, and a soft “Whoa” slipped out before she could catch it. She adjusted her grip on the phone, filming as steadily as possible, eyes wide with wonder.

Wednesday watched the lights for a moment.

Then looked at Enid.

The awe on her face was unmistakable—etched in the widening of her eyes, the way her lips curved into an unconscious smile. The soft flashes lit her skin in moving patterns, casting glows and shadows across her cheeks and lashes.

Beneath that quiet moment, however, a storm churned inside Wednesday’s mind.

She remembered the fury that had once consumed her—the cold, simmering resentment she had nursed for weeks. It had bloomed the night Eugene was hurt, a rage so sharp it bordered on obsession. She had mapped out dozens of methods for retaliation, some poetic, others merciless. Schemes that would’ve made her ancestors proud. She remembered sitting in her room, candlelight flickering against pages filled with inked calculations and vengeful formulas. And she remembered how swiftly that fire had been extinguished.

Her parents had intervened, their disappointment cloaked in carefully chosen words. “It’s been handled,” her mother had said. “Leave it.” Her father had been less subtle— “You will not risk wasting time by being incarcerated.” They were united in their refusal to let her act.

Wednesday had complied outwardly, her face schooled in indifference, her posture stiff with barely suppressed fury. But inside, the desire for vengeance had lingered like smoke after a fire, waiting for a spark.

And now—now she stood in a clearing, surrounded by pulsing fireflies, and the girl she had once sworn to ruin stood beside her, bathed in golden light, recording the scene with gentle wonder in her eyes.

Wednesday’s gaze drifted to her again.

Enid had shown no signs of guilt at first when Eugene was hurt. But she had taken on punishment without protest—cleaning the school alone, enduring hours of rehearsals she wasn’t prepared for, shouldering laughter and whispers from their classmates without snapping back. She had quietly, relentlessly tried to improve—meeting with Parker to better understand her role, going over lines until her voice cracked, helping tutor middle schoolers even when they tested her patience.

And Wednesday remembered the bus ride home from Broadwater, days after the incident. They’d sat side by side, an awkward silence stretching between them as the hum of the road filled the space. Enid had stared down at her shoes for most of it before finally muttering, “I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry. About Eugene. It was—It was an accident.”

Wednesday had noticed. Against her better judgment, she had noticed everything.

She hated it.

Hated how her carefully laid plans had faded. Hated that the girl who had once been the target of her most detailed revenge fantasies now stood beside her in the woods, watching fireflies with wide, shining eyes.

She had deleted her blueprints. Burned her notes. Buried the grudge.

And in its place, she found herself here—witnessing something rare and unexpectedly beautiful, not just in the synchronized firefly display, but in the moment itself. And in the unlikely company of Enid Sinclair.

Wednesday wove purposefully through the throng of students milling about the hallway, some instinctively parting to let her pass, their eyes flickering with that wary respect—or perhaps fear—that had clung to her like a shadow since day one. The sharp click of her shoes against the linoleum echoed faintly as she neared Enid’s locker.

There, Enid stood with Kent, who was holding a crumpled piece of paper. Enid had her locker door propped open, using its flat interior surface as a makeshift desk, her pencil scribbling quickly as she copied the scribbled notes Kent had given her. As Wednesday approached, Kent’s hand dropped hastily to his side, the paper half-hidden, while Enid’s fingers scrambled to shield the answers she’d been transcribing.

Nearby, Ajax and Yoko fell silent mid-conversation, their attention snapping to Wednesday’s sudden arrival. Enid turned at the shift in atmosphere, brow furrowing in confusion—then jumped when she found Wednesday standing just inches away.

She swallowed hard but managed a tentative, “Good morning.”

Wednesday’s response was clipped and cold. “Dreadful morning.”

The words hung in the air, floating in the silence, making Enid shift uncomfortably beneath the weight of her gaze. Wednesday’s dark eyes narrowed as she spoke again, voice smooth but edged. “Would you like to accompany me after your mandatory custodial duties?”

Enid blinked, caught off guard. “What about practicing our lines?”

Wednesday gave a dismissive shrug, her tone cutting. “Missing one day won’t erase your memory—unless your retention is that unreliable.”

But instead of rising to the bait, Enid offered a crooked smile and shook her head with a breathy laugh. “Where are we going?” She tucked pink strands of hair behind her ear.

Wednesday met her gaze squarely. “To visit Eugene.”

The words landed like a stone. Enid’s breath caught in her throat, and she froze, her fingers going still against the locker door as the hallway noise seemed to fade around her.

Seeing the hesitation ripple across Enid’s face, Wednesday pressed on, her voice low but insistent. “I received a message from his mothers. He’s awake from the coma.”

“No,” Enid whispered firmly, the single word cutting through the noise of the hallway. Kent gave her a wary side-eye.

Wednesday blinked, taken aback. Her brows drew together in a knitted frown, twisting into an expression so bewildered it seemed almost foreign. She stared at Enid, disbelief etched deep into her features.

“Lilith be damned,” she demanded, voice sharp and incredulous, “why would you not go?”

Enid’s hands twitched nervously, her fingers running through the strands of her dyed blonde hair as if seeking grounding. Her voice wavered, faltering as she stammered, “I... I can’t. I won’t visit Eugene.”

Wednesday’s jaw clenched until her teeth ground together, a breath drawn deep and slow steadying her into a mask of cold resolve. “Very well then.”

Without another word, she pivoted sharply and strode away, her footsteps crisp and unyielding as they echoed down the hallway. Enid’s voice rose in a futile call after her, but Wednesday didn’t so much as glance back.

The truth was this: Wednesday had it all wrong. Enid Sinclair was not the person she’d come to known. A sharp pang throbbed momentarily in Wednesday’s chest, but she shoved it aside, letting it smolder beneath the surface as her fury flared hotter.

If her sour mood sent students and teachers alike skirting past her that day, she didn’t care. Wednesday had classes to endure—and a storm raging within to weather.

Enid arrived at the Addams estate with aching feet and sore arms, her muscles protesting in places she hadn’t realized could feel pain from pushing a mop bucket for two relentless hours after school. Her boots crunched against the gravel driveway as the sky overhead shifted from amber to a deep violet, the last golden rays catching the gargoyle-adorned roof of the manor. She adjusted the strap of her tote bag on her shoulder, brushing a few wind-tossed strands of hair behind her ear before climbing the cold stone steps leading to the front door.

From inside the manor came the sharp, fierce cry of a cello—notes whipped out in rapid, stinging strokes, each one striking like a lash. The rhythm was relentless, fierce, barely allowing the strings a moment’s rest. It wasn’t music in the usual sense; it was fury made audible—a conversation fought with sound, every bow stroke a clenched jaw, a scream swallowed just in time. Enid paused at the door, caught off guard by the sheer intensity. She hadn’t heard Wednesday play like this before. It was all bite and blaze, like a firestorm contained within the concert hall walls.

Taking a steadying breath, she reached out and pressed the doorbell.

The cello ceased immediately—cutting off abruptly, deliberately. The final note hung suspended in the air like a breath held too long, then slowly faded into silence. Then came footsteps—measured, steady, neither hurried nor hesitant—like the ticking of a grandfather clock counting down moments until judgment.

The door creaked open just an inch.

Wednesday appeared in the threshold. Her hair, slightly tousled from hours of playing, framed her face in loose, dark waves. A single strand had fallen across one eye, but she made no move to brush it away. Her expression, typically as still and composed as a portrait, flickered for the briefest moment—an almost imperceptible tremor of disbelief.

And then, without another word, she closed the door—right in Enid’s face.

Enid stood frozen for a moment, her eyes fixed on the dark-stained wood before her. Her brows knitted together in frustration. She drew in a slow breath through her nose and exhaled steadily through her mouth—a calming rhythm she’d learned from Yoko during finals week.

She knocked once, then again—this time louder, more urgent.

“Wednesday—please.”

No response.

“I just want to talk,” she added, a pleading edge creeping into her voice. “Come on, I—can you open the door?”

Still nothing.

Growing desperate, she jabbed the doorbell twice, pressing hard enough for the button to yield beneath her thumb. Her knuckles rapped sharply against the wood once more. “Wednesday, don’t do this.”

A few tense seconds stretched out. Then suddenly, the door swung open with a violent jerk, the hinges shrieking in protest. Wednesday stood framed in the doorway, her silhouette taut and unyielding like a drawn blade. Her jaw was clenched tight, and her eyes flared with a fierce intensity, like oil catching fire.

“What do you want, Sinclair?” she spat, her voice clipped and cold—razor sharp.

Enid flinched at the raw fury in Wednesday’s tone. She took a cautious step back but refused to retreat. “You’re in a bad mood.”

Wednesday let out a humorless laugh—short, scathing, and cutting through the stillness. “Incredible. And here I thought you lacked observational skills.”

"Sorry," Enid’s shoulders dropped. “I was hoping we could talk. About earlier. I—”

“No.” Wednesday’s voice snapped like a whip. Her hand shot up, slicing through the air between them as if severing the conversation itself. “You made your choice. I don’t have the energy to entertain whatever version of remorse this is. I have no interest in your cowardice masquerading as regret.”

“That’s not—”

“I don’t care.” Her voice dropped to a low, deadly tone. “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear you. I don’t want to think about you.”

Without another word, she spun on her heel and stalked away.

“Wednesday, please—!”

SLAM.

The door crashed shut so violently the brass knocker rattled against the wood.

Enid stood frozen, blinking rapidly as unshed tears pricked at her eyes. Her mouth hung open for a brief moment, speechless.

“…fuck.” Her voice cracked, barely a whisper.

Then, louder—sharp and raw—“ FUCK — shit! ” Her palms rose to her forehead, dragging down in frustrated helplessness. She slapped one hand against the door—lightly but firmly—then again, softer this time. Not enough to leave a mark. Not enough to change anything.

She whirled around, ready to storm down the steps, vision blurred by heat and humiliation—

And nearly collided with someone.

“Ah—pardon me, young lady,” said Gomez Addams, ascending the stairs with the effortless grace of someone accustomed to walking into unexpected chaos on a Tuesday.

“Sorry! I—I didn’t mean—” Enid jolted back instinctively.

Before Gomez could reply, offering only a gentle smile, Enid was already retreating down the steps, mumbling hurried apologies, cheeks burning bright. “I should—I should go. Sorry for cursing and, uh—yelling.”

He chuckled softly, watching her retreat with a mix of amusement and sympathy.

By the time Enid reached her car, her ears were ringing, shame curling tight in her gut. She opened the door, collapsed into the driver’s seat, and rested her forehead against the steering wheel. The sting in her chest didn’t lessen, not even as she pulled out of the driveway, headlights slicing through the fading dusk.

Wednesday’s words echoed relentlessly in her mind—an unyielding verdict with no chance for appeal.

Enid stormed into her bedroom, the slam of the door rattling the picture frames hanging crookedly on the walls. Her chest heaved with rapid, uneven breaths, and her hands trembled as she stood frozen in the center of the room—like a bottle teetering on the edge, moments away from shattering under the pressure.

The roar of her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out everything else—the creak of the floorboards beneath her boots, the distant murmur of voices from the TV in the living room downstairs, even the soft whistle of the wind brushing past her window. She took a hesitant step toward her desk, where a dusty baseball bat leaned against its side. With trembling fingers, she gripped it with both hands and raised it high above her head. Her knuckles blanched as she tightened her hold, the weight of the bat quivering in her grasp.

A choked sound escaped her—a raw, strangled mix of snarl and sob—but the bat never came down. Instead, it slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a hollow clatter. The noise echoed briefly, like a stone dropped into a deep well, then was swallowed by the suffocating silence that followed.

Clutching fistfuls of her hair, Enid yanked hard, the sharp sting biting into her scalp just enough to quell the scream clawing its way up her throat. Her knees wobbled, and she folded forward, resting her elbows on her thighs and burying her face deep in her palms.

She knew. She knew she had fucked up.

She should have expected this. From the moment she lied and said she didn’t want to visit Eugene, she’d felt the fuse she was lighting. But when the news came—that Eugene was awake, alive, talking—the weight in her chest grew crushing. Her thoughts scattered. She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t move.

Enid scanned the chaos of her room and decided she needed to do something—anything—to break the spiral of her thoughts. Without hesitation, she threw herself into motion. She yanked the sheets off her bed, bundling them roughly before tossing them into the overflowing laundry basket. Then, she bent to gather the scattered clothes littering the floor, her fingers fumbling to pick up stray socks and crumpled shirts. Wrappers, forgotten notebooks, and stray papers were swept from her cluttered desk in a steady rhythm. She worked in silence, jaw clenched tight, shoulders stiff, pouring every ounce of restless energy into cleaning, organizing, and sorting.

She pushed her bed across the room, angling it differently against the far corner wall. Then she rolled her desk toward the window, where the soft glow of late evening light filtered through dusty glass. Outside, crickets had begun their nightly chorus, a gentle, persistent hum in the background. Still, Enid didn’t pause.

What began as reorganizing her closet quickly spilled into sorting out the drawers, then dusting every surface in the room with methodical care. Her hand froze as it reached the shelf above her headboard. Nestled between an old ceramic wolf figurine and a jar of dried-out glowsticks sat a thin navy blue yearbook—middle school.

She hesitated, fingers trembling slightly before she pulled it down. A small cloud of dust puffed into the air as she opened it.

Cross-legged on the now-bare mattress, Enid flipped through the pages, eyes skimming names and faces. Familiar handwriting circled inside jokes and year-end wishes, and her lips twitched into a small smile when she found Ajax’s signature. Beneath his photo, his “future ambition” was proudly scrawled: “To do a handstand while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance (and not fall this time).” She snorted softly, the memory lightening her chest for a moment.

Page after page, faces blurred past. Then she stopped cold at one photo—Wednesday Addams.

Her expression was as steely then as it was now. No smile. Hair braided neatly. Eyes sharp, cool, and disinterested. A stark contrast to the awkward, grinning kids surrounding her.

Enid’s gaze dropped to the caption beneath the photo.

Ambition: “To witness a miracle.”

She stared at the words, her fingers tracing the letters slowly, reverently. Her throat tightened, a sudden lump rising.

Enid set the yearbook down gently on the bare mattress, careful not to disturb the fragile calm it had momentarily stirred. Folding her arms tightly around herself, she leaned back against the cool headboard, the smooth wood grounding her amidst the swirl of emotions. The room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and stirred-up dust—a sharp reminder of the work she’d just done, yet also of the lingering mess she couldn’t quite tidy away. 

She stared up at the ceiling, her mind spinning, searching for an answer. But deep down, she knew—

She didn’t know how to fix this.

Enid found herself once again seated across from the same kid in the Broadwater Middle School library—the very boy she had first tutored at the start of her mandated community service. Raphael, no more than ten or eleven years old, slouched in his chair, knees bouncing nervously, fingers fidgeting endlessly with the bright orange rubber basketball cradled in his hands. Between them on the table lay an open geometry textbook, the page crowded with labeled diagrams of obtuse, acute, and right triangles.

Tapping her pencil lightly against the edge of the page, Enid tried again. She quickly sketched a neat triangle on a scrap of paper beside them.

“So, look,” she said patiently, voice soft but steady, “this one here? All the angles are different, and none of them are ninety degrees. What’s that called again?”

Raphael didn’t respond. His gaze remained fixed on the basketball, his thumb pressing into its rubber surface as if searching for the answers hidden inside. Enid sighed, leaning back in her chair, her eyes softening with a mix of exhaustion and fondness.

“Raph,” she said gently, leaning forward slightly, “you with me?”

He gave a barely perceptible nod but still didn’t meet her eyes.

Then an idea struck her.

Setting the pencil down across the spine of the textbook, Enid closed the book with a soft thud. Resting her elbows on her knees, she leaned in to catch his attention. “Did you know I play varsity basketball at Nevermore?”

That finally pulled his gaze up. Raphael blinked, surprised, and looked at her for the first time all morning.

Enid smiled warmly and tilted her head toward the door. “Wanna hit the court?”

Raphael’s expression blossomed into a wide grin. He nodded enthusiastically and was already hopping out of his seat before she could finish the sentence.

Outside, the old basketball court behind Broadwater was sun-warmed and cracked in places, the backboards weathered by too many winters and summers. A lone basketball rested near the edge of the paint, as if waiting patiently for someone to pick it up.

Enid guided him to a position just inside the arc and pointed to a spot parallel on the opposite side of the court. “Okay. Stand right there. Don’t move.”

She picked up the ball, passing it from one hand to the other with practiced ease before spinning it expertly on her finger. The sunlight caught the ball as it twirled, casting shifting shadows on the cracked asphalt. She stopped the spin and held the ball steady. “Right now, the distance between you, me, and the hoop forms a triangle. The hoop’s the top point. You and I are the base—same distance from the hoop. What kind of triangle is that?”

Raphael glanced down at her feet, then to the basket. His lips pursed in concentration. “Is it… isosceles?”

Enid’s face broke into a wide, encouraging smile. “Yes! That’s exactly right. Good job!”

She shuffled to the left a few paces, adjusting her position so the lines connecting the three points shifted. The base was now uneven. “Okay, new triangle. Look at me, then the hoop. Now look at you and the hoop. One side’s shorter, the other longer. What kind is it now?”

Raphael squinted, chewing his lip nervously, then scratched his cheek and flushed slightly. “Uh… scalene?”

Enid’s smile softened, her voice gentle. “Relax. Take your time.”

He fidgeted, one hand rubbing the back of his head as he thought it over. After a moment, he nodded slowly. “Yeah. Scalene.”

“Boom!” Enid threw the ball into the air with a practiced flick, catching it on the back of her hand before letting it roll smoothly across her shoulders and into her other palm. She grinned wide, bouncing slightly on her heels. “You’re crushing this!”

She took another position, this time forming a perfect right angle between the hoop, herself, and Raphael. “Alright, final round. What kind of triangle are we now?”

Raphael studied the court carefully, took a few slow steps forward, then broke into a full grin. “Right triangle!”

Enid whooped and tossed the ball toward him. He caught it with a delighted giggle, and she pointed at him triumphantly. “I knew you had it in you. You just needed the right motivation. Now—lesson’s done. Let’s play.”

They took off down the court, Raphael dribbling with a joy Enid hadn’t seen in weeks, his movements clumsy but eager. Her own steps felt lighter, her limbs no longer dragging with the weight of guilt or exhaustion—just motion, simple and freeing. The sun hung high above them, warm but not oppressive, casting soft shadows that danced across the cracked asphalt. The heat barely registered, dulled by the wind that rustled through the chain-link fence and the breathless laughter echoing between them.

Enid darted forward, stealing the ball with an exaggerated spin, and Raphael shouted in mock protest, already chasing her down the court. She grinned over her shoulder, heart pumping.

Unseen from the library window, Wednesday stood, arms crossed, behind the tall panes of glass. She had been monitoring her underclassman tutee, who was supposed to be drafting an essay, but her focus had gradually drifted to the scene outside. Enid moved across the cracked pavement of the old basketball court, animated and radiant in the golden afternoon light. Wednesday had watched the entire interaction unfold—the abandoned textbook, the way Enid turned a lecture into movement, into something alive. She saw the precise moment Raphael’s face lit up with understanding, joy written plainly in the boy’s smile.

Wednesday didn’t smile—she almost never did. But there was a faint shift in her expression, so subtle it was barely noticeable. Her posture eased, the tension in her shoulders loosening, and the slight crease between her brows gently relaxed, as if something within her had quietly settled.

Behind her, a small voice cleared their throat.

“I’m done,” said the girl she was tutoring, clutching her paper with both hands and holding it out nervously.

Wednesday blinked, her gaze snapping away from the window. She turned, her attention shifting fully to the present.

“And with three minutes to spare,” she said, accepting the paper and sitting down without another glance outside. “Adequate improvement. You’ve avoided most of your usual grammatical crimes.”

The girl gave a tentative smile before returning to her textbook.

But Wednesday’s mind lingered.

The image of Enid—laughing, hair haloed by sunset, sneakers scuffing lightly across sun-warmed concrete—had already etched itself into her memory with the clarity of a snapshot she hadn’t meant to take.

The week carried on in a rhythm that felt more mechanical than natural. Each day bled into the next—school, custodial work, lines. Enid moved through it like a wind-up toy, all momentum and no rest. At home, she practiced in the corners of her room, pacing the narrow stretch between her bed and desk with script in hand, murmuring lines under her breath. Her free hand gestured wildly through the air as she tried to summon something resembling genuine emotion. Her mirror served as co-star, toughest critic, and reluctant confidant. Sometimes she winced at her own reflection. Other times she repeated the same sentence until the words unraveled, became meaningless syllables slipping past her lips.

At theater practice, things weren’t much better.

Onstage, she always started stiff—movements rigid, voice too small, eyes flickering to Parker for assurance. Her lines quivered with nerves at first, but she pressed on. Parker gave feedback with that ever-encouraging smile, her tone gentle but firm. Mrs. Cabot was more direct, though never harsh. She’d halt a scene mid-line, offering soft corrections like, “Try that again, but from your gut,” or “Remember, she’s not just angry. She’s disappointed. What does that look like?”

Enid tried. Really, she did. They repeated the same scene four times in a row, broke for water, and did it again. She was thankful her shoulder had mostly healed—only a ghost of soreness remained—because the minor character opposite her was required to shove her repeatedly during their confrontation scene. Blocking. Tension. Conflict. According to Mrs. Cabot, it added realism. According to Enid, it mostly added bruises.

By Thursday, Enid stood near the edge of the rehearsal space, sweat drying along the back of her neck and her arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her script was curled slightly from overuse, thumb brushing the creased lines as she read them again. She leaned against one of the wooden house columns that marked the border between the stage and the old auditorium floor, letting her gaze drift toward the center.

There, Wednesday stood in the spotlight—rehearsing with two of the senior theatre students.

She was magnetic.

Composed and razor-sharp, Wednesday moved with the kind of discipline Enid could never fake. Her voice projected effortlessly, every syllable deliberate. She didn’t just say her lines—she dissected them, delivered them like knives wrapped in silk. Her stage presence drew eyes without demanding them. Her posture held weight, her stillness louder than anyone else's movement.

Enid watched, momentarily stunned by how easily Wednesday dominated the space. Even when it wasn’t real—even when it was only a play—she was commanding.

Then Parker leaned toward Wednesday, voice low. Enid had just begun to turn away, ready to rejoin the sidelines, when she caught it: a flicker of tension. Whatever Parker said, it struck deep.

Wednesday’s entire body tensed.

Enid watched as Wednesday turned to Parker, a venomous fury twisting across her features. She couldn’t hear what she said, but she saw the sharpness in her mouth, the fire in her eyes. Parker didn’t flinch. She listened, calm, and replied in a soft, measured voice, hands still gesturing as though this were a normal conversation.

Enid’s eyes narrowed as she watched the reaction unfold in silence. Wednesday turned slowly to Parker, her face coiled in restrained fury. Enid couldn’t hear the words, but she recognized the set of her jaw, the simmering heat behind her stare. Parker remained composed—placid even—her hands moving with practiced calm as she replied.

Wednesday scoffed, a sharp, humorless sound that cut through the stage like a snapped violin string. But then, almost mechanically, she realigned herself—pulling her features into their usual mask of icy indifference. Her jaw flexed. Her eyes flicked back to the scene.

Enid looked away.

The tension lingered in the air between them even from across the room. The quiet distance that had crept in and no matter how brightly the stage lights burned, they couldn’t seem to clear it.

By Friday afternoon, the corridors of Nevermore had begun to settle into a quiet lull. The final bell had long since rung, and the familiar swell of voices had dwindled to scattered conversations and the occasional metallic clang of lockers being slammed shut. The golden haze of late daylight filtered through the tall, narrow windows, casting long shadows on the polished floors.

Enid stepped out of her last class with brisk, purposeful strides. Her backpack bounced lightly against one shoulder, and both hands were busy trying to jam a half-empty water bottle into the stretched mesh pocket along the side. The rim kept catching, slipping, jamming stubbornly against the netting. Her brow furrowed in mild irritation, teeth catching on her lower lip as she wrestled with the fabric.

Then she glanced up—and froze.

Wednesday rounded the far end of the hallway with that same uncanny grace: spine straight, arms folded behind her back, each step measured and deliberate. Her dress cut a sharp silhouette against the sunlit corridor, stark and severe in contrast to the fading warmth of the afternoon light.

Their eyes met.

A second passed.

Then another.

Something clenched in Enid’s chest. Her fingers curled around the strap of her backpack, knuckles tightening instinctively. She moved, stepping closer to the lockers, creating more space—enough to ensure they wouldn’t brush shoulders, not even accidentally. A peace offering made in posture, not words. Her heart was pounding—louder than it had during any of their rehearsals, louder than it had when she’d faced Wednesday’s fury at the manor door.

As they drew closer, Wednesday’s eyes didn’t flicker. Her face remained impassive, eyes fixed forward as though Enid were just another shadow cast by the setting sun. No pause. No hesitation. No sign of acknowledgment.

Enid’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her gaze dropping for a breath, then rising again. Hoping. Searching. Waiting for even the smallest flicker of recognition.

But none came.

They passed one another.

The hallway stretched behind them, long and quiet.

A few steps later, Enid slowed and turned slightly, her eyes following the retreating figure dressed in black. Wednesday’s posture didn’t change. Her pace remained steady, her steps echoing faintly down the corridor.

Enid exhaled and faced forward again, heart sinking with each step. It shouldn’t hurt—not this much—but it did.

Behind her, just as she disappeared from view around the next corner—

Wednesday looked back.

Her scowl was deep, drawn low between her brows, etched into her face like a permanent mark. But it wasn’t for Enid. Not exactly.

If anything, it was turned inward.

Because no matter how thoroughly she tried to bury it—beneath cold logic, pride, and deliberate silence—something inside her still wanted to speak. Still wanted to reach out.

And she hated it.

She hated that the part of her that longed to respond hadn’t been quieted.

Wednesday hated that, for once, she didn’t know how to say what needed to be said.

Enid sat cross-legged at the low chabudai-style table in Yoko’s room, her back straight but tense, shoulders pulled slightly inward. The faint scent of cherry blossom incense drifted lazily through the air, curling around the soft glow of a crimson paper lantern in the corner. The room was a quiet fusion of worlds—traditional shoji screens partitioned one wall, while the opposite side boasted a collage of band posters, tacked up in chaotic contrast. Mismatched pillows were scattered around the plush, shaggy rug that covered most of the floor, its edges frayed from years of restless pacing and late-night conversations.

Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap. Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap tap.

Bianca sat beside Divina, legs tucked neatly beneath her, the eraser end of her pen tapping rhythmically against her cheek as she scanned the lines of a printed page. Occasionally, she leaned over to point out an awkward transition or a flubbed comma. Divina hunched beside her, pencil poised above her notebook, chewing the inside of her cheek with intense focus. Her brows knit tighter with every mark Bianca made.

Across the room, Yoko sprawled on her bed in an oversized T-shirt and gym shorts, her limbs draped like discarded clothes. Her head hung upside down over the mattress edge, hair spilling onto the floor like an oil slick. She scrolled lazily through her phone, thumbs moving with slow, almost meditative detachment.

Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap. Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.

Enid sat rigid at the table, a pencil clutched in her hand, tapping an uneven rhythm against the edge of her open textbook. Her eyes skimmed the same paragraph for the fifth time, but the words didn’t stick—they slid off her brain like water off wax.

Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap. Ta—

“Enid, I swear to God— ” Divina groaned, letting her head drop dramatically onto her open notebook with a dull thud .

Bianca didn’t look up. Her voice was calm, but carried the edge of a practiced threat. “If you tap that pencil one more time, I’m going to snap it in half. I don’t care if it has a cute little corgi on it.”

Yoko finally lifted her gaze, her arms hanging limp over the bedframe, knuckles brushing the rug. “This about Gothzilla, Eenie?”

The pencil stilled in Enid’s hand. Her grip loosened. She didn’t look up.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’ll be quiet.”

Yoko exhaled and let her head flop back onto the mattress. “You know you don’t have to say anything,” she said quietly, “but you also don’t have to sit there and pretend your brain isn’t on fire.”

Bianca closed the social studies book Enid was reading with a sharp snap, the sound ringing louder than expected in the quiet room. She slid it slowly away from Enid’s reach, her blue eyes narrowing—but there was no cruelty in them, only concern.

“No,” Bianca said firmly. “You’ve been poking at that page like it owes you money. Talk. What happened?”

Enid groaned and let her pencil fall onto the table with a soft clatter. She propped one elbow against the wood, then buried her face in her palm, fingers threading through her tangled hair. At first, her voice was muffled—a raw mix of a scream and a groan of frustration. Then she finally spoke, her tone low but steady.

“I got into a fight with Wednesday.”

Yoko snapped upright immediately, legs crossing as she leaned forward, her full attention locked on Enid. “Oh, so we finna talk about this.”

"When did this happen?" Divina tilted her head, worry creasing her brow then turned to Yoko. "And why you didn't say anything?"

Yoko shrugged, hands raised with a face that said "Not my can of worms to open."

Bianca remained quiet, leaning back against the bed with her arms crossed, waiting.

Enid hesitated, lips twisting uneasily, eyes flickering between the three before dropping to the table. “She wanted me to come visit Eugene last week, I think? Said he woke up. I told her no.”

The room fell silent.

Then, unexpectedly, Yoko was the one to break the quiet.

“So that was what the fight was about.”

Divina’s voice was soft and cautious. “You didn’t explain?”

Enid shook her head slowly, her breath catching and trembling. “I just panicked. She walked off before I could say anything. I think—I think I broke it. Whatever we had.”

"Whatever you had?" Yoko repeated, her brow furrowing in confusion. "You mean you weren’t dating?"

Enid shot Yoko an incredulous look, eyes wide. "What? No! What made you think that?"

Yoko shrugged casually, as if it were no big deal. "That Instagram story you posted with the fireflies. I thought Tiny Terror had taken you on a date."

Divina chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Nice alliteration."

Enid sighed and buried her face in her hands again, the weight of the conversation pressing down on her. "It wasn’t a date."

Bianca’s voice dropped, quieter now. “Why did you say no?”

Enid’s voice cracked as she answered, barely above a whisper. “I’m scared.”

The room fell silent.

Enid’s voice dropped to a fragile whisper, her shoulders trembling as the weight of weeks of fear pressed down on her. “I’ve been scared for weeks,” she confessed, voice cracking. “Since it happened. Since I saw him floating there, and we pulled him out of the water. I’ve been pretending the guilt isn’t eating away at me, but it is.”

She sucked in a breath that shook through her entire body.

“When he said he wanted to try and be braver, to push through the fear, I thought it would be fun. I thought—I don’t know. Stupid. Dumb teenage thrill. And he… he followed me.”

Her voice broke entirely, faltering under the burden of the memory.

“I jumped, and he didn’t. I tried to reach him before we hit the water. When I came up and everyone was cheering, I thought nothing had happened. Then there was yelling—he wasn’t moving. I should’ve asked him if he was really sure. I should’ve—” Her hand shot up, clamping over her mouth as her shoulders hunched inward, her body folding over itself in anguish.

Yoko was instantly on her feet, slipping behind Enid to wrap her arms around her, pulling her close in a protective embrace.

“I didn’t mean to pull him,” Enid sobbed. “I didn’t think he’d get hurt. I didn’t know. And when they said he might not wake up—I couldn’t—I couldn’t face his moms. I can’t even bring myself to talk to them at the Farmer’s Market. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t breathe.”

Yoko held her tighter, her cheek pressed gently against the back of Enid’s head, offering silent comfort.

“And now that he’s awake, I—I’m scared he’ll hate me. That he’ll say it was my fault and I’ll—I’ll know he’s right.”

A guttural cry tore from deep within Enid’s chest, raw and wrenching. She buried her face into her sleeves as tears soaked the fabric.

The room fell silent once more, filled only with the soft, ragged sounds of Enid’s silent anguish finally breaking free—the heartbreak she had held at bay for far too long.

Yoko didn’t let go, her arms still wrapped securely around Enid’s trembling form. Across the table, Divina reached out and squeezed Enid’s hand with steady reassurance. Bianca leaned back slightly, her jaw relaxing before she spoke, her tone both blunt and compassionate.

“You’ve been dragging this guilt around like a corpse tied to your ankle,” Bianca said, eyes steady. “It’s time to cut it loose.”

Enid sniffled, her breath hitching in her chest.

“You’re not the first person to make a mistake that hurt someone,” Bianca continued. “But you own it. You care. Yes, you’re scared, but you still have a chance to face it.”

Divina’s voice was gentle but firm. “You do realize she probably saw that as a betrayal, right? Especially given how close you two have gotten.”

Enid’s voice cracked as she whispered, “I know.”

Divina gave a small, encouraging nod. “And Eugene deserves to hear from you. And you deserve the truth—whatever it is.”

Yoko rubbed soothing circles on Enid’s back. “And if it goes badly… we’ll still be here.”

Bianca smirked briefly before softening her expression. “We’ll go visit Eugene after you do. But you need to put on your big girl pants and do it. Soon. ”

Enid managed a small, broken laugh through her tears, her fingers trembling as she pressed her hands against her face, wishing desperately she could rewind time, find the right words when it mattered most.

Chapter Text

Enid pulled into the parking lot and turned into the nearest space, easing her foot onto the brake pedal until the car rolled to a complete stop. he eased her foot onto the brake until the car rolled to a complete stop. Her fingers trembled slightly as she shifted the gear into park, then pulled up the emergency brake with a soft, mechanical whirr. The engine hummed for a few more seconds before she turned the key and silenced it.

The hospital stood just beyond the windshield, pristine and cold under the grey light of late afternoon. The building wasn’t imposing by size, but there was a weight to it that settled heavily on her shoulders the longer she stared at it. Her hands remained clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles white.

She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, pulling in a slow, deep breath that she let out shakily through her nose.

“Big girl pants,” she whispered to herself. “You’re wearing them. You’re here.”

She looked toward the passenger seat. Her phone sat in the cup holder, Yoko’s last message still open: You’ve got this. Go. Or I’ll make you.

Enid let out a shaky laugh, grabbed her bag, and stepped out of the car.

Inside, the hospital smelled of antiseptic and something older, staler—an institutional quiet that seemed to coat every surface. At the front desk, a nurse gave her directions with a polite smile, but Enid barely registered the words. Her pulse pounded too loudly in her ears, muting everything else. She walked the corridors like a ghost in her own body, her boots echoing faintly on the linoleum floor.

Room 213.

She found it down a quiet hall lined with closed doors and pastel-colored signs. Her hand hovered over the door handle far too long, her breath caught in her chest.

Then, gently, she knocked.

No answer.

She opened it anyway.

The room was quiet save for the hum of machines and the distant beeping from down the hall. Eugene sat upright in bed, a thin blanket pulled over his lap. His curls were slightly disheveled, and shadows clung under his eyes, but the soft, familiar sparkle Enid remembered—though dim—had returned.

He was fiddling absentmindedly with a plastic Rubik's Cube, fingers twisting it with more muscle memory than focus.

When he looked up and saw her standing in the doorway, the cube froze mid-turn in his hands.

“…Enid,” he said softly.

She swallowed the thick lump rising in her throat and stepped inside. “Hey, Eugene.”

A tense silence followed. Eugene didn’t look at her right away. His fingers resumed twisting the Rubik’s Cube in his lap, slower now, the colors blurring under his touch.

“Wednesday said you didn’t want to come.”

The words landed harder than Enid expected. Her chest tightened. She blinked quickly and stepped further into the room, letting the door close gently behind her with a soft click .

“I know,” she said, her voice low. “I—I did want to. I do.” She drew a shaky breath. “I want to visit you.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Eugene snapped, not raising his voice but letting the hurt bleed through every syllable. “I woke up almost a week ago.”

Enid flinched. The guilt twisted in her gut. She moved slowly toward the foot of the bed, her boots making soft scuffs against the tiled floor. After a pause, she eased into the chair beside him, careful not to intrude too closely.

“I was scared,” she admitted. Her voice wavered, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “I mean—I am scared.”

Eugene didn’t answer. He kept his gaze trained on the cube, though his movements had grown more agitated.

“Not scared of you,” she clarified quickly, eyes wide. “I was scared of what you’d say. Of hearing the things I’ve already been telling myself.”

Her throat tightened as she continued. “You were in the water and not moving. You weren’t waking up. I just—I panicked.”

Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard.

“I never meant for you to get hurt,” she whispered. “It was supposed to be fun. Jumping into the pond—we’d done it before, the others and me. I didn’t think it would be dangerous. I didn’t know .”

She shook her head. “But I should’ve. You trusted me, and I let you down.”

Eugene’s hands stilled, the cube frozen mid-turn. His shoulders were rigid, jaw tight.

“I kept thinking if I showed up, you’d say exactly what I was already thinking. That I’m a horrible person. That I was thoughtless.” She exhaled shakily. “And none of that’s true. But I was so scared I made it true. Every day I stayed away, I hated myself a little more.”

“I’m sorry, Eugene,” she finally sat down, her fingers twisted together in her lap, her eyes glassy. "I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up. I’m sorry I made you feel like you didn’t matter to me. Because you do. You really, really do."

A silence stretched between them, heavy and uncertain. Then Eugene sighed and set the Rubik’s Cube down on the side table with a soft clack .

“Do you know how pissed I was?” he muttered. “Like, full-on rage mode. I had all these dumb, dramatic lines I was gonna say if you ever showed up.”

Enid gave a watery laugh. “I’m sure they were good.”

“I was gonna call you a coward.”

“Fair.”

“And a jerk.”

“Still fair.”

Eugene finally looked at her. “But mostly, I was just sad. Because you’re one of my friends, Enid. And when I woke up… I wanted you to be there.”

Enid’s heart twisted. She reached up and wiped at her cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie.

“I wanted to be,” she said softly. “I just… had to go looking for my big girl pants first.”

Eugene blinked, then let out a laugh—genuine and bright despite the weight in the room.

“Kinda misplaced them, you know?” Enid added with a crooked grin.

His smile widened. “Well, I’m glad you found them.”

A beat passed. Then, with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Eugene added, “You brought snacks, right? Because if you showed up empty-handed, I am kicking you out.”

Enid laughed, the sound bubbling out through the tears that finally spilled down her cheeks. She wiped at them with the back of her hand, then reached into her bag and pulled out a familiar, slightly crinkled bag of gummy worms.

Eugene’s eyes lit up instantly. “You do love me.”

“Gosh, Genie, it’s hard not to,” she said with a watery grin, her voice thick but lightened by relief.

He patted the empty space beside him on the bed, careful to avoid the IV lines and wires. “Come sit. You owe me, like, six months of cartoons and snack runs.”

Enid gave a soft laugh and carefully crawled onto the bed beside him, settling against the elevated pillows and folding her legs up beneath her. She handed him the bag, watching as he tore it open with a kind of reverent glee and popped a red and blue worm into his mouth.

Then, his expression shifted—just a bit. He glanced over at her, more serious now, his voice low but clear.

“And, Enid?”

She looked up. “Yeah?”

“It was my choice to climb up on that stupid structure. My choice to hesitate.” He reached out and flicked her forehead lightly, the gesture more affectionate than scolding. “Don’t go blaming yourself for a dumb decision I made.”

Enid blinked at him, eyes wide and stinging all over again.

“I still messed up,” she murmured.

“Maybe,” Eugene said, shrugging as he chewed. “But so did I. We’re even.”

Finally, for the first time in a long time, the weight in her chest loosened—just a little.

After her conversation with Eugene at the hospital, Enid felt like she could finally breathe again. One heavy weight had been lifted from her chest. With that behind her, she could at least give more of herself to the play—or at least some semblance of that. Things between her and Wednesday were still strained. They exchanged lines, hit their marks, touched when the script demanded it, but the warmth that had once simmered beneath the surface was gone. What was left felt mechanical. Practiced. Hollow.

Mrs. Cabot didn’t seem to notice, chalking up the stiffness to stage shyness or first main role performance nerves. But Parker… Parker wore that pinched, knowing look. The kind that said she understood exactly why the air between them had gone cold.

Still, Enid was grateful they weren’t chasing perfection. Not from her.

Dress rehearsal came and went. She didn’t forget her lines, didn’t botch her blocking, didn’t trip over her own feet. She hit her cues, kept her posture, projected just enough to be heard, and—miraculously—managed not to burst into anxious tears backstage. That alone felt like a small victory.

And then— opening night.

The soft murmur of the audience buzzed behind the closed curtain. Enid stood offstage, heart hammering as she peeked through a narrow slit in the fabric. The community center was already filling up—and fast. More than she had expected. Way more.

When she’d gone to past productions—mostly to earn extra credit for her Art Appreciation or Literature classes—she remembered sleepy parents and bored siblings, a scattering of students doing it for the grade, maybe a teacher or two. But this… this was packed.

Her eyes scanned the growing crowd, stomach tightening.

In the front row, she spotted her dad, arms crossed but wearing the proudest grin she’d seen from him in weeks. Beside him, Yoko sat with one of Divina’s hands cupped between hers. A picnic basket rested by their feet. Enid squinted. Were those… actual tomatoes?

God, she hoped they were just for show. A joke. A prop. Anything but a backup plan.

Behind them, the rest of their crew filled the second row. Ajax with his wild curls and lopsided grin. Kent and Xavier leaning close, whispering with grins like they knew something they shouldn’t. Bianca, arms crossed, but with a subtle nod when Enid met her gaze. A glimmer of quiet support.

And then, near the center, the unmistakable presence of the Addams family. Dark, regal, impeccable. They looked less like they’d come to see a school production and more like they were preparing to critique a private opera. Morticia leaned slightly toward Principal Weems in conversation, her smile as smooth as ever. Gomez gestured animatedly with one hand, perhaps mid-story. 

Even Eugene was there, nestled between his moms, looking worlds better than he had just days ago. His curls were still slightly tousled, his hoodie a size too big, but his eyes were alert—bright and alive.

Enid stepped back from the curtain like the air had punched her in the stomach. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her palms had gone clammy.

She was going to throw up.

Parker appeared at Enid’s side, arms crossed and expression dry. “You better not throw up.”

Enid let out a choked laugh, part panic and part regret. “Okay, but if I do, I’m apologizing in advance. I’m so sorry, Parker. I’m gonna ruin everything. I’m gonna mess up my lines or trip or forget my cue or—what if I say someone else’s line? What if I—”

Parker slammed both hands onto Enid’s shoulders, halting the spiral with force. “Hey. Hey. Eyes on me, Sinclair. Are you finally here with me, or do I need to shake you until your soul resets?”

Enid blinked, caught mid-breath, her anxiety momentarily stunned into stillness.

“Good,” Parker said, voice steady and firm. “Now listen. I don’t care if this whole thing collapses into chaos. It’s a play. Sometimes they fall apart. Sometimes life does. But you’re here. I’m here. And we’re going to get through tonight, even if we have to crawl through the second act on our knees. Got it?”

Enid inhaled deeply, held the breath for a count of five, then slowly let it out through her nose. “Okay. Okay, yeah. I’m here.”

Then, with a nervous glance toward Parker, she added, “I’m just… surprised you’re even comforting me right now. I mean, you and Wednesday are…”

Her voice faded, hesitant. The rest of the sentence hung unfinished, because the truth was, she didn’t know what Wednesday and Parker were to each other. They weren’t just friends— that much was clear—but the lines beyond that were murky.

Parker followed her gaze to where Wednesday was talking to one of the backstage crew, giving crisp instructions with all the intensity of a general preparing for battle.

“She’s my cousin,” Parker said, voice lower now, steadier. “Family. Even if not by blood. And I’ll always be loyal to her. But sometimes, loyalty means telling someone what they need to hear. Not just what they want to.”

Enid furrowed her brow, unsure what Parker meant by that. She opened her mouth to ask, but something in the other girl’s tone warned her not to press.

Then, just like that, Parker flipped the switch. She straightened up, clapped her hands with the energy of a drill sergeant, and called out, “Five minutes! Places, people! Let’s make some magic—or a mess! Either way, let’s go!”

And then, the curtain rose.

They made it through the first two acts without a hitch.

Enid tried not to let that fact sink in too deeply, afraid that acknowledging it would jinx everything. She kept telling herself not to spiral— self-fulfilling prophecy, Sinclair, don’t you dare. So she clung to her cues and her lines, eyes fixed anywhere but the audience. If she so much as glanced at her friends, or her father’s face in the crowd, she'd unravel on the spot.

Then came the third act. The scene with just her and Wednesday.

Enid stepped into the pool of warm stage light at center stage and sat on the faux stone bench. It was really just wood and foam, painted to resemble carved granite. She remembered gushing about it to the set design crew during rehearsal, their faces lighting up with pride. Now, under the spotlight, it felt real.

Behind her, the distant sounds of battle crackled to life—swords clashing, war cries echoing, the wet splatter of fake blood played through the speakers. Harsh white lights flickered across the back of the stage, casting jagged silhouettes of figures locked in combat.

And then Wednesday entered.

Enid turned—and everything in her stopped.

She’d seen Wednesday in the same costume before, armor fitted snug against her frame, black makeup smudged like war paint under her eyes. But under the glow of the stage lights, with her entrance timed perfectly to the music, walking toward Enid with unshaken poise——it didn’t feel like acting anymore.

Enid’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers curled against her lap, gripping the fabric of her costume to anchor herself.

The scene began.

Enid’s character greeted Wednesday’s with barely restrained fury, her voice laced with defiance and the raw sting of betrayal. Each line felt heavier than it ever had in rehearsal. Wednesday’s responses came with equal weight, but where Enid burned with anger, Wednesday’s voice was burdened by remorse. Yet beneath that regret was a fierce conviction—as if her character had already made peace with the impossible choices that brought them to this moment.

Then came the shift.

The battlefield faded behind them. The recorded clash of swords and screaming steel gave way to a single high violin note—pure and aching. The light shifted subtly, narrowing. Enid turned her back to Wednesday, crossing to the far edge of the stage. One hand found a faux stone pillar, her fingers resting on it as though it could keep her steady. Her gaze remained fixed offstage, toward the wings. She did not turn around.

And Wednesday began to sing.

Enid had heard this song a dozen times in rehearsal—more than that. She’d hummed it while folding laundry, while brushing her teeth, while jogging laps around the school track, while milking the cows. It had become as familiar as her own heartbeat.

Wednesday moved as she sang. Not with the grand, sweeping gestures they’d choreographed, but slower, more personal. Her arms opened gently, then fell. Her eyes didn’t search the distance—they found the audience. Met them. Held them. As if she was telling each person a story she’d lived herself.

Enid stared at the pillar, heart thundering.

She was so captivated she nearly missed her cue.

From the wings, Parker gestured frantically, her hands slicing the air with urgency. Enid’s heart skipped a beat. She jolted into motion, stepping back into the scene just in time—her hand reaching for Wednesday’s.

Their fingers interlocked.

They began to move in a slow, deliberate circle, gliding across the floor in the choreography they had rehearsed countless times. Enid couldn't take her eyes off Wednesday—not even if she wanted to. The world around them blurred, the stage, the lights, the crowd beyond the curtain of darkness. Everything faded except for the warmth of Wednesday’s hand in hers, steady and grounding, and the way her voice trembled—just barely—on the final note of her song.

It was beautiful.

Wednesday was beautiful.

They reached center stage. The spotlight above snapped on with a quiet click , casting a soft glow over them, isolating them in a halo of light. It was like the world had paused—just them, suspended in the silence between heartbeats.

Wednesday spoke her final line.

And Enid… blanked.

Completely. Utterly. Terrifyingly.

Her mouth parted, but no sound emerged. Her mind went silent, the lines vanishing like mist in the morning sun. She could see Mrs. Cabot at the edge of the wings, mouthing the line, hands fluttering in frantic encouragement, like a conductor coaxing a forgotten note from a hesitant musician.

Panic rose, bile-slick and feral. Enid’s body locked up.

Fuck it.

Her lips parted again, and this time, words came out. Not the scripted ones. But something close. Something honest. She stayed within the rhythm of the moment, her voice laced with the emotion the scene demanded. The words weren’t written down, but they belonged. She made them belong.

It was a gamble. But it felt right.

Wednesday’s brow arched ever so slightly. The audience wouldn’t notice, but Enid saw it—just enough to know Wednesday caught her improvisation. There was no judgment in her eyes, though. If anything... she looked impressed.

The scene continued.

Enid felt the weight of Wednesday’s gaze settle on her like warmth—intense, inescapable. It burned against her cheek, down her spine, curled deep into her chest. Her heart pounded so loud it nearly drowned out the music swelling beneath them. Her fingers twitched slightly, still tingling from the contact they shared.

She stared into Wednesday’s eyes—dark, unreadable, endlessly vast. Then, inevitably, her gaze dropped to her lips.

Wednesday didn’t move. But her breath ghosted over Enid’s mouth—close enough to taste the space between them.

The spotlight dimmed.

Darkness fell like a curtain.

The crowd erupted into applause, a roaring tide that rushed toward the stage—but Enid barely registered the sound. It was muffled, distant, a world away from the storm pulsing in her chest.

Another inch.

Just one more inch and she would’ve kissed Wednesday.

The thought hit like a jolt of lightning. Enid’s breath caught. She stumbled a half-step backward, blinking as the world rushed back in.

Her eyes were wide. Her lungs struggled for air.

Oh God.

Enid barely had a moment to catch her breath after stepping off the stage before she was swept into the air by a crushing embrace.

Her father’s arms wrapped tightly around her as he spun her in a full circle, his laughter booming in her ear and echoing through the community center’s hallway.

“Dad—!” she gasped, half-laughing, half-wheezing, thumping a hand against his side. “I can’t breathe!”

He laughed even louder before finally setting her down. His hand immediately went to her head, ruffling her hair with the same rough, familiar touch that once guided her on quiet country roads when she was learning how to drive. His palm still smelled faintly of engine grease and pine soap.

“You were amazing, baby girl,” he said, his voice thick with pride, eyes shining. “Absolutely killed it out there. That voice? That stage presence? I’m still not convinced you didn’t swap places with a Broadway actress backstage.”

Enid chuckled, her cheeks glowing pink beneath the praise. “Thanks, Dad.”

He pulled her in for another squeeze—quick, but full of affection—then leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. The kind of gesture that reminded her of who she was when everything else felt bigger than her.

“Don’t stay out too late with your friends, alright?” he added, stepping back and wagging a finger. “And text me if you’re crashing at someone’s place. I mean it. Or I will show up in pajamas and make a scene.”

Enid snorted, already pulling her phone from her pocket. “No promises—but I’ll text you. I’m not risking a pajama ambush.”

With a final wave, her father turned and made his way toward the double doors of the community center. Enid watched him go, a soft smile playing on her lips. His silhouette disappeared into the night beyond the glass, and she turned back toward the hall—

Only to freeze at the sudden chorus of voices shouting in perfect unison:

“Three… two… one! ”

Her eyes widened in dawning horror.

A few feet from the stage stood her friends—Ajax, Kent, Divina, Xavier, Bianca, Yoko, and even Eugene in his wheelchair—all gathered in a semi-circle, grinning like a gang of children moments away from committing low-level felonies. At their feet rested the now-infamous picnic basket.

In their hands?

Tomatoes.

Ripe. Red. Glossy-skinned, vine-scented tomatoes.

“ Fucking Tanaka,” Enid thought bitterly—too late.

She didn’t even get the chance to duck.

The first tomato struck her square in the shoulder with a wet, satisfying splat , soaking through the thin fabric of her costume. The next glanced off her hip, and another exploded against her thigh, bursting into pulp and seeds. She let out a screech-laugh, arms flailing defensively—but didn’t run. She couldn’t. If she moved, one of them might hit an innocent bystander.

There were still lingering audience members nearby—parents chatting, students sipping watery punch—and the last thing Enid needed was to be responsible for a stray tomato splattering across Principal Weems’s blouse.

Another tomato struck her square in the chest. This one she caught—fingers closing reflexively around the slippery fruit. With barely a beat, she twisted at the waist and hurled it back with a pitcher’s aim.

It soared in a perfect arc and smacked across Yoko’s face with a wet thwack .

Yoko squawked like a kicked crow, stumbling back in shock, arms flailing as red streaks dripped down her cheek and into her collar.

That only made the others howl louder.

And just like that, chaos erupted.

Bianca ducked behind Xavier, seizing him by the shoulders and using him as an impromptu human shield as another tomato sailed through the air. Enid, laughing breathlessly, launched one at Kent, who flailed with theatrical flair as it burst against his stomach, leaving a red splatter across his shirt.

Eugene, stationed in his wheelchair like a cackling war general, lobbed tomatoes from his lap with wild precision, his laughter sharp and gleeful. Divina shrieked as she narrowly dodged a flying tomato, then retaliated with pinpoint accuracy, her throw hitting Ajax in the knee and making him yelp.

Despite the absolute pandemonium, there was a strange sort of order to the chaos. The group moved with an unspoken understanding, instinctively keeping the battle contained within their little circle. They weaved between chairs and scattered stage props from the play, ducking behind cardboard trees and foam pillars, careful not to involve any remaining cast or audience members in their tomato war.

Eventually, with everyone successfully marked by tomato pulp—and Yoko loudly swearing vengeance after taking two hits to the face—the boys volunteered to hunt down the custodian and beg for cleaning supplies. They left in a chorus of groans, threats, and exaggerated limping, a trail of crushed tomato bits marking their retreat.

Bianca remained behind with the girls, helping flip over signs and rearrange folding chairs to create a visual perimeter around the mess. She dusted pulp off her blazer, then turned to Enid and pointed a commanding finger.

“You,” she said with all the authority of a queen addressing her court, “go change. Now. We’re crashing at Ajax’s place again—Mama P insisted.”

Enid blinked. “Into what? ”

Bianca arched an eyebrow and gestured toward a small duffel bag tucked neatly beside the stage podium.

“Clothes. Clean ones. That we brought. You’re welcome, tomato magnet.”

Enid stared for a moment, lips parting in surprised silence. Then her chest swelled with warmth. Her heart clenched in the best kind of way.

“You lovable assholes,” she said with a grin.

Scooping up the bag—still dripping with tomato juice—she turned and made her way toward the dressing room, grinning despite the soreness in her arms and the stickiness clinging to her skin.

She was a mess. She was tired. Her hair would smell like marinara for days.

And she hadn’t felt this happy in weeks.

Enid slipped into the clean clothes—a loose black shirt with a faded wolf print across the front and a pair of soft joggers Yoko had thoughtfully packed for her. She gathered her ruined costume from the bench, the fabric heavy with tomato juice and theatrical sweat, and stuffed it into a plastic bag she’d found beneath the vanity sink. With a firm tug, she knotted the top, trapping the sour-sweet scent inside.

She turned toward the dressing room door, fingers outstretched to open it—

But it swung inward before she could touch the handle.

Parker stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow cocked high with unmistakable smugness—the expression of someone who had very clearly been waiting for this moment.

Then, without any warning or preamble, Parker launched into a dramatic recitation:

“Your actions burned my heart, yet the warmth you gave me will never turn to ash. My kingdom has fallen, and I stand before you no longer a queen. So take me—whatever I am now—for I am yours, just as you are mine.”

Enid blinked.

Silence hung for a second. Then another.

She let out a nervous laugh, the tips of her ears already going pink. “I—I panicked.”

Parker smirked, stepping aside to let Enid pass through the doorway. “Didn’t know you were such a romantic. Or capable of waxing poetic like that. I swear, Sinclair, that line nearly gave Mrs. Cabot a heart attack—in the best possible way.”

Enid winced as she stepped into the hallway. “I’m sorry. I really thought I’d tanked it. I didn’t mean to go off-script, I just—”

Parker held up a hand and waved it lazily, cutting her off. “Relax. It was a good save. Hell, it was a great save. You’d be surprised how often actors forget their lines. Broadway, off-Broadway, high school productions—it happens. What matters is staying in character, knowing your role well enough to improvise when the moment calls for it. And you?” She gave Enid a sidelong glance. “You nailed it.”

Relief flickered across Enid’s face. Her shoulders loosened. She gave a sheepish, grateful smile. “Thanks.”

Parker clapped a hand on her shoulder, gave it a firm, approving squeeze, then turned on her heel and strolled off toward the tech booth, her voice trailing over her shoulder.

“Well done, Sinclair.”

Feeling her heartbeat finally slow to a manageable thump, Enid stepped off the stage, leaping down from the edge and landing with a muted thud. The solid thump of her feet against the floor grounded her, easing some of the lingering tension.

She turned—and there, off to the side, she spotted her.

Wednesday.

The glow of the stage lights didn’t quite reach where Wednesday stood, but Enid recognized her instantly. The gleam of her armor costume was muted beneath the shadows, her figure partially obscured. Wednesday was talking quietly with Pugsley, her posture loose and relaxed in a way Enid rarely had the chance to witness. Nearby, Morticia and Gomez stood close, the fou of them forming a small, intimate circle that radiated familial warmth.

Enid took a cautious step forward.

“Enid!”

She halted mid-stride.

Mrs. Cabot appeared beside her as if summoned, her hands clasped tightly over her chest, eyes shining with excitement. “That line. That improvised line—my goodness, where have you been hiding? The audience absolutely devoured it. You carried the final act like you were born for the stage!”

Enid blinked, caught off guard and distracted. “Uh, thank you. Honestly, it was kind of a blur—”

“No, no, that’s instinct, dear!” Mrs. Cabot gushed, barely letting her finish. “Instinct and guts. Have you thought about joining next semester? We’d love to have you back. I’m already dreaming up roles!”

Enid gave a polite laugh, nodding just enough to keep the conversation going, though her attention was clearly elsewhere. Her eyes kept drifting sideways—toward the Addams family. She wasn’t even subtle about it, her gaze flickering past Mrs. Cabot’s shoulder, scanning for a rotund silhouette clad in black or the unmistakable poise of Morticia Addams.

But the moment Mrs. Cabot finally relented and excused herself with a final wave and a string of compliments, Enid turned—

—Only to find the space empty.

Gone.

No Morticia. No Gomez. No Pugsley. And most heartbreakingly, no Wednesday.

The spot where they had been standing just moments ago was now vacant, as if they’d vanished into thin air.

Enid’s shoulders deflated slightly, the forced cheerfulness draining from her face. The smile she’d been wearing faltered, the corners of her mouth falling as her eyes swept the room in one last hopeful glance. Nothing. Just faculty, students, and a few lingering families.

She adjusted her grip on the plastic bag in her hand, her fingers tightening around the handles until the crinkling of the plastic filled the silence around her. 

Before she could dwell any further, the sharp click of heels broke through the ambient noise.

Principal Weems approached, cutting through the thinning crowd like a swan gliding across a dark lake. Her black heels added even more height to her already commanding frame, and the tailored black high-waisted trousers emphasized her elegance with every step. A sleeveless white turtleneck hugged her figure, and her long, dark coat was draped neatly over one arm.

“Ms. Sinclair,” Weems greeted, her voice smooth and rich, “a lovely performance this evening.” Her smile was wide and toothy, lips painted in a confident shade of red that matched the striking poise of her posture. “It brings me great joy to see you thriving in the theater department. In terms of skill, you’d be a brilliant addition for next school year. That is, if you’d be interested, of course.”

Enid’s cheeks burned at the compliment. She instinctively moved the plastic bag behind her back, her fingers fidgeting with the handle.

“I don’t think I would, honestly,” she admitted with a bashful smile, scuffing the toe of her shoe against the floor. “It was fun, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think I can survive the pain of memorizing lines again.”

Principal Weems let out a soft, genuine laugh, the sound refined even as it was politely hidden behind her manicured hand. “Yes, well… I share that sentiment. But between the two of us,” she said, lowering her voice just slightly, “it’s best I stuck to playing a talking inanimate object in my younger years.”

Enid blinked, then let out a surprised, disbelieving laugh, unable to stop the grin that spread across her face. The image of her poised, formidable principal acting as a talking wardrobe or lamp in some ancient school production was so absurd it was almost endearing.

“I’ll leave you to your evening, Ms. Sinclair,” Weems said, already turning to go. Her strides were graceful, measured—she didn’t need to try to make an impression; she simply did .

But then, five steps away, she paused and looked back over her shoulder. A playful smirk curled at her lips.

“Oh, and please,” she added lightly, “avoid any more late-night adventures in abandoned factory buildings with your squad—as you young ones call it.”

Enid froze, her mouth falling open slightly in surprise.

By the time she recovered enough to respond, Principal Weems was already moving away, her heels tapping smartly against the floor, leaving Enid with nothing but a flushed face, a crinkled plastic bag, and a thousand thoughts of young Larissa Weems in a play as anthropomorphic inanimate objects.

Enid stepped into the community center lobby, her sneakers still sticky with the remnants of tomato juice despite her best efforts to scrub them clean. The room had mostly emptied out, save for a handful of stragglers clustered near the bulletin board and a few volunteers methodically stacking chairs in the corner. She scanned the space, eyes searching eagerly for any familiar faces—or better yet, Wednesday.

Instead, her eyes landed on someone else entirely.

Esther.

She stood near the lobby’s decorative wall of donors, impeccably dressed as always, arms crossed and a mild smile tugging at the corners of her lips like she wasn’t sure if she was here to judge or compliment.

“Mom?” Enid slowed her steps, jaw tightening. “What are you doing here?”

Esther tilted her head slightly, eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and calculation. “Your brothers told me you were performing tonight. I was... curious.”

Enid raised a brow. “Curious?”

Esther’s smile widened, but it failed to reach her eyes. “You were good. Really. Better than I expected.” She paused, voice lowering just enough to sting. “Especially considering you only got the part because someone else ended up in the hospital.”

Enid’s breath hitched, caught in her throat.

She stared at Esther for a long heartbeat, the air between them suddenly brittle and cold. Then, with a stiff shake of her head, Enid turned sharply and walked away.

“Enid, oh my God—don’t be so sensitive,” Esther called after her, the sharp click of her heels echoing against the tile as she hurried a few steps behind. “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear—wait—”

But Enid didn’t slow.

She didn’t look back.

Her pace quickened, her sneakers tapping a steady rhythm as she pushed through the side doors and into the crisp night air. The cold wind hit her face, slicing through the tightness in her chest with its sharp bite. Ahead, she spotted the familiar line of cars—theirs parked side by side, including her Honda Civic.

Behind her, Esther’s voice faded into the night, swallowed by the closing door and the distant laughter and cheers of Enid’s friends.

The hood of Enid’s Honda Civic creaked open with a groan that echoed through the small gravel lot behind her house. Sunlight filtered through the thin clouds above, casting a soft glow on the two girls crouched in front of the engine bay, sleeves rolled, knuckles stained with grease.

“Try it now,” Enid called out, wiping her grease-streaked hands on an old rag before Yoko turned the key in the ignition. The car sputtered once, twice, then gave a wheezing sigh before falling silent.

“Still nothing,” Yoko shouted from the driver’s seat, frustration clear in her voice.

Enid groaned, tugging her gloves off with her teeth and tossing them carelessly onto the workbench behind her. “Figures.”

Yoko climbed out, hopping lightly onto the bumper, settling with her legs swinging freely over the edge. With one hand, she rummaged through her coat pocket and pulled out her phone, thumb quickly tapping through her playlist. Moments later, the crisp pop beat of an upbeat K-pop song burst from the portable speaker perched on the edge of the tool cart.

Enid winced at the sudden noise.

Yoko caught her expression and smirked. “What? You used to love this song.”

“I’m not really in the mood to hear about sunshine kisses and forever boyfriends,” Enid muttered, leaning back against the hood and shading her eyes from the afternoon glare.

Yoko raised a brow but said nothing. Instead, she scrolled through her phone again and tapped on another track. The sugary vocals faded, replaced by the soft swell of violins. The opening bars of a string quartet’s cover of a Lana Del Rey song filled the quiet workshop. The music was smooth, melancholic, and unexpectedly calming.

Enid blinked, lips parting slightly. “Oh,” she murmured.

Yoko watched her from the corner of her eye. “Thought so. Got a whole playlist of these. Covers, classicals… even a couple originals mixed in.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, the music setting a gentler rhythm as Enid adjusted a stubborn bolt and Yoko handed her the right tools without missing a beat. The fifth song began—a haunting piano version of Paint It Black . Enid hummed the lyrics quietly under her breath, the familiar melody threading through the peaceful tension between them.

Yoko let out a snort, the sound cutting through the soft hum of string music playing in the background. “You know, Wednesday’s really corrupting you.”

Enid glanced up from beneath the hood, brow raised. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Yoko replied, grinning as she lazily pointed her wrench in Enid’s direction, “you’re listening to orchestral gloom instead of bubblegum trash, somehow able to wax poetic on the spot on a stage in front of a bunch of strangers. Next thing we know, you’re gonna be wearing black, quoting death poetry, and glaring at everyone like you want to bite them.”

Enid rolled her eyes, but there was a twitch at the corner of her mouth that gave her away. “Wednesday doesn’t glare at everyone. Not without a reason.”

Yoko tilted her head slightly. The smirk remained, but her gaze turned a touch more thoughtful. “You’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious,” Enid said, refocusing on the engine, jaw tightening as she worked a rusted bolt loose. “She only threatens people who deserve it.”

Yoko studied her in silence for a moment, eyes narrowing just slightly—not in suspicion, but in consideration. Then she hopped down from the bumper with a thud, brushing her hands on her jeans. “You’ve changed, you know.”

Enid scoffed, not looking up. “Is that what Bianca’s been saying?”

Yoko shook her head and leaned against the side of the car, crossing her arms over her chest. “No. That’s what I’m saying.”

Enid finally looked over, her expression guarded.

“You’re more… I don’t know. Steady,” Yoko continued. “You still run your mouth, still laugh too loud, still obsess over the next dumb thing you wanna try—but something’s different.”

Enid gave a short, dry snort and ducked back under the hood. “Thanks, it’s the trauma.”

She kept her eyes on the engine, fiddling with the battery cable, but the grip on her wrench tightened slightly.

After a pause, she muttered, “That’s just life by the way, I don't think it's got anything to do with Wednesday.”

Yoko’s tone softened. “Maybe. But I think it’s a little bit of both.”

The music shifted behind them again—another cover, this time violins sweeping over the haunting chords of a familiar rock ballad. The melody lingered in the stillness, weaving between words left unsaid.

Enid let out a slow sigh and leaned her weight against the car beside Yoko, shoulder brushing hers. “You think I’m turning into her?”

Yoko grinned, nudging her back lightly. “No. I think you’re still Enid. Just… with better music taste.”

A laugh burst out of Enid—sharp, short, and genuine. She elbowed Yoko in the ribs. “Jerk.”

Yoko smirked and bumped her back. “Grease monkey.”

Enid stood before the Addams manor, clutching a matte black gift bag. Her fingers tightened and loosened around the satin handles with every passing second, the nervous energy building inside her. Overhead, the sky was a patchwork of heavy gray clouds, drifting lazily and casting the sprawling estate in a muted, bluish shadow. A chill breeze slid past, tugging at the hem of her jacket and stirring doubt in her mind.

She adjusted the bag in her hands, smoothing the crinkled tissue paper that concealed its contents, then squared her shoulders and stepped forward to the massive wrought-wooden door. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she rapped three short, firm knocks against the wood with the bronze knocker.

Her heart beat faster, bracing for the door to creak open and reveal Wednesday’s deadpan expression, followed by a slam of rejection.

But instead, the door swung wide to reveal Gomez Addams.

He stood framed in the doorway, wearing a deep burgundy waistcoat, a monocle dangling from a gold chain tucked neatly into his pocket. His face brightened instantly when he saw her, warm and welcoming.

“Enid!” he greeted, voice smooth and rich like a cozy hearth. “A delight as always!”

Enid’s cheeks flushed, caught completely off guard. She scratched her cheek sheepishly with her knuckle, eyes flicking behind him before settling back on his smiling face. “Hi, Mr. Addams. I’m not staying long, I promise. Just wanted to drop something off for Wednesday.”

She lifted the gift bag slightly, the black satin handles swaying gently with the motion.

Gomez arched an intrigued brow and accepted it with a gracious nod. “For my daughter? From you?” He glanced down at the bag as if it might hold some ancient treasure. “What a magnificent gesture! You truly are a most thoughtful friend.”

Enid chuckled awkwardly. “I—uh—thanks. Just… please make sure she gets it?”

“You have my word,” Gomez replied, placing a hand over his heart in a mock solemn vow. “The mighty wolf delivers to the raven. Very poetic.”

Before Enid could process the unexpected nickname, Gomez gave a small bow and slipped back into the manor with effortless grace, humming a low tune to himself.

Enid watched the door close behind him, still wondering where that peculiar nickname had come from—or how it had managed to stick.

Up the grand staircase he went, unhurried, his hand gliding lightly over the polished banister as though rediscovering its intricate carvings for the first time. Each flourish and groove in the dark wood caught the dim light of the wall sconces—iron fixtures shaped like gnarled vines that stretched up the walls, casting elegant, slithering shadows across the gothic interior.

The manor was quiet, save for the gentle creak of the floorboards under his feet and the soft crackle of distant firelight. He turned down the eastern wing and paused before the heavy oak door of his study—though these past few years, it belonged more to his daughter than to him. It had become her sanctuary, her chosen retreat when the world became too loud or too intrusive.

Inside, Wednesday was curled into one of the high-backed leather chairs facing the fireplace. Her small frame was almost completely wrapped in a thick charcoal wool blanket, her legs tucked beneath her like a resting cat. Her boots sat neatly beside the chair, their laces coiled with neatly. An ancient volume of poetry lay open across her lap, its yellowed pages splayed under the gentle curl of her fingers.

Gomez approached without a word, careful not to disturb the quiet that cocooned her. The firelight flickered over the shine of his leather shoes and kissed the streaks of silver at his temples. He leaned in, soft and slow, and pressed a tender kiss to her all too warm temple.

Wednesday looked up, her expression unchanged save for the faintest lift of her brows. “Is someone dead?”

“Not yet,” Gomez replied, the corners of his mouth quirking into a playful smile. He produced the matte black gift bag and held it out like an offering. “A delivery for you. From a very persistent wolf.”

Her eyes narrowed at his phrasing, but she said nothing. With a measured movement, she set the book aside and took the bag from his hand.

It was impeccably simple—flat black, smooth to the touch, the tissue paper folded with deliberate care. Wednesday opened it and reached inside.

She pulled out a folded black sweater vest, soft and slightly plush beneath her fingers. Along the hem and collar were tiny embroidered skulls—imperfect, charmingly flawed. Some were slightly off-center, others had crooked eyes or uneven stitches, but every detail had clearly been done by hand.

Her fingers drifted over the embroidery, tracing each stitch with slow precision. The fabric warmed quickly in her hands. Wednesday stared at it in silence.

Gomez lowered himself into the twin of Wednesday’s high-backed armchair with a flourish that was somehow both theatrical and graceful—a signature move he’d perfected over decades. His coattails fanned behind him as he sank into the worn leather seat, legs crossing elegantly, posture relaxed. Despite the ease in his movements, his eyes never left his daughter.

Between them sat a low carved-wood table, its surface adorned with a silver tray. A delicate tea set gleamed beneath the glow of the fireplace, its porcelain edges painted with curling black vines. A shallow bowl of tomato soup rested beside it, the matching saucer holding neatly cut bread triangles arranged with geometric precision. Steam still curled from the tea, but the soup had cooled, the once-vibrant aroma now muted.

Wednesday remained swathed in her blanket, the folds pulled tightly around her shoulders, a small cocoon against the chill. The sweater vest still sat nestled in her lap, half-unfolded across the wool. Her thumb moved in slow circles over the uneven stitches of one crooked little skull, as though reading it like braille. Her expression had settled into that unnervingly still mask she often wore—a kind of hyper-focus, neutral and indecipherable.

To anyone else, it might have seemed like indifference.

But to Gomez Addams, it was as loud as any scream.

He raised an unlit pipe to his lips, letting it rest there thoughtfully, not for the tobacco but for the ritual. It gave shape to his breath, something to hold between sentences. His eyes twinkled as he regarded her across the flickering firelight.

“Have you eaten, mija?” he asked gently, voice rich and warm like aged brandy.

Wednesday didn’t look up. Her voice was clipped. “I have consumed six spoonfuls of soup. The current interval between ingestion and the request for Lurch to reheat it stands at forty-two minutes. Based on this pattern, I estimate the soup will be cold again in approximately two.”

Gomez let out a hearty chuckle, his voice full of delight and admiration. “Ah, a feast of champions. If the goal is starvation by bureaucracy, you are well on your way.”

Wednesday allowed the faintest smirk to ghost across her lips before quickly suppressing it, as if even that much amusement might betray her inner workings.

Gomez leaned back into his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him. He rolled the unlit pipe between his fingers, then tapped its base thoughtfully against his chin. His gaze never wavered from her, warm and perceptive.

“Tell me something, querida,” he said gently. “Are you still angry at that sweet Sinclair girl over the accident?”

Wednesday’s eyes lifted, slow and unhurried, her expression unchanged. “No,” she replied plainly. “That is not the issue.”

Gomez tilted his head, brows rising with curiosity. “Then help me understand. Why aren’t you two… as you were? Friends, I mean.”

She shifted slightly, arms folding tightly across her chest—across the gift still resting in her lap, almost like shielding it. “We were never friends,” she replied, voice flat. “I was merely aiding her memorization for the sake of the performance.”

“Ah,” Gomez hummed, drawing out the syllable like a tune only he could hear. He brought the stem of the pipe to his lips again and fixed her with the gaze of a man who had played this game before—many times, and always with a winning hand. “And yet… there is so much passion.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, chin lifting in that defiant tilt he recognized from Morticia on her more dangerous days. “Father,” she said coolly, “I am ill. This is hardly the time to dissect emotional intricacies when I am teetering on the brink of biological collapse.”

At that, Gomez leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasping the pipe before him like a relic of great wisdom. His grin curled like smoke, mischievous and tender all at once.

“Exactly, mi pequeña tormenta,” he said, his voice dipping low with meaning. “That’s precisely when it is the time. It is in our weakest, most vulnerable moments that the truth comes bursting out like a ghost from the attic. When the masks crack and fall, what remains is what we really are.”

Wednesday didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes stayed fixed on Gomez, expression somewhere between annoyance, wariness, perhaps even contemplative.

Gomez sat back, satisfied to let his words linger in the air between them like incense. He nodded once, slowly, as if affirming something only he could hear.

Wednesday’s gaze dropped back to the sweater vest resting in her lap. Her thumb grazed the crooked embroidery of one skull—off-center, with an uneven eye socket and a slightly jagged jawline. She didn’t fidget, didn’t stroke the fabric absently. She simply rested her hand there, fingers stilled, eyes thoughtful.

Across from her, Gomez offered a soft smile and reached for the porcelain teapot, its surface delicately cracked from age. He refilled her cup, steam rising in gentle coils.

“The soup might be cold,” he murmured softly, “but the tea is still hot.”

Wednesday didn’t thank him. She never did, though such a thing never bothered him. But she lifted the cup anyway, wrapping both hands around it, letting the heat settle into her fingers. Her eyes stayed trained on the fire, the flickering light casting gold and amber along the curve of her cheekbone.

Gomez leaned back once more, pipe now resting between his fingers rather than his lips. He studied her in silence for a moment—his daughter wrapped in a cocoon of wool and shadow, firelight dancing in her dark eyes.

He tilted his head slightly, voice light. “Tell me what happened between the two of you, mi cuervo. Not as your father, but as a weary traveler who once, too, let the road stretch too far between him and someone dear.”

The fire cracked sharply in the hearth, casting a brief flicker of light that lit the space between them.

Wednesday didn’t answer.

She took a sip of tea with well intentioned leisure, the porcelain cup brushing her lower lip. Her eyes never left the flames, and her silence didn’t feel dismissive—only heavy. Like someone stalling in the moments before a plunge.

Gomez let out a low chuckle, more breath than voice, and shook his head fondly.

“Of course,” he said, softer now. “You don’t have to. I will not pry.”

He paused, pipe balanced carefully between his hands, gaze drifting upward to follow the steam curling from her cup like a whisper.

“But beware, mija ,” he said, his voice dropping to something lower, gentler, and threaded with quiet foreboding. “The minutes you hesitate may be the ones you’ll one day beg to have back. Time has a cruel appetite for silence. The longer we let something broken sit unattended, the more it learns to believe it deserves to stay that way.”

Wednesday remained still, the words sliding beneath her skin like cold iron—slow, invasive, and impossible to ignore. Her gaze stayed fixed on the flames, watched as a log split down the middle, its crack echoing softly in the quiet room. The edges of the wood blackened, curling inward with slow, inevitable consumption. Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup, warmth bleeding into her palms.

“‘It is a pleasure to burn.’”

Gomez’s brow lifted slightly, intrigued. But he said nothing, allowing her the space to continue.

“‘It is a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed.’” Wednesday’s tone remained steady, but her eyes never left the fire. “Bradbury. Fahrenheit 451. ”

A low hum of approval rumbled from Gomez’s chest. “Ah, yes. A bit of fire clears the clutter. A good arson every now and then—spiritual or literal—does wonders for tension. Or family bonding, if one knows where to aim the match.”

Wednesday exhaled, a sound caught between a sigh and a reluctant laugh. It left her lips as if surprised to find itself born at all. Her grip on the teacup slackened, and she slowly set it back on the saucer. The porcelain clicked gently, and the sound lingered.

“It was—” she hesitated, then corrected herself with a clenched jaw. “It is infuriating.”

She leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on her knees, fingers laced around the sweater vest still bunched in her lap.

“She wormed her way into my routine with all the grace of a golden retriever,” she muttered, disgusted and fond in equal measure. “Dragging me into conversations. Pulling me into sunlight. Forcing me to participate in…asinine teenage rituals.”

Her eyes flicked toward the fire again, as if ashamed to face the words.

“And… I let her,” she said, voice low. “I found her presence a tolerable, even welcome, occurrence in my daily rotation of chaos.”

Gomez didn’t interrupt. He simply nodded once, as if affirming something she had not said aloud yet.

“I crave her noise,” Wednesday continued, quieter now. Her voice had taken on a raw, nearly transparent quality. “Her absurdity. Her optimism. I crave it. And I hate that.”

The confession felt like smoke, curling and choking. She didn’t look at him. Her stare remained stubbornly on the flames.

“When I told her I didn’t want to see her or hear her or think about her,” she said after a long pause, “some of that was true. Because the more I let her in, the more I admired what I used to mock. Her resilience. Her infuriating kindness. Her loud, unapologetic heart.”

Her fingers curled deeper into the sweater’s fabric, clutching it like a life raft.

“And I… couldn’t stop.”

She inhaled sharply through her nose and set her jaw. Her next words came with a fire that hadn’t been present before—a burn behind her usually cold voice.

“But then Eugene was hurt. And she—Enid—she refused to visit him.”

There it was. The fracture point.

Her voice wavered—not with sadness, but with something fiercer. A fury barely leashed, the start of a forest fire ready to consume acres of land, annihilate the lush forestry and the wildlife that resides within it.

“She called him her friend. Said she cared. But when he was lying in that hospital bed, drugged and groggy and alone, she stayed away.” She spat the last two words like a curse. “She wasn’t there to hold his hand, or distract him with stupid jokes, or just be there. He didn’t say it, but I could see it in his eyes—he wanted his friends to see him. And she didn’t come.”

She finally looked down again at the sweater vest. Her thumbs brushed over the tiny skulls stitched into the hem—crooked, imperfect, handmade.

“I’ve seen what the aftermath of trauma does to people,” she said, softer now. “And I’ve seen what it means when someone shows up anyway. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s uncomfortable.”

Her voice broke just slightly as she added, “Enid didn’t.”

And then, quieter still, but laced with heat: “And that… filled me with a fury I couldn’t name.”

She went silent. The fire crackled on, steady and unbothered, eating through the log in slow, hungry gulps.

Gomez finally leaned forward, his tone grave yet gentle, like the lowering of a flag after battle. “Ah, mi querida. You are angry… because you expected more from her.”

Wednesday met his gaze then. Her eyes, usually so impassive, shimmered with frustration—guarded, fierce, and very hurt.

“And that,” Gomez said softly, “is love.”

He let the word settle in the silence between them.

“The kind that brings pain,” he continued, “because it believes the person can be better. Because it wants them to be.”

Wednesday said nothing. But she didn’t look away. Her dark eyes stayed fixed on him, searching, weighing, perhaps quietly unraveling.

Gomez didn’t push. He remained still for a moment longer, observing how the firelight danced along the hard line of her cheekbone and caught in the strands of her hair like whispers of gold. The shadows carved her expression in stark relief—half-light, half-armor.

Her hands remained curled around the sweater vest in her lap, pale fingers drifting absently over the embroidered skulls. It was a motion that seemed almost unconscious, like muscle memory. Like she didn’t realize she was still holding it.

Gomez finally let out a slow exhale and reached for his pipe again, tapping it thoughtfully against the table’s edge despite it being long since emptied and unused. He wasn’t trying to fill the silence—he respected it—but some truths needed a rhythm to be heard over the clamor of pride.

“I know you’re aware,” he said gently, almost idly, “that young Eugene was part of the tomato-firing squad that ambushed your little playwright after her grand performance.”

There was no shift in Wednesday’s posture, no twitch of the mouth or lift of a brow—just silent, the kind of quiet that meant she was listening very closely. Still, Gomez caught it. A faint flicker at the corner of her eye. A muscle that betrayed her surprise.

“A boy does not join a fruit-armed rebellion,” he added with a small smile, “unless he’s made peace with his would-be enemies.”

Wednesday’s lips tightened into a fine, unreadable line.

Then, slowly, Gomez stood. He moved across the rug with the graceful care of someone approaching a sacred altar. When he reached her, he didn’t take the nearby ottoman. He didn’t crouch in some diplomatic compromise.

He knelt.

Lowered himself to one knee before her, not as a man defeated, but as a father anchoring himself in his daughter’s world.

His hands reached out—warm, callused, familiar. Hands that had wielded swords, cupped her tiny skull as a babe, applauded her first fencing match, steadied her shoulders when she trembled with fury but refused to cry.

Now, those same hands gently took hers.

They were cold. Her fingers bony and pale beneath the long sleeves of her black nightshirt. He frowned faintly at the sight, at the way her wrists looked thinner than he remembered. He held her more carefully—like he had just found a crack in the foundation of a castle he thought he’d fortified.

He held her with scrupulous strength, as though she were something forged of iron and glass all at once—unbreakable until she was.

“My daughter,” he said, voice low and sincere. “You are the most loyal soul I have ever known. Loyal to a fault, perhaps—true to what is right even when it cuts deep. And stubborn in your justice, even when it wounds.”

His words carried no reproach, only reverence.

“You are an Addams through and through.”

Wednesday didn’t speak. But she also didn’t pull away. Her gaze remained fixed on their joined hands, pale fingers resting in his weathered ones, unmoving—save for the faintest tremble that caught the firelight like the shimmer of a blade’s edge.

Gomez let the silence hold a beat longer before continuing, his voice gentler now, dropping into something barely louder than the crackle of the hearth.

“But tell me, mi hija viciosa, if Eugene—bruised, stitched, and left with weeks in a hospital bed—can sit beside Enid Sinclair, laughing, hurling tomatoes with the rest of their merry band…” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Then why do you, my beloved daughter, still hold her in contempt?”

He lifted one hand, brushing the side of hers with a knuckle—a whisper of contact, more comfort than persuasion.

“She made a mistake,” he said. “She was frightened. As all young people are. She stumbled. As we all do.”

When his gaze lifted to hers, it was steady—brimming with that infuriating, disarming paternal tenderness. The kind that could break through any defense, no matter how armored. It had always been that way with Gomez Addams. He did not demand truth with force, but invited it with unbearable kindness.

“You believe in justice, Wednesday. Fiercely. Righteously. But I hope you also believe in grace. In forgiveness .”

Wednesday inhaled slowly through her nose, her jaw tightening against the swell of something rising behind her ribs. Her expression schooled skillfully into indifference—but her grip tightened just slightly around his hands.

Gomez’s lips curved—not in victory, not in smugness—only tender. A quiet ache only fathers could know.

“You don’t have to forget,” he said, tone quiet but firm. “Let the wound remain. Let it remind you how important it is to love better. To choose better. But forgive her. Give her that chance.”

He nodded once, the gesture carrying the gravity of a vow.

“Because love, querida, is not only pain and fire and punishment. It is also mercy. And I believe—deep in these aging Addams bones—that Enid Sinclair is one of those rare souls worth giving it to.”

He didn’t rise. He didn’t press her further. He simply remained kneeling before her, waiting—not for agreement, not even for understanding, but for that delicate, flickering moment when a heart starts to shift.

Wednesday sat motionless, her dark eyes flared in the low light. But her breath came slower now. She breathed like someone afraid that if she made a sound, the ache caught in her chest might finally dislodge, tear its way free and take her with it.

Chapter Text

Once Wednesday had fully recovered from her recent lapse in health—a bout of flu that, in her own words, felt disappointingly like a constant reminder of being merely mortal—she returned to school. The cobblestone courtyard stretched before them, framed by trees now blooming with lush green leaves, their spring shadows dappling the ground beneath.

Pugsley walked beside her, mid-infodump, his voice animated in that familiar, matter-of-fact cadence she had known since they were children. “And that’s why thermobaric bombs use fuel-air mixtures,” he was saying, “because they create an overpressure wave that lasts longer than conventional explosives. The military prefers them for enclosed spaces—like bunkers. Pretty efficient, really.”

Wednesday, with her bag tucked neatly over one shoulder and her eyes fixed straight ahead, gave the occasional hum or curt nod in acknowledgment. She didn’t interrupt. Pugsley was one of the rare individuals she permitted such unfiltered enthusiasm from—a privilege not extended lightly.

They reached her locker, and she spun the dial with a noncommittal hum to Pugsley’s tangent. The metal groaned in protest before yielding open, the sound echoing faintly in the hallway that she quite enjoyed especially when those who flinched at the sound. 

Then Pugsley stopped mid sentence—a subtle feeling that prickled at the back of her neck. Hesitant footsteps approached from behind, uneven and unsure. She didn’t need to look. The discomfort radiating from the person behind her was as obvious as a bloodstain on white silk.

Xavier.

He cleared his throat, a brittle sound that cracked slightly at the end. “Hey, Wednesday,” he said, forcing a sheepish smile.

The greeting hung in the air, tentative. Timid, even. A lesser soul might’ve recoiled beneath the weight of her silence, but Xavier lingered, visibly searching for some thread of connection.

Wednesday’s fingers curled slightly tighter around the spine of the book in her hand, the pages crinkling beneath her grip. A dozen cutting replies bloomed on her tongue, vivid and visceral—threats involving collapsed lungs, pulverized kneecaps, or a poetic description of his organs being removed alphabetically.

But she didn’t let the words pass her lips. 

Instead, she inhaled slowly through her nose and forced the words back down, locking them behind clenched teeth. She reminded herself with immense effort, that Xavier Thorpe was Enid Sinclair’s friend. Perhaps not a cornerstone of her happiness, but certainly someone the girl had laughed with, defended, and called her own. 

And that—regrettably, irritatingly—meant something.

So Wednesday turned, her expression meticulously arranged into what most would interpret as a death glare—but what, for her, was restraint.

“Salutations,” she said, absolutely detached and unmistakably uninviting. It sounded less like a greeting and more like a Victorian malediction.

Xavier beamed.

Not an overjoyed, sunburst kind of beam—but the kind worn by someone who had braced for a slap and instead received a polite nod. Encouraged by the absence of overt hostility, he fidgeted on the spot, rubbing his palms together with the jittery energy of someone stepping onto thin ice already beginning to crack.

“So, uh… I was thinking,” he began, voice a pitch too high, eyes flitting down to his shoes before darting back up. “Now that you’re feeling better and all… maybe you’d want to—uh, I don’t know—grab coffee sometime? Or go for a walk? Not, like, in the woods or anything weird. Unless that’s… your thing?”

Wednesday inhaled slowly through her nose and placed her book into her bag. Her fingers flexed once before curling tightly around the strap of her satchel, knuckles pale beneath the strain.

Romance had never been her area of expertise—nor her concern. The entire concept of relationships, with their erratic emotions and illogical behaviors, remained a field she observed from afar with detached curiosity. And yet, she found herself genuinely bemused by the current development.

Why, precisely, did Thorpe seem to have an interest in her?

Parker had often shared stories of her own experiences—how she maneuvered to catch the attention of those she fancied, the small cues and subtleties she employed to communicate her interest. Wednesday had listened, even filed the knowledge away like a specimen in a jar. But when she replayed her own interactions with Thorpe, she found nothing resembling those behaviors.

No signals. No signs. No logical progression that would lead to this moment.

Pugsley, who had watched the exchange with quiet interest, instinctively took a small step closer to her. His gaze flicked between Xavier and his sister with a kind of cautious expectancy—less out of concern and more like someone waiting to see which trap would spring first. He didn’t speak, but the subtle shift toward her was telling: a wordless offering of solidarity or, if necessary, interception.

Without taking her eyes off Xavier, Wednesday extended one arm and gently, but firmly, pushed Pugsley back with a tap of her fingers to his chest. “I remember teaching you about personal boundaries,” she muttered under her breath, voice laced with dry amusement. “That involved a shucking knife and an unforgivable amount of hydrogen peroxide.”

Pugsley’s smirk curled up like smoke, and he stepped back without protest, arms folding as he settled into a stance of passive anticipation. Expecting the situation to end in a heart mauled to pieces.

Now fully composed, Wednesday lifted her chin and finally turned her full attention on Xavier. Though curiosity lingered beneath her calm exterior—particularly regarding Thorpe’s inexplicable infatuation—she had no intention of giving even the slightest impression that the interest was mutual. Whatever assumptions he had formed, she would ensure they were swiftly and thoroughly dismantled.

“No,” she said.

No vitriol. No sarcasm. No monologue about medieval punishments or eldritch consequences. Just one cold, clean syllable.

Xavier blinked, clearly caught off guard. It intrigued Wednesday—how genuinely shocked he appeared by her answer. In all the years they’d known each other as schoolmates, she had never dated anyone, never shown the slightest inclination toward romantic entanglement. She remained still, arms crossed and gaze steady, as his expression shifted—first from surprise, then to quiet contemplation, and finally, to something that looked like resignation. The corners of his mouth twitched, as if trying to form a response that had already died somewhere between impulse and sense.

Xavier’s shoulders sagged. “Right. Okay. Cool, yeah—no hard feelings,” he mumbled, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just thought I’d ask.”

He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, fingers awkwardly scratching at the nape like he could scrub the embarrassment away. His weight shifted from one foot to the other, a man caught mid-regret, replaying every syllable in his head and wincing at each one.

“Sorry if that was weird. Or—bothering you,” he added quickly, his voice dropping to a quieter, more self-conscious tone.

Wednesday tilted her head ever so slightly, expression unreadable. Her lips remained neither pursed nor parted. The quiet self-pity radiating from Thorpe unsettled her—cloying and uncomfortable in a way that made her fingers twitch with the urge to tell him, plainly, to leave. She wasn’t sure if offering comfort to someone you had just rejected was a social expectation, nor did she care to learn. Still, he was Enid’s friend. They spent a considerable amount of time together, and Wednesday, for all her misgivings, had seen enough to know he was a good friend to her.

“You are not a bother,” she said, her tone level, neither cruel nor kind. “You are simply… misdirected.”

Xavier blinked, then nodded, absorbing the words the way one might receive a polite lecture—like being struck by a book instead of a baseball bat. Jarring, but not damaging.

“Yeah. Got it. Well… see you around, I guess.”

He lifted a hand in a weak, uncertain wave before turning away, melting into the tide of students moving through the hallway—just another body swept along by the bell’s command. Wednesday stood still for a beat, eyes following him until he disappeared from view. Then, without a word, she turned back to her locker. It wasn’t until she reached for the latch that she realized how tense her shoulders had become, the muscles tight and drawn from the lingering discomfort of the exchange. With a slow exhale, she adjusted the strap of her satchel and moved swiftly, fingers methodically retrieving the materials she needed for the morning's classes. The locker door shut behind her with a crisp, final metallic snap .

Pugsley, still standing beside her, leaned in just a fraction—enough to be heard but not enough to tempt her patience.

“That was… nice,” he said cautiously, eyes glinting with amusement. “For you.”

Without looking at him, Wednesday replied, “I am not here to be nice.”

“Still,” Pugsley persisted, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Enid would’ve liked that you were being nice.”

Wednesday turned her head slowly and fixed him with a pointed stare.

Pugsley clamped his mouth shut, lips pressed together in a thin, knowing line. He offered no further commentary, wisely choosing silence as the two of them continued down the corridor. Moments later, they split off toward their respective classes, the echo of their footsteps folding into the din of the crowd.

Enid dashed into the kitchen like a whirlwind, the laces of her shoes only half-tied and her shoulder bag bouncing haphazardly against her hip. Her hair was tousled from the morning wind, strands flying loose around her face, and her jacket hung halfway on, one arm wriggling to find the sleeve. She leaned over the counter and pressed a quick kiss to her father’s cheek, murmuring a breathless, “Love you!” before snatching a piece of toast from the nearest plate. She devoured it in two rapid bites, then snagged a glossy red apple from the fruit bowl as she made a beeline for the door.

“Enid,” her father called after her, his voice calm but firm, the spoon in his hand paused mid-air on its way to his mouth.

Her sneakers squeaked against the floor as she came to an abrupt stop, the apple halfway to her lips. “I’m gonna be late!” she said, speaking around a mouthful. “Bianca’s gonna help me with my biology homework, ’cause for some reason Mrs. Porter thinks it’s vital we learn the basics of botany.”

Her father lowered his spoon and gave her a look. “It’s fine,” he said with a casual shrug. “Doesn’t hurt to be late once in a while.”

That was suspicious.

Enid blinked, brow furrowing slightly. She took a few hesitant steps back toward the kitchen table, idly picking at the apple’s twiggy stem like it might give her answers. “Did I… do something?” she asked slowly, uncertainty creeping into her voice. “Is this about the laundry basket? I swear I was gonna fold it after practice. Or—or is it about Francine? Because technically I didn’t ask before painting her hooves all rainbow, but she looked so cute—”

“No, no,” her father said with a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s not that.”

His smile faltered, softening into something more introspective. “I heard what happened after the play. That… your mom showed up.”

Enid’s jaw tightened. She turned her gaze away, biting into the apple with a little more force than necessary. Her shoulders rose in a casual shrug, but the motion was too stiff, too practiced to be genuine.

“I’m not gonna tell you not to be mad,” her father said gently, placing his fork down on the edge of his plate. “Or to forget what she said. It wasn’t right, and you’ve got every reason to be angry at her for it.”

Enid made a low sound—something between a grunt and a sigh—and leaned her hip against the counter, the edge pressing into her jeans. The apple in her hand suddenly seemed less appetizing, its sweetness dulled by the weight in her chest. She stared down at it, turning it over in her palm, her thumb dragging across the red skin in slow, absent circles, like she could press hard enough to leave a mark. Like bruising the fruit would somehow ease the sting of her mother’s words.

“She’s trying,” her father said softly after a moment, his voice cautious, like stepping too close might startle her away. “Trying to be better. Doesn’t always look like much, I know. And maybe it feels more like falling off a cliff than stumbling forward…”

“Definitely the cliff,” Enid muttered, voice flat and quiet, muffled behind another bite of apple she didn’t really want.

Her father laughed—an easy, weathered sound, warm enough to soften the tension in the room. The kind of laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes, familiar and grounding. He reached out, resting a broad hand on her shoulder. 

“I’m not saying you have to forgive her, hon,” he said, his tone firm but kind. “That’s your decision. It’s your pain, and you get to carry it however you want. However you need to. But… if she really is trying, maybe it’s worth noticing. Doesn’t mean you forget. Doesn’t mean she gets to skip the consequences. Just means maybe… when you’re ready… you don’t close the door completely.”

Enid didn’t answer right away. Her jaw worked slightly as she chewed, but her eyes were far away—focused somewhere just beyond the kitchen tiles. Her free hand nudged at the table leg with the toe of her shoe.

“I’ll think about it,” she said at last, her voice low. 

Her father nodded, like that was all he hoped for.

Enid leaned over and snagged a strip of bacon off his plate, stuffing it into her mouth before he could react. She chewed with exaggerated gusto, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Emotional compensation,” she said around the crunch. “Therapy isn’t free, old man.”

He let out a full-bodied laugh, shoulders shaking as he picked his fork back up. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Enid blew him a kiss as she turned for the door, her jacket finally zipped up, apple clutched in one hand, and that strip of stolen bacon still half-chewed. Her boots were still untied, bag still slung haphazardly over one shoulder.

Wednesday Addams had many virtues—patience, unfortunately, was not one of them. As she stalked through the school’s halls, the sharp rhythm of her boots echoed with restrained fury. Each step only amplified the irritation festering within her. Enid Sinclair—infuriatingly vibrant, relentlessly cheerful, and in possession of a talent for making Wednesdays simultaneously worse and better—was nowhere to be found.

Typical.

The one time Wednesday had willingly sought her out, unprovoked and with intention—the one time she had steeled herself to endure Enid’s chaotic warmth for the sake of confronting the tangle of unspoken emotions between them—Enid had decided to be late.

It felt karmic. A cruel joke from the universe. Perhaps this was retribution for the time Wednesday had slipped away without a word when Enid was looking for her, repeatedly. If so, it was petty. And effective.

Her dark gaze narrowed as she approached a student lounging near the lockers—the one person she detested having to ask for help: Yoko Tanaka.

“Where is Sinclair?” she demanded, her words forced through clenched teeth with an edge that almost passed for civility.

Yoko lowered her sunglasses with a slow, deliberate drag of her finger, peering over the rim with a raised brow. Her chewing gum snapped with an audible pop as she cocked her head to the side, the corners of her lips curling into a smirk—amused and entirely unbothered. With effortless confidence, she lifted an arm and looped it around Divina’s shoulders, tugging her close casually.

“Relax, Terrible Terror,” Yoko said with a smirk. “She’s just running late.”

Unacceptable. Unforgivable. A headache with teeth.

Wednesday gave no response. She turned sharply on her heel, If Enid had decided to make her wait, then wait she would. At lunch, Wednesday would find her, and the words she had prepared would stew in her mind until then.

That had been the plan.

But as the day dragged on, it became increasingly clear that the universe was not yet finished tormenting her.

The whispers began mid-morning—low and serpentine. Threads of laughter weaving behind her back. She caught fragments at first: breathy giggles, muffled laughter, half-heard phrases exchanged just out of reach. Eyes trailed after her in the corridors, only to dart away when she turned. She wasn’t naive. She wasn’t blind. She was, however, curious—if only to identify which cretin she would metaphorically skin first.

By the time lunch arrived, her mood had fermented into something bitter and boiling. She strode down the hall toward the cafeteria, shoulders squared and jaw set, a storm in five foot one, gothic Latina.

Just outside the double doors, Wednesday spotted Parker, Eugene, and Yoko. The trio stood stiffly, their expressions knotted with anxiety, voices overlapping in a flurry of hushed urgency. Hands moved wildly, as if the sheer motion could dispel whatever crisis had descended upon them.

It was clear—something had happened. And judging by their wide, panicked eyes and ghost-pale faces, it wasn’t good.

They noticed her immediately.

“Wednesday!” Eugene called out, arms flailing like a malfunctioning windmill. “Hey! Maybe let’s not go to lunch today! I think there’s, uh, a fire drill! Or—or maybe we should take a walk! A long one. Like… all the way to town!”

Yoko was already moving into position, subtly placing herself between Wednesday and the doors. She forced a smile, though it was strained at the edges. “Seriously. Let’s bail. I’ll even let you pick the crypt we break into. My treat.”

Wednesday slowed, boots clicking softly against the floor as she came to a deliberate halt. Her eyes swept over them—Parker, standing off to the side with arms folded and lips pressed thin in barely concealed exasperation; Eugene, still jittery and buzzing with nervous energy; and Yoko, trying too hard to look casual.

Her stare was cold.. The kind that made people forget how to breathe.

“Move,” she said, her tone flat.

Parker groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I told you this wasn’t going to work.”

Yoko and Eugene hesitated—then parted like curtains as Wednesday pushed open the doors.

The cafeteria fell silent.

It was almost instantaneous, the shift in atmosphere—a hush that rolled through the space like a death knell. The scrape of metal chairs stilled. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. It was as if her presence had pulled the oxygen from the room, leaving only the stale taste of anticipation and dread.

She stepped inside, spine straight, boots echoing against the linoleum like the beat of a funeral march. Her gaze swept the room—calculating, calm, lethal in its focus.

And then she saw them.

Flyers.

Everywhere.

Rustling in the hands of students who immediately looked away. Tacked sloppily to walls and vending machines. Sticking out of fruit bowls. Jammed between lunch trays. Plastered across the bulletin board in a chaotic, overlapping mess.

And on every one of them was her face.

Or… something like it.

A grotesque caricature—her pale face poorly cropped onto an oversexualized body clad in black leather and fishnets. Arms crossed beneath absurdly exaggerated breasts, posture twisted into some pitiful attempt at seduction. Her expression had been digitally warped, stretched and twisted into something obscene and cartoonish. A mockery.

Crude.

Infantile.

Insultingly unoriginal.

The kind of juvenile idiocy she would expect from hormonal teenagers with Wi-Fi access, not the students of a so-called elite institution. It wasn’t clever. It wasn’t edgy. It was the product of idle, decaying minds who believed provocation was a substitute for intelligence.

Wednesday didn’t move.

Her expression didn’t flicker.

But beneath the calm mask, beneath the blank composure carved from stone, her disgust coiled like a living thing.

It wasn’t rage—it was contempt. The kind of loathing that settled deep in the bones. Because she could endure idiocy. She had endured worse. But this—

This was different.

This wasn’t a prank. This was her likeness twisted, her boundaries violated, her personhood reduced to something grotesque and performative for the amusement of cowards hiding behind anonymity.

They had taken the unknowable, the unapproachable, and tried to drag it into the light of ridicule. But they had done it poorly. Sloppily. Without craft or courage. Which only deepened her disdain.

Her pride was not so brittle that it could be cracked by pixels and paper. It had been forged in the crucible of judgment, tempered by solitude, and embalmed long ago with defiance.

These were her peers? These brainless, hormonal ghouls in discount fashion who couldn’t find fulfillment in anything other than cheap laughs and social demolition? To be grouped in their developmental bracket— to be the same age —was, frankly, the most degrading realization of all.

If Darwin’s theory of natural selection were to manifest within Nevermore, Wednesday had a short list of who would not make it past the first hour.

But—

And this was a very important but —

Wednesday saw a girl near the vending machine, frozen mid-sip, her expression twisted in visible disgust as she silently turned a flyer face-down on the table as if it physically repulsed her.

In the far back corner, a small group of sophomores gathered up armfuls of the posters, folding them over and over with urgent, disgusted hands before shoving them into the nearest trash bin. Their expressions are tight and grim—like they were disposing of something foul and decomposing.

Closer by, she saw Yoko quietly press her heel into a stack of flyers near the bin, grinding down until the pages tore underfoot. Her and Enid’s friend group moved through the cafeteria in urgency—Bianca, Xavier, and Divina tearing down posters from walls and bulletin boards, stuffing them into Kent and Ajax’s arms. The two boys dumped handfuls into trash cans already overflowing with crumpled, obscene paper.

They had tried.

Wednesday could see that now. The posters she still saw lingering were but a fraction of what must have blanketed the room before her arrival.

Wednesday doesn't even acknowledge the whole debacle. Didn’t acknowledge the flyers, nor the crowd, nor the fading whispers still brushing against the silence like dying embers. She turned to the lunch line, stepping forward, her fingers stretching toward a metal tray.

The lunch tray clattered back onto the metal stack as Wednesday's hand froze in mid-reach.

The cafeteria doors slammed open behind her with a thunderous crack .

Even the loudest table near the vending machines—one that had laughed a little too loudly only seconds ago—fell dead quiet. Heads turned in a wave, necks craning, chatter dying in throats.

Enid Sinclair stood at the threshold like the final act of divine retribution.

Her silhouette was stark against the fluorescent hallway behind her. Her posture was taut, alive with fury—fists clenched at her sides, shoulders squared, her jaw locked, her chest heaving with barely restrained wrath. She walked with purpose, wide strides like a freight train with no intention of slowing down. Her usually bright eyes, warm and full of laughter, were now burning—narrowed, dark, and dangerous.

It would’ve seemed uncharacteristic—if anyone else had been watching. But those who truly knew her knew  the girl beneath the glitter and smiles that this wasn’t a break in her nature. This was her nature. The wolf had simply decided to stop being polite.

Kent stepped into her path immediately, hands up, voice loud but pleading, “Enid, wait—just—just wait a second—”

She didn’t even pause.

Her palm pressed flat to his chest and shoved—not hard, but with enough force to move him aside like a curtain in her way. She didn’t look at him. Her gaze had already locked onto her target, three tables down and completely unaware of the hell sprinting toward him.

Still holding a handful of posters. Still in the middle of dumping them into the trash.

Enid reached him in seconds. Her hand shot out, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie. She yanked him forward with the strength of a battering ram—his knees buckling, his balance faltering—

And then came the strike.

Her fist arced cleanly through the air, colliding with the side of his face with a crack that silenced even the most desensitized students. Flesh met bone in a brutal, sickening note, like a hammer splitting green wood.Xavier’s head snapped sideways. 

And then—

Chaos.

Students yelled, some scrambled away, others pulled out their phones like hyenas scenting blood. Trays hit the floor. Plastic clattered. Juice spilled. Someone in the far corner cheered, but it was quickly drowned by shouting.

Xavier hit the ground hard, knees jarring as his palms scraped against the cold tiled floor, catching his weight just in time to stop a complete sprawl. His head snapped sideways from the impact, and a raw, blooming flush rose angrily across his cheek. He winced, lips parting in disbelief.

Standing above him, Enid Sinclair trembled from the sheer force of rage coursing through her. Her chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone bone white. Her voice, when it came, cracked with fury and restraint alike.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” she spat, the words shaking as much as her arms. “You think humiliating people is some kind of game to you?”

Xavier blinked up at her, hand half-raised in defense. His voice stammered with genuine confusion. “What—what are you even talking about?”

“The flyers!” she roared, voice cracking under the weight of her rage. “You think I wouldn’t find out it was you?!”

Before she could step in and strike again, a blur of motion swept in from the side. Yoko darted forward and grabbed Enid’s left arm, pulling her back with both hands and planting her feet, trying to pull her back.

“Whoa—okay, Sinclair—hey—easy!” Yoko’s voice was sharp with urgency, her grip firm but cautious.

“Let me go!” Enid snarled, twisting in her hold, her body still straining toward Xavier.

On the other side, Kent burst in, breathless and wide-eyed, gripping her right arm and dragging her back. “Jesus, Enid— chill! What the hell happened?!”

Enid’s teeth bared in a snarl, the fury clawing its way through her chest. Her whole frame shuddered with the magnitude of it, like a dam seconds from breaking.

And then Eugene—sweet, clever Eugene—wrapped his arms around her waist at her front and anchored her still

The electric buzz of adrenaline continued to course through her veins, but at the sensation of Eugene’s touch, her body stilled instantly. Her fists remained clenched, trembling faintly in the grasp of the friends still holding her back. Her breath came in harsh bursts, chest rising and falling like a storm refusing to die out—rage and panic still crackling beneath her skin.

But she didn’t move.

Not with Eugene so close. Not with the weight of his trust pressing gently against her. Her every muscle stayed taut, not out of tension, but out of caution. She was mindful of him—always. He may have recovered, physically and emotionally, but the guilt that Enid bore hadn’t loosened its grip. It lingered like a shadow, and she’d long since vowed that anything she did—any impulse, any reaction—would never put him in harm’s way again.

On the ground, Xavier groaned as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He wiped at the smear of blood at the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve, casting a glare up at her through narrowed, incredulous eyes.

“You’re nuts, Sinclair,” he spat, scoffing. “Completely psycho.”

Whatever insult he’d planned to follow with was swallowed by the rising outcry of their friend group. Shocked gasps, angry mutters—murmurs of disapproval and judgment.

Bianca pushed forward, flanked by Divina and Ajax, the three of them stepping in unison to plant themselves squarely between Enid and Xavier. Together, they formed a wall hoping it would deter another attempt for any more physical altercations. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Bianca said coldly, eyes glared between both parties. Her arms crossed tightly across her chest. “Everyone needs to take a breath. ”

Ajax nodded, though his attention was fixed on Xavier, disbelief written all over his face. “Dude. Just stop talking.”

Divina moved closer to Enid, her hands raised gently in a calming gesture. “Let’s talk it out, Eenie. Okay? Please.”

But Enid wasn’t looking at any of them.

Her head snapped back toward Xavier, eyes narrowing into sharp slits of disbelief and disgust. She stared at him as if she couldn’t believe he was real—couldn’t believe the gall he had to still breathe easy.

“I’m psycho?” she said, her voice lower now, but no less venomous. “I’m the psycho? You made a sex joke—with a flyer all over the school—and you’re calling me unhinged?”

Xavier flinched. His posture stiffened as the weight of their stares settled over him like lead.

Xavier’s voice cracked as he stumbled over his defense, hands half-raised like a man caught in a storm he hadn’t expected. “I didn’t—I didn’t make the flyers, okay? Yeah, that caricature, the drawing? That was mine, but it wasn’t like that! I sketch people all the time—everyone knows that!”

His eyes darted around the room, scanning the crowd for even a flicker of understanding. His friends’ faces met him with narrowed eyes, arms folded or jaws tight in suspicion. Not a single one looked convinced.

Enid's eyes flared. She took a step forward, a sudden movement restrained only by the iron grip Eugene maintained around her waist. Her voice was sharp and loud, cutting across the silence that had fallen again. “That’s real convenient, Thorpe,” she snapped, each word laced with venom. “I heard you got rejected by Wednesday this morning then suddenly the flyers are everywhere! Locker rooms hold a lot of secrets. You might wanna be more careful who’s within earshot.”

Xavier went pale. The blood drained from his face, leaving him staring at her like she’d just ripped something out of his chest and held it to the light.

Enid surged forward again, her instincts coiled and ready to strike—but Eugene’s arms tightened around her torso, anchoring her in place with a desperate strength. The sudden tension threw off his balance. He wobbled, the heel of his sneaker sliding slightly against the mess-streaked floor beneath them.

That was all it took.

Enid halted instantly. The rage that had gripped her like a vice cracked under the weight of instinct. She twisted her head back, eyes wide with alarm as she reached out and gripped Eugene’s arm with a firm, steadying hand—catching him before he could tumble. Her voice softened, heavy with guilt.

“Sorry,” she murmured, brows drawn tight. “Are you okay?”

Eugene nodded quickly, face flushed and anxious. He lifted a shaky thumbs-up—but still, he didn’t let go of her.

Meanwhile Xavier scrambled to his feet, his knees knocking against the underside of a table as he stood. Tomato-streaked flyers clung to his jeans and the hem of his hoodie. He began brushing them off with frantic hands, lips parting in desperation.

“I swear to God, it wasn’t me!” he cried, spinning to anyone who would meet his eyes. “You have to believe me—I didn’t do this!”

He didn’t get the chance to say anything more. Divina advanced toward him, her brow deeply furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. Without hesitation, she reached out and grasped Xavier’s wrist with a firm grip. She began pulling him steadily toward the double doors.

“Divina—what—what are you doing?” he stammered, trying to backpedal as she turned.

“We’re gonna talk,” she said simply.

Then she dragged him toward the cafeteria’s double doors, shoving them open with a bang that echoed down the hall behind them. The doors clattered shut, sealing off any protests that may have followed.

The  cafeteria was filled with whispers and scattered glances.

Finally—mercifully—adults arrived. The cafeteria doors opened again and two teachers burst in, commanding students back to their tables. One confiscated a flyer from a nearby tray. Another began ordering the cleanup of the mess, voices crisp and edged with authority. The tension in the air didn’t vanish—it shifted, turning into uneasy murmurs and darting glances.

And then, through the clearing crowd, Principal Weems emerged.

Her heels clicked like gunshots on the tile. Her expression was carved in marble: cold, unreadable, and unrelenting. She stopped just short of Enid, arms folded tightly across her chest. One perfectly shaped brow arched as she leveled a look that could slice steel.

“Office,” she said.

Just the one word. Nothing more.

Enid straightened, jaw clenched, pulse pounding loud in her ears. She glanced at Eugene, then at Yoko and Kent—both had hovered near her like anxious satellites, their hands lingering for a moment before releasing her. Without a word, Enid turned sharply on her heel and walked away, the red-hot pulse of fury still burning low and steady beneath her skin.

Wednesday found Enid sprawled on one of the unforgiving plastic chairs outside Principal Weems' office, looking like a modern-day martyr awaiting crucifixion. Her head rested against the beige wall, eyes closed, lips parted just slightly as her chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. Behind the counter, the school secretary kept shooting cautious glances toward the blonde, her wariness thinly veiled beneath a strained smile and the rapid clack of her keyboard.

Wednesday’s gaze trailed to the swelling on Enid’s hand—angry, blooming bruises spreading across her knuckles in the shape of justice. She noted the way only the precise joints and ridges had darkened, no swelling on the wrist, no hesitation in the placement of the impact. It was the mark of restraint wrapped around instinct. Controlled destruction. Beautiful, tactical violence.

She couldn’t help herself.

It was maddening, really, how the contradiction that was Enid Sinclair continued to ensnare her. The girl who lit up rooms with smiles and glitter pens was the same girl who, when pushed far enough, moved like a storm with teeth. The same girl who cooed at kittens was also capable of delivering a punch sharp enough to silence a room full of cowards and voyeurs. Enid’s fury wasn’t wild or chaotic—it was elegant, like lightning trapped in a jar, waiting for the right moment to shatter the glass.

And that—Lilith help her—that was irresistibly attractive.

Wednesday’s boots made soft thuds against the linoleum floor as she stepped closer.

“If I had known you were capable of hand-to-hand combat,” Wednesday said calmly, “I would’ve insisted Parker add a duel to the third act.”

Enid startled, sitting upright with such speed the chair legs scraped harshly against the floor. “Wednesday?” she squeaked, the flush in her cheeks deepening immediately.

Wednesday tilted her head, impassive. “Yes,” she said flatly. “That is my name.”

Enid blinked, trying to recalibrate. “Right,” she muttered, running her hand through her hair, stopping short at the tender ache in her knuckles. “Sorry, I’m just… surprised.”

Wednesday rolled her eyes. “Why? Did you assume I would be pacing the crypt, inconsolable over poorly edited erotica posters?” Her voice was dry, but the arch of her brow betrayed a hint of amusement.

Enid frowned, crossing her arms with a snort. “No. But that doesn’t mean it should’ve happened. Whether you care or not, it was disgusting. They crossed a line.”

There was fire in her voice still, simmering low beneath the surface. A righteous heat that had only begun to settle.

Wednesday studied her, quiet for a beat. Then, almost too soft to catch: “I know.”

Wednesday sat down beside Enid with the grace of someone who had long mastered the art of silence and presence. She didn’t say anything at first, merely reached into the folds of her coat and produced a small ice pack—slightly defrosted, likely swiped from the nurse’s station without permission or apology. Enid blinked at it.

Without asking, Wednesday gently took Enid’s wrist, cradling it with a kind of careful reverence. Her fingers, cool but not cold, contrasted the sudden jolt of chill as the ice pack met bruised flesh. Enid hissed under her breath, instinctively pulling back, but Wednesday held firm.

“Hold still,” Wednesday murmured. 

Enid winced, her eyes flickering up to meet Wednesday’s impassive face. “I didn’t expect you to bring a first aid kit.”

“I didn’t,” Wednesday replied, her gaze locked on the darkening bruises blooming across Enid’s knuckles. “I stole this.”

Enid chuckled despite herself, then hissed again as the ice pack shifted against her skin. “Of course you did.”

A brief pause settled between them, filled only by the distant toll of a bell echoing down the hallway and the soft shuffles from the secretary’s desk nearby. Then Wednesday’s voice broke the quiet.

“How did you learn to fight?”

Enid gave a small, wry smile, her tone suddenly lighter, as if the weight pressing on her shoulders had lessened, even if just a little. “Four older brothers,” she said. “They made sure I could knock someone out before they left for college.”

Wednesday raised a brow, a flicker of amusement and respect crossing her features. “Sensible. If nothing else, I’ll credit them with ensuring your physical competency.”

She repositioned the ice pack slightly, brushing her thumb along Enid’s wrist in a motion that was probably more comforting than she realized. “Though,” Wednesday added with a touch of disdain, “I was never particularly fond of your brothers. Their antics always reeked of stale testosterone and underdeveloped frontal lobes.”

Enid snorted softly. “Yeah, well… they didn’t exactly love you either.”

“Mutual disdain is a perfectly healthy dynamic,” Wednesday replied dryly.

Enid’s expression softened, her voice quieter now, tinged with a trace of nostalgia. “They’re not as close to me now as they used to be,” she admitted. Her fingers flexed beneath the ice pack, a faint tremble just barely hidden. “But back then, I had them wrapped around my finger. They’d eat the dirt cake I made at five years old. And they made sure no one messed with me without earning the full Sinclair wrath.”

“I’ll also give your brothers credit for one other thing,” she said thoughtfully. “They were smart enough never to target Pugsley with their insipid pranks.”

Enid blinked, caught off guard by the comment. “Oh,” she said, before her mouth curved into a fond and slightly sheepish grin. “Yeah… that was mostly because of me.”

Wednesday raised a single brow, wordlessly inviting Enid to elaborate.

Enid shrugged with the shoulder not tethered to the ice pack. “I kind of sat them down once after I saw Pugsley being bullied by the other kids,” she admitted. “Told them Pugsley’s off-limits. I said… he’s a little sibling. And I’m a little sibling. So if they messed with him, it’d be like they were messing with me.”

Wednesday’s hand remained loosely curled around Enid’s wrist. The melting edge of the ice pack dripped slowly onto her knuckle, yet she made no move to wipe it away. Her eyes flicked—first to the fading bruise, then to Enid’s fingers, and finally to the slight smile curling on Enid’s lips like warmth sneaking beneath a closed door.

Then she fixed her gaze straight ahead, spine taut, her mind suddenly—though not for the first time—noisy.

Enid had stood between her brothers and Pugsley.

Enid had drawn a line in the sand—not for her own benefit, but for his. Enid had decided that because she knew what it was like to be a younger sibling, she wouldn’t let someone else suffer needlessly.

That kind of loyalty, that quiet, unflinching kindness... It was infuriating.

It was stupid.

It was—

Lilith, it was unbearable .

Wednesday’s chest felt far too tight to contain the heart racing wildly within her. Her ribs did an excellent job of imprisoning a pulse that had no business quickening this way—especially not in the presence of someone who laughed like sunshine and swore like thunder.

She could not look at Enid again. Not with the phantom of that ridiculous smile burned into the inside of her skull, etched behind her eyes like a brand.

Her jaw shifted slowly, a quiet grind of tension, as though sheer movement alone could still the churning beneath her skin. She withdrew her hand, fingers trailing a beat longer than necessary against the thrum of Enid’s pulse

Enid didn’t even notice what she was doing to her.

Of course she didn’t.

“Why do you do things like that?” Wednesday asked stiffly, eyes fixed forward, her voice colder than she meant it to be. “No one asked you to protect Pugsley. Not even me.”

Enid blinked, a bit thrown. “Because I just wanted to.”

And that was it. No fanfare. No explanation. Just sincerity, offered like a heartbeat.

Wednesday pressed her lips together into a thin line. She turned her face toward the far wall, watching the cheap school clock tick forward with slow, patronizing smugness.

Enid Sinclair was a problem. A very loud, kind, infuriating, ridiculous, soft-hearted problem.

The scent of oil and fresh-cut grass drifted into the waiting area moments before he appeared.

Mr. Sinclair stepped through the main office threshold in a rushed blur—his work boots tracking a thin layer of dust, overalls damp with sweat and stained with patches of motor grease. His hair, hastily combed, was already unraveling, strands falling messily across his forehead. He had clearly grabbed his cleanest flannel in haste, the shirt left unbuttoned near the collar as if he’d barely paused to dress.

None of that mattered the instant his eyes landed on his daughter.

“Pumpkin,” he breathed, and the lines around his eyes creased deeper as he moved—no, dropped—to one knee in front of her. “Are you okay? Did someone hurt you?”

Before Wednesday could cut in to say that Enid was the one that hurt somebody, Enid laughed softly, reaching out to flick a finger lightly against the brim of his worn cap. “Come on, old man. You had four sons. They taught your only little girl the best way to slice a forehead open with an elbow so someone’s blinded by their own blood.”

There was a brief pause.

Wednesday blinked.

Then blinked again.

She felt her entire spine go taut, as if her vertebrae had suddenly been replaced by steel rods. Heat surged up her neck in a violent, traitorous wave, blooming across her face like an uninvited wildfire. Her fingers twitched in her lap—once, twice—before curling inward in a desperate attempt at composure.

She was going to combust.

The way Enid had said it—with that easy, sunlit grin, as if she were discussing puppy breeds or pie recipes, not the brutal artistry of bloodied combat. Her voice was light, amused, perfectly paired with the startling precision of the tactic described—was unfair. Unholy. Unbearably attractive.

Was she… gay panicking?

Absolutely.

Enid's words struck her like a spell cast in bright technicolor—deadly, dazzling, and far too effective.

Wednesday wasn’t sure if she wanted to grab her collar and kiss her, or bolt into the taxidermy room and throw herself face-first into a vat of formaldehyde just to cool down.

Either way, she needed a moment. Or a decade.

Mr. Sinclair chuckled, a deep, warm sound, completely unbothered. “You remembered that, huh?”

“Muscle memory,” Enid grinned, proud.

Clearing her throat softly, Wednesday rose to her feet. “Mr. Sinclair,” she said politely, though her tone retained its characteristic morbid calmness, “it's a pleasure to meet you.”

He turned his head to look at her, still crouched at Enid’s side. “Thank you, Wednesday, for staying with her. I appreciate it.”

The secretary looked up from her desk and waved a hand. “Mr. Sinclair, you can go in now. Principal Weems is waiting.”

He nodded, standing and brushing dust off his knees. He turned to Enid, then tilted his head toward the office door.

Enid stood as well, reaching for the strap of her backpack. But as she turned toward the door, she caught sight of Wednesday falling into step behind them.

Enid blinked. “Uh. What are you doing?”

Wednesday looked at her like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I am involved. Indirectly. My presence in the office will provide a clearer perspective on the incident. It will benefit you.”

Enid tilted her head, blinking again. “You’re… coming in there? With me?”

Wednesday merely nodded.

Enid looked to her father, who gave a small shrug and an expression that clearly said, might as well.

A breath escaped her, but there was a smile tugging at the edge of her lips. She turned back toward the office. “Well. Alright then. Let’s go.”

Principal Weems looked up from her desk and immediately dropped her shoulders in visible defeat the moment she caught sight of Wednesday Addams trailing in after Enid and Mr. Sinclair.

“Oh no,” Weems muttered, placing her face into both hands with a groan. “Not today. Please, not today.”

The reaction warmed Wednesday’s soul.

She took a steadying breath as if savoring the despair in the air like a rich perfume. There was a peculiar satisfaction in knowing her mere presence could drain the color from even the most stoic adult’s face. It was a small, exquisite chaos—its own kind of reward.

Beside her, Enid raised a brow, leaning in slightly. “Do you cause that reaction often?” she whispered.

Wednesday shrugged subtly, her eyes glinting with quiet pride. “Only when I walk into rooms.”

Weems rubbed her temples as though willing the migraine to fade beneath her fingertips. “Miss Addams,” she said, voice tight with exhaustion, “Why are you in my office?”

“I am here because I am indirectly involved in the incident that took place in the cafeteria,” Wednesday replied, folding her hands behind her back and stepping forward with the slow grace of a prosecuting attorney. “I believe I can shed light on the events that led to the altercation—specifically, the social hazing attempt involving the mass distribution of a grotesque, sexualized digital edit of my face.”

Weems let out a quiet sigh, her fingers briefly pressing to her temple before she lowered them to the desk. “Yes. That was supposed to be addressed in a later meeting with your parents,” she murmured, her voice tight with restrained irritation. She gestured vaguely toward her office door, her movements slow and tired. “Mr. Thorpe is currently in the nurse’s office. Nurse Jackson suspects a possible fracture in his cheekbone. He’s being prepped for transfer to Jericho General for imaging.”

She paused, her eyes lingering on Enid with a flicker of scrutiny before shifting to Mr. Sinclair and finally to Wednesday. “Rest assured, we will be conducting a full investigation into the situation.”

There it was again.

That flutter.

That electrifying rush through her chest that stirred something ancient and instinctive in her ribcage.

There was something transcendental about Enid Sinclair’s righteous wrath. The sheer force behind it. Not the brutish, reckless anger of someone who lashed out at the world—but a controlled fury, wielded like a blade on behalf of those she cared for.

That she could cradle Eugene to protect him, yet land a perfect blow to shatter a bone. That she restrained herself from causing collateral damage yet unleashed enough force to leave a lasting mark. It was art. It was glorious. It was devotion etched in bruises and trembling restraint.

And Enid had done it for her.

Wednesday stared at the back of Enid’s head with something bordering on reverence.

“Good,” Wednesday said softly, almost to herself. “Let it scar.”

Weems seemed oblivious to the remark. She sighed again, gesturing toward the chairs arranged across from her desk. “Mr. Sinclair, Enid, Wednesday… please, sit. We need to discuss how to move forward with this.”

Principal Weems laced her fingers together atop the desk, the midday sun filtering through the tall windows and catching the faint gold at the tips of her glasses. Her expression remained carefully composed—neutral in theory—but there was a weariness behind her eyes. One that spoke of an internal battle already fought long before the students arrived in her office.

“As noble as your intentions may have been, Miss Sinclair,” she began slowly, “the school still enforces a zero-tolerance policy on violence.”

Enid flinched. The words struck harder than any punch she’d thrown.

She sank further into the chair, her spine curving inward with the weight of shame. The heat that had flared in her chest just hours ago—the fire that fueled her fists—was gone now, replaced with a curling, uncomfortable guilt that twisted her stomach. Her gaze dropped to her lap, where her hands fidgeted over the slowly warming cold pack. Her knuckles still throbbed beneath it, a dull reminder of the cost.

Weems continued, her tone not cruel, but firm. “As a result of your actions, you’ll be suspended from the basketball team for the remainder of the school year. You may rejoin next semester—pending both behavioral and academic evaluations.”

Enid shot upright in her seat, a breath caught in her throat.

“What? No!” Her voice cracked with disbelief. “Please, you can’t—I’ll take more custodial shifts, I’ll do double the community service, I’ll repaint the whole gym if you want. Just… please, don’t take that from me.”

Her voice broke on the last word. Desperation had crept into it.

At her side, her father calmly placed a hand on her shoulder. His touch was steady, grounding her in the moment even as her world tilted. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to match her breathing to the quiet rhythm of his thumb rubbing small, steady circles into her jacket sleeve.

“Larissa,” he began, his voice softer than expected,“I understand the school has to maintain order. But isn’t there an alternative? Something that still holds her accountable but doesn’t jeopardize her varsity standing? This team… it means everything to her.”

Principal Weems’s lips pressed into a thin line. A muscle twitched in her jaw as she glanced toward the edge of her desk. Then, with a sigh that seemed to drain her posture, she leaned back. For a long moment, she didn’t speak—just sat there, shoulders drawn, mind clearly warring with the limitations of her position and her desire to protect the student in front of her.

Then, finally, she sighed. It was the kind of breath that pulled her back into her seat and stole an inch of pride with it.

“Murray—Mr. Sinclair,” she said, correcting herself with a flicker of awkwardness. “You know as well as I do that I was already lenient with Enid’s previous infractions. We agreed on restorative measures instead of disciplinary records. That was a courtesy... partly in recognition of our past.”

She folded her arms across the desk, her expression now harder to read. “But this... what happened today in the cafeteria—no matter the provocation—was a public fight on school grounds. I can’t make an exception for it. If I do it once, I’ll be expected to again. And I won’t allow accusations of favoritism to compromise the integrity of this school.”

Enid looked down at her hands, fists clenched in her lap. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. Her father didn’t argue again, but his hand stayed on her shoulder.

She had just gotten back into practice. She had missed the skirmishes with her teammates, the weekend drills, the pre-game rituals. The court had always been her sanctuary. Now, it felt like someone had slammed the doors shut just as she reached them. And worse—this suspension could threaten her scholarship chances for university.

The silence had started to settle, heavy and uncomfortable, until Wednesday broke it with just two words.

"Five months."

Her voice was even, but it cut through the silence like the guillotine she built for her dolls.

Principal Weems’s head jerked upward as if pulled by an invisible string. Her eyes snapped toward Wednesday, narrowing just slightly in sharp focus. Across the desk, Enid and her father exchanged confused glances, turning their attention toward the Addams girl. Wednesday remained composed, sitting with her hands neatly folded in her lap, her expression stoic as ever. Both father and daughter watched the silent exchange between the two women.

Wednesday’s voice came again, this time softer, but no less firm. “Marraine, s'il te plaît.”

Enid blinked at the unfamiliar words, startled. “Wait… you speak French?”

Wednesday didn’t respond. Her dark eyes remained fixed on Principal Weems, who had gone unnervingly still. Her posture was straighter now, more rigid. There was an expression on her face that didn’t belong in the bright, polished office of a school administrator. If Enid stared long enough, she could almost see the sorrow flickering behind the calculation in Weems’s eyes.

Weems inhaled slowly, deeply. Her gaze shifted from Enid, to Mr. Sinclair, then back to Wednesday. Her fingers curled once against the edge of the desk before she laced them together in her lap, clearly conflicted.

Enid frowned, glancing between them, unsettled by the silence stretching out longer than it should have. “Okay, wait. What’s ‘five months’ supposed to mean?”

Weems raised a hand, waving it off with a vague flick of her fingers as if she were brushing away smoke. “It means nothing,” she murmured, pinching the bridge of her nose and exhaling through her teeth.

Wednesday finally turned her head. Her eyes found Enid’s and locked in place. “It means a duration of time,” she said flatly.

Enid’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “I know what it literally means, smartass.”

“Ladies, please,” Principal Weems interjected with a clipped tone, regaining control of the room. She sat forward again, smoothing her blazer and folding her hands tightly atop the desk. “Let’s keep this professional.”

There was a pause.

Weems breathed out, then spoke again—reluctant, but clear.

“Miss Sinclair will report to campus during the summer break to assist custodial staff and participate in the outreach programs tied to Nevermore’s community service initiative. She will complete seventy hours, exactly. And should there be any further incidents—verbal or physical—her position will be reevaluated.”

Enid stared at her, trying to make sense of what she’d just heard. “So…?”

Murray leaned forward, his voice calm but expectant. “And the basketball team?”

Weems hesitated. Her jaw tensed, then unclenched as she gave a small, reluctant nod. “She will remain on the team.”

Enid gawked. “Seriously?”

Weems gave her a look over the rim of her reading glasses. “I suggest you don’t make me regret it.”

A slow breath escaped Enid’s chest, and she sagged back into her seat, overwhelmed by the sheer relief. She turned her head, eyes wide, and stared at Wednesday—who hadn’t once looked away from Weems throughout the entire conversation.

“You just—what did you even say to her?” she whispered, unable to hide the awe in her voice.

Wednesday adjusted her posture, reaching down to smooth a non-existent wrinkle from her sleeve. “Five months,” she said again. 

“What about the French?” 

Weems leveled them with a dry look over the rim of her glasses. There was no real venom in her voice anymore, just a tired sort of resignation. “Out. All of you. Before I change my mind.”

Murray let out a low chuckle and patted Enid’s back as he rose. Wednesday was already on her feet. She held the door open for the Sinclairs with the same polite detachment one might show to guests leaving a parlor room rather than the aftermath of a disciplinary hearing. 

Wednesday lingered in the doorway, watching as Enid and Murray made their way down the corridor. Only when their footsteps had faded to a distant echo did she pivot slowly on her heel, facing Principal Weems once more.

“Thank you,” she said softly, voice quiet 

Weems's shoulders slumped, the tension draining from her frame as her expression wavered. Her eyes shimmered with tears. “Oh, Wednesday…”

Wednesday’s face scrunched with visible discomfort. She averted her gaze, nose wrinkling in mild distaste. “At least wait until I can’t see you,” she muttered, tone clipped but not unkind. “It’s unbecoming of a Principal to show such an expression in front of a student.”

A faint, broken laugh followed her out—an exhale edged with affection and exhaustion.

Without another word, Wednesday turned and pulled the door shut with care. The soft click echoed briefly in the silence of the office.

Just ahead by the door, Enid stood waiting, her hands clasped neatly behind her back. A radiant, barely-contained grin tugged at her lips, the joy in her face lighting up the otherwise drab hallway. She rocked on her heels, eyes meeting Wednesday’s with a glimmer of gratitude.

Neither of them had said much during the ride. 

After the incident at lunch, neither had the energy nor patience to face the remainder of the school day. Enid had her father sign her out. No one had even thought to stop Wednesday. The hall monitors, perhaps wisely, avoided questioning her entirely.

Wednesday had sat with her arms folded tightly across her chest, head turned toward the window. Her gaze followed the passing scenery—bare trees dusted with the earliest green of spring, the occasional bird flitting between branches, buildings blurring by, then back into trees again. Her expression was frozen somewhere between thought and dismissal.

Enid, hands clenched around the steering wheel, kept her eyes fixed on the road. Her knuckles were pale with tension, and her heart was tumbling wildly inside her ribcage, flipping uneven somersaults with every mile they passed.

Now, Enid’s car sat idling quietly on the gravel loop of the Addams manor driveway. The towering silhouette of the house loomed over them. Wednesday reached for the passenger door handle, fingers just brushing the cool metal—when Enid finally spoke.

“Wait,” 

The word came out sharper than she intended, like it had leapt from her mouth before she could soften it.

Wednesday froze, her hand pausing mid-motion. She turned her head slowly, one eyebrow arched in silent inquiry—an unspoken what now? etched across her face.

Enid swallowed hard. Big girl pants.  

A nervous chuckle escaped her lips as she tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Okay, so—I know this is the absolute worst timing,” she began, voice breathless and quick. “Like, hilariously bad. Cosmic joke-level bad.”

Her words tumbled forward in a frantic rush, like trying to outrun her own anxiety.

“I know the Xavier thing just happened this morning, and everything’s been a total disaster since. I should probably be focusing on other stuff—like not punching people, or, I don’t know, graduating on time or doing my hours of community service.”

She paused only long enough to inhale sharply, then turned toward Wednesday fully, squaring herself in the driver’s seat. Her left hand stayed on the steering wheel like a tether. The right hovered, unsure of what to do.

“But if I don’t ask now,” Enid continued, “I don’t think I’ll ever get the guts to do it again. So I’m just gonna say it.”

Wednesday watched her, face still, the tilt of her head slightly curious, like someone watching a fragile creature flailing against its own instincts.

“Would you…” Enid faltered, but she forced the words out. “Would you like to go out with me sometime? Like—an actual date. You and me. Just us.”

The question hung there, suspended in the quiet hum of the car’s engine and the wind brushing faintly against the windows.

Wednesday didn’t speak right away. Her expression didn’t shift, but her eyes flicked away—just for a moment—toward the dashboard. Then, with the smallest sigh, almost imperceptible, she turned back to face the window.

“I’m sorry,” Wednesday said, voice soft but steady. “I can’t.”

Enid felt something in her chest twist, then drop.

She let out a short, brittle laugh—one that tried and failed to pass as casual. “No, yeah. That’s okay. That was… inconsiderate of me. You’ve probably got a lot going on. I didn’t even think to ask if you were already busy or—”

Wednesday shook her head, just once. “That’s not the reason.”

Enid blinked. “Then what is?”

She shifted slightly in her seat, leaning her body to the side in an attempt to catch Wednesday’s gaze. Her left hand remained tightly clenched on the steering wheel, while her right rested on the center console, fingers twitching with nervous energy.

But Wednesday said nothing. Her eyes stayed fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet Enid’s, leaving her expression a carefully guarded mystery.

Instead, she reached for the strap of her satchel, fingers tightening around the leather. She opened the door, letting in a gust of warm afternoon air. Her voice, when she spoke again, was polite. Distant.

“Thank you. For everything.”

And with that, she stepped out of the car, closing the door with a muted thud .

Enid remained frozen in the driver’s seat, the echo of Wednesday’s words still ringing in her ears. The engine continued to hum quietly as the shadow of Wednesday’s figure disappeared up the stone steps and into the Addams home.

Chapter Text

It was only when the car door shut behind her that Enid finally let out a shaky breath. Her fingers trembled against the steering wheel, the weight of rejection settling in her chest—heavier, deeper than she’d anticipated. 

She slumped lower in the driver’s seat, spine curled slightly forward, as if trying to shrink from the sunlight that poured freely through the windshield. The bright spring light danced over the dashboard and shimmered on the surface of her phone screen, starkly at odds with the sinking weight inside her. The warmth outside felt cruelly indifferent to the storm stirring behind her ribs.

Her fingers draped loosely over the steering wheel, absentmindedly tracing small, senseless circles against the worn leather. She didn’t even realize she was doing it. The silence inside the car was absolute, despite the music playing at a low volume in the background, the engine’s hum, it wasn’t enough to fill the suffocating void of Wednesday’s absence.

Her mind churned in slow, painful circles. Wednesday’s voice echoed relentlessly in her thoughts—not the quick, straight to the point of Xavier’s rejection, a clean shot to the chest that hurt but at least offered certainty—but with something worse. A whispered 'I can’t,' that lingered like the scent of the menthol ointment that stuck onto her passenger seat. It didn’t end anything. It just... paused her in place. Half-hurt, half-hopeful. Aching. Whether or not Wednesday was aware of it, was a bit cruel.

Enid shut her eyes and leaned forward, pressing her forehead to the steering wheel. The leather was cool against her skin, a small mercy against the heat burning behind her eyes and on her cheeks. She admitted to herself how much it hurt. How it really fucking hurt.

It felt like when she was a freshman, being benched in a game the old coach swore he’d call her in for. She hadn’t expected 'I can’t' to feel so much like you’re not enough.

A part of her wished Wednesday had just said no. Plain and blunt. At least then she could scream or cry or punch the steering wheel and be done with it. But this? This felt like being left to drown slowly, the water rising inch by inch, while the other person stood on the shore not quite sure whether to save you.

Her breath hitched, quiet and rough, and she exhaled through her nose, jaw clenched to keep from falling apart entirely. Her gaze drifted to the road ahead, and for a moment, she imagined putting the car in gear, imagined the roads unfurling in front of her. Just drive. Just get away.

But the thought of moving—of going anywhere with this whirlwind of grief and confusion still clattering inside her—felt reckless. Dangerous. She couldn’t trust herself behind the wheel like this. Not when she couldn’t tell what part of her was breaking more: her heart, her hope, or her sense of direction.

Was it pathetic? Maybe. Sitting parked in the driveway of the girl who answered your heart with a maybe-shaped goodbye, trying not to cry in broad daylight? Definitely not one of her finer moments.

Enid was abruptly yanked from the spiral of her thoughts by a sharp knock against the driver’s side window. The sudden sound jolted her so completely that she flinched, her knee snapping up and colliding hard with the underside of the dashboard. Pain bloomed along her knee in a sharp pulse.

Morticia stood by the door, hands cradling a large woven basket against her waist. Her pale regal face was tilted slightly in quiet observation, the corners of her mouth curved into a serene, unassuming smile. She gave Enid a gentle wave, as if this were the most ordinary moment in the world.

Being caught by the mother of the girl that rejected you wallowing in self pity on their driveway made Enid feel even more pathetic than she already did.

A flush of embarrassment rose to her cheeks as she reached for the window control, rolling the glass down with an audible hum. The warmth outside brushed against her skin, in sharp contrast to the cold pit of anxiety still clinging to her chest.

“Mrs. Addams,” Enid greeted, pitch slightly too high. She grimaced.

Morticia’s smile deepened just a touch, her tone lilting as she replied, “A dreadful afternoon, isn’t it?”

Enid blinked, unsure whether to laugh or cry at the choice of words. Coming from anyone else, she might’ve taken it as sarcastic sympathy—but knowing the Addams Family. “Dreadful” could very well be her idea of pleasant.

Still, Enid thought, it wasn’t far off.

Morticia glanced down at the basket nestled in her arms. It brimmed with long-stemmed roses, so deep red they were almost black. Their velvety petals shimmered faintly in the sunlight, a picture of macabre beauty. She shifted the weight slightly, then looked back to Enid.

“Would you be willing to assist me in carrying these to the greenhouse?” she asked gently.

Enid hesitated for only a second, then nodded. A small flicker of warmth threaded its way through the heaviness in her chest.

“Of course. Not a problem at all,” she said, quickly shutting off the engine.

She unbuckled her seatbelt and stepped out of the car, the soles of her shoes crunching lightly against the gravel. As she straightened, Morticia extended the basket, and Enid accepted it with careful hands, surprised by the unexpected weight of the blooms. Their scent hit like a soft, dizzying wave—sweet, floral, and somehow…clove?

Morticia gestured toward the path that curved around the house. “Shall we?”

Enid adjusted the basket in her arms and fell into step beside her, hadn’t even realized how much she’d need something to keep her hands busy until now. And for someone who found her daughter’s friend on their driveway having a depressive episode, fortunately, didn’t ask what had happened.

Inside the greenhouse, warmth and color mingled, the glass fogged gently at the corners like whispered breaths. Golden light filtered through the misty panes, casting the room in a soft, dreamlike glow. The air was thick with the rich, loamy scent of soil, the subtle tang of sap, and the delicate perfume of petals, all blending together into something uniquely tranquil—earthy, wild, and strangely calming.

Morticia led the way down the narrow stone path that wound between raised planters and hanging vines. She moved with her usual elegance, her black palazzo pants trailing just above the floor, the hem occasionally brushing against stray leaves. She said nothing, and Enid didn’t mind.

Now and then, Morticia would raise a pale, gloved hand to gently guide Enid away from a particular plant. Many were beautiful—blossoms in vivid hues of orange, violet, and sapphire—but Enid noticed the small placards beside them: Do not touch. Do not inhale. Highly toxic. One was simply labeled, Has opinions.

Enid blinked at that one, momentarily distracted, but Morticia’s quiet nudge returned her attention to the path.

They reached a long, timeworn wooden worktable situated at the far end of the greenhouse, half in shadow, half bathed in filtered sunlight. Enid exhaled as she carefully set the basket of roses down with a soft grunt. It had been heavier than she expected, and her arms ached in a dull, familiar way—likely from a mix of tension and a poor night’s sleep. She shouldn't have stayed up late to watch that livestream of BLACKPINK.

“You’ll want these,” she murmured, there was a gentle teasing edge beneath her calm voice. “The thorns don’t care how delicate one’s feelings are.”

A soft chuckle escaped Enid before she could stop it. The corner of her mouth tugged upward, a shy, almost reluctant smile.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, slipping the gloves on.

They were slightly oversized but lined with something plush inside, the texture was warm and snug, like mittens she used to wear when the air was still crisp but the days were getting warmer. She flexed her fingers, adjusting the fit, just as Morticia returned with two empty wicker baskets tucked easily under one arm.

She set them on the table beside the one filled with roses, then plucked a set of gleaming pruning shears from a hook and passed them to Enid with a graceful flick of her wrist. The metal felt cool and solid in Enid’s hand.

“These,” Morticia said, voice lilting yet measured, “are for the heads. Not the stems. You’ll separate the blooms from the thorns. Place the roses here—” she gestured to one basket, “and the stems in the other.”

Enid nodded, brows furrowed as she tested the shears with a few careful squeezes. The resistance was firmer than she expected, but manageable. She drew in a breath, selected a bloom near the top of the basket, and lined up her first cut. The angle was slightly off, and the motion too quick. The blades met the stem with a dull snip, slicing through awkwardly. The flower head came free, but not gracefully—several petals tore loose in the process, drifting down like bruised confetti onto the worn wood of the worktable.

Enid winced. Her first instinct was to glance toward Morticia, heat prickling at her like a rash under her collar. But the older woman didn’t look up. Her face remained serene, her hands moving untroubled as she trimmed a bloom that looked almost wistful. She neither flinched nor frowned, offering neither correction nor praise.

Enid let out a slow breath and tried again. She watched the way Morticia held the stems, tilting the shears just so, her fingers gliding confidently over the handles. Mimicking the movement, Enid aligned the blades.

Snip.

Minutes passed, filled only by the rhythmic snip of shears and the soft rustle of petals shifting into their baskets. The air inside the greenhouse was hushed, warmth clinging softly to the glass walls.

Enid focused on the task at hand. She trimmed carefully, separating bloom from stem. It felt... good. Maybe not meaningful in any grand way, but soothing. There was something oddly grounding in the repetition, keeping her hands busy had always helped when her thoughts became too loud.

And maybe, Enid thought, as pathetic as it was to seek comfort in work—especially work offered by Morticia, of all people—it still helped. Even if she couldn’t admit it out loud.

She cleared her throat, her voice hesitant. “Thanks… for letting me help. I didn’t mean to—like—loom outside your house or anything.”

Morticia looked up from her work, her expression softening with that same faint, knowing smile. “You’re not the first young heart to wilt on this soil, my dear. And you won’t be the last.” She clipped another rose cleanly and laid it aside with the others. “But even wilted things have a place in gardens. And sometimes, with the right hands…” Her pale fingers brushed a loose petal from the table. “They grow again.”

Morticia’s earlier words lingered but Enid couldn’t quite bring herself to untangle what she had meant. She simply nodded, and turned her attention back to the task before her.

Snip. Sort. Bloom in one basket. Stem in the other.

Morticia didn’t press. She only mirrored Enid’s slow, quiet pace. As if they had all the time in the world.

“So,” she murmured, glancing over. “Tell me, Enid—aside from recreational violence and late-night dips in ponds… what else do you enjoy?”

Enid blinked, momentarily pulled from her thoughts. The question caught her off guard, and she let out a short, breathy laugh. “Uh, right. Hobbies.” She paused, chewing the inside of her cheek in thought. “I like to knit and crochet. Mostly when I’m watching something—shows, movies, stuff like that. It helps me focus.”

Morticia raised a brow, visibly intrigued. “The vest you made for Wednesday was very well-crafted.”

Enid’s smile faltered the moment Morticia praised the vest. Her fingers twitched nervously as the words echoed in her mind. Well-crafted , Morticia had said. Yet all she could see were the crooked skulls, the uneven stitches—the glaring imperfections she’d forced herself to ignore.

Enid snorted, shaking her head with a wry grin. “The skulls were so janky. It was barely recognizable.”

But Morticia wasn’t having it. She held Enid’s gaze, the kind of look that didn’t invite argument or retreat, a silent insistence that whatever she said next was not up for debate.

“Perfection is often the enemy of beauty.” Morticia replied softly with a knowing tilt of her head, “Is it not within the imperfect that true beauty whispers its name?”

Their hands moved together gently as they continued to snip the roses. Morticia’s words were a quiet insistence that Enid stop hiding behind her doubts. That her work, her effort, was not something to apologize for. She could still remember the brittle voice of her mother, pointing out mistakes with an exasperated sigh: Too loose. Too tight. Wrong tension.

Enid swallowed, throat thick, pretending to brush a stray petal from the edge of the table just to give her hands something else to do.

“What about basketball?” Morticia asked next, her tone still gentle, conversational. “What drew you to it?

Enid shrugged one shoulder, the motion subtle beneath her varsity jacket sleeves. “My brothers played football, and they always wanted me to follow them into it. I didn’t want to.” She paused, tilting her head as she aligned the shears over a stubborn stem. “Basketball felt faster paced. And I liked how you had to work as a team, but still think for yourself. It gave me something that was mine and not just something I got lumped in because of my brothers.”

Morticia’s lips curved into a soft fond smile. “That makes perfect sense.”

The shears clicked again, soft metal against stem. Another rose dropped into the basket.

“And the play?” Morticia added after a quiet moment. “I heard from Parker it went well.”

Enid hesitated. Her hands stilled just over a bloom, fingertips brushing its edge. “Yeah… yeah, it did,” she said eventually, a slight tremor in her voice that she tried to disguise with a chuckle. “Honestly, I was terrified. I thought I was going to ruin everything. I forgot my lines during the scene with Wednesday and just… made them up.”

Morticia’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “When the script fails, the sharp-minded shine.”

“It’s my mind that failed though,” Enid muttered, her smile turning a little crooked. “But, I guess Wednesday didn’t murder me on stage, so I must’ve done something right.”

That drew a soft laugh from Morticia, it lingered at the edges of her lips. Her eyes softened as the sound slipped past her lips.

Enid relaxed slightly, a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding easing from her chest. A small, genuine smile tugged at her lips. It felt… nice. Comforting, in a way she hadn’t expected. Morticia wasn’t just indulging her with polite conversation or the perfunctory warmth of a parent speaking to their child’s friend at a school event. She was genuinely listening. Understanding. Curious.

And yet, beneath that warmth, the ache in Enid’s chest persisted. 

Ex-friend, she thought bitterly, her gaze dropping to the rose in her hand. Maybe even less than that now. Depending on how Wednesday will behave towards her after the confession, this could very well be the last time Enid ever set foot in this manor.

She blinked hard, forcing the sting in her eyes to vanish, and reached for the next rose.

Morticia watched Enid in silence for a long, thoughtful moment. She said nothing at first—simply reached forward and clipped another rose at the stem. She placed the freshly cut rosebud into the appropriate basket.

“Did you know,” Morticia began in her gentle, lulling cadence, “how people discovered that the stem of a rose holds medicinal value?”

Enid blinked, caught off guard by the question. Her fingers, which had been sorting trimmed stems into piles, paused in mid-motion. “Uh… no, ma’am,” she replied, tucking a few curls behind her ear.

Morticia hummed—a low, pleased sound at the honesty. She reached toward the pile of clippings and selected a stem stripped of its bloom, holding it up to the soft greenhouse light. She tilted it delicately in her gloved hand, examining the texture. One of the thorns pressed into the leather of her glove, just enough to make a visible indentation.

“It was through observation,” she said. “Trial and error. Sharing knowledge over time. Curiosity. A little bit of pain.” She let the light play across the thorn’s tip. “At first glance, no one in their right mind would want to touch a rose bush. Why would they? It offers pain before it offers anything else.”

Enid’s scratched the underside of her jaw, but she didn’t interrupt.

Morticia's gaze didn’t leave the thorn as she spoke. “Yet everything is not always as we assume. Stubbornness—while respectable, even admirable in its own way—can blind us to what lies before us. A person might be brilliant, well-read, logical in all the ways that matter… but because they know what the thorn can do, they refuse to even consider the stem.”

She turned her head slightly then, her gaze drifting to Enid. A faint, knowing smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “But then, perhaps, someone came along. Someone persistent. Someone who urged them to look again. To try again.”

Enid tilted her head, eyes narrowed slightly.. “That’s… pretty cool,” she said after a beat, unsure of what she was agreeing with

Morticia’s smile widened, the corners of her eyes crinkling just slightly, a quiet fondness settling into her features. She lowered the thorned stem gently to the table, its curve settling softly atop the rest.

“We wouldn’t have the wonderful benefits of the rose if someone hadn’t convinced another to reevaluate,” she said, “Even the most reluctant hands can learn to appreciate beauty where they once saw only danger.”

Her eyes lingered on the stem Morticia had just placed down. The thorn still caught the light like a warning. She opened her mouth, as if to respond, then hesitated. Closed it.

Morticia turned back to her own pile of roses, humming under her breath—a familiar tune that she couldn’t put a name to. And Enid, with her heart still tender and bruised, let herself keep working. The earthy aroma of soil mingled with the sharp perfume of fresh-cut roses.

Morticia watched Enid work, the girl’s hands gentler now with the clippers, more precise with the sorting. There was a tension in her shoulders that had not yet eased, a sorrow stitched beneath the curve of her brow, even as she tried to focus on the task at hand. Morticia had seen that look before—years ago, in the mirror of her youth, and countless times in others since. The quiet ache of wanting someone who is still figuring out how to be wanted.

Morticia gently brushed the soil from her gloves, then slowly turned toward the Enid. Her eyes softened, and the faintest curve touched her lips. 

“My dear,” she began gently, “as much as I love my daughter—and I do love her, fiercely—I will be the first to admit that Wednesday can be… difficult.”

Enid’s shoulders pulled tight. She didn’t look up, but her fingers stopped mid-motion, paused over the rose she’d been preparing to trim.

“She’s headstrong,” Morticia continued, plucking a rose petal from the table and turning it over in her gloved fingers. “Once she believes she’s reached a conclusion, she rarely bothers to reexamine it. A mind like hers is a fortress. Logical, well-defended, and nearly impossible to breach.”

Enid swallowed. The quiet lasted longer than it should have, making everything feel tense.

“But,” Morticia added, stepping calmly around the table until she stood beside her now, “even a fortress can open its gates… if given the right key.”

Enid finally looked up at her, wide-eyed. “Are you… are you saying I should try again?”

Morticia’s eyes sparkled, the corners of her red lips curved. “I’m saying that sometimes, the first answer isn’t the true one. Sometimes, it’s the safest one. The most rehearsed. The one given because it’s easier to push away what we don’t understand than to let it challenge the order we’ve so carefully constructed.”

She slipped off one glove, then reached out, fingers brushing softly against Enid’s forearm. Just the lightest touch.

“Wednesday sees the world in sharp lines and rules,” Morticia continued. “Cause and effect. Black and white. But you, Enid… you’re color. You’re warmth. You’re the gentle flicker she didn’t know she was longing for until it became her constant.”

Enid blinked, fast and tight. Her lashes fluttered, struggling to hold back the sting gathering behind her eyes. A lump rose in her throat, and her chest felt tight, like it was about to burst or break.

“I would never wish to change anything about my daughter,” Morticia added. “But even the most unmovable among us need reminders now and then—that change is not always betrayal. Sometimes…” She paused, brushing a bit of stray soil from her cuff. “Sometimes it’s growth.”

Enid’s gaze dropped again to the roses. To the thorns that glinted in the golden light, and the petals clipped with care. To the way the sunlight slipped through the glass, kissing the blooms until they looked almost like stained glass.

“So,” Morticia finished, lifting another basket of sorted stems, “if at first she doesn’t see you the way you hope… perhaps try again. One that encourages her to reevaluate what she thought she knew.”

The sting of the earlier rejection still burned in Enid’s chest, entirely unwelcome. The thought of having to hear another ambiguous answer from Wednesday twisted her stomach, making her fingers tremble slightly. She hated the uncertainty, being left suspended between hope and disappointment.

Enid let out a slow breath, shaky and uneven as it slipped past her lips. She swallowed hard, fingers curling around the stem in her hand, the thorns pressing against the thick gloves. But she had to rethink what she thought she knew about Wednesday before, seeing her in a new light she hadn’t expected.

If Wednesday was going to give another vague, evasive reply, Enid wasn’t going to let it slide this time. If she wasn’t ready to be clear, then Enid would make her be clear. She would demand an answer she could hold onto, not another cryptic moment that left her dangling in limbo. 

“I think…” she whispered, eyes fixed on her hands, now gently clasped over the shears on the table, “I think I’d like to try again.”

Morticia nodded approvingly, and handed her a fresh rose—long-stemmed, full-bloomed, and dark as blood.

“Then let this be your first move,” she said. “Always start with intention.”

Enid took the rose with both hands.

Wednesday sat perfectly still in the cold metal folding chair, her back straight and her hands folded neatly on her lap—save for the small notebook perched across her thigh. The early afternoon sun cast a warm gleam over the rows of artisanal soaps beside her, each one molded into delicate honeycomb shapes, their colors ranging from golden amber to pale cream. Nearby, beeswax candles stood in careful bundles, tied with rustic twine and arranged like soldiers awaiting inspection. Each product was meticulously organized—Wednesday’s handiwork, naturally.

Around them, Eugene’s moms buzzed about with the enthusiasm of their bees, cheerfully engaging with customers and offering generous samples, their voices animated with pride.

Eugene sat beside her, his posture loose, his grin easy. He reached into the small yellow cash box, retrieving a crumpled dollar bill and exchanging it with a hunched old woman wearing a sunhat easily twice the size of her head.

“Thanks for stopping by!” he chirped brightly.

The woman returned his smile with a toothless grin and pressed a soft, wax-wrapped piece of candy into each of their palms. Her hands were gnarled with age, her touch gentle.

“You kids are sweet. Helping your mamas like that.”

Wednesday blinked, slow and unamused.

Eugene let out a small laugh, but neither of them corrected her. There was something harmless in the assumption—absurd, yes, but not worth pointing out. Wednesday stared at the candy for a moment as though it might detonate, then tucked it into her coat pocket with the same caution one might use to store radioactive material.

As the woman tottered away, Eugene leaned back in his chair, eyes following his moms as they moved through the crowd—one tossing her curls with a laugh, the other leaning in with a sparkle in her eyes. They exchanged pleasantries, shared a joke, and just like that, another pair of strangers lingered a little longer. A faint gust unsettled the tablecloth draped over the display table, fluttering its edges in the breeze.

“I read something online,” he began, nudging her arm gently, “that you can influence the flavor of the honey based on what flowers the bees are exposed to. Clover gives it this creamy texture. Lavender? That’s like perfume you actually want to eat—”

Enid Sinclair arrived like a sunrise through stained glass—brilliant, fractured, and impossible to ignore. She wore a soft peach-colored sweater layered under a pale yellow puffer vest, paired with crisp, high-waisted white pants that caught the sunlight. Her cotton-candy curls bounced with every step, and the blue of her eyes—vivid and electric—shone brighter beneath the gentle flare of afternoon light.

Wednesday’s breath hitched. Her grip on the pen tightened just slightly. Her first instinct was to turn away—shut the gate, focus on the ledger, retreat into numbers and silence. But she didn’t. She forced herself to look, to keep looking, even if it killed her. Even if that smile—wide, bold, and disarmingly sincere—sent her heart lurching in ways she could not afford.

Enid’s grin was all teeth and sunshine, like nothing had ever cracked between them. Her resilience was both beautiful and unnerving.

Eugene, momentarily frozen, looked between them and then very subtly busied himself with the cash box, pretending to count bills.

Enid didn't even glance at him.

"Hi,"

“Sinclair.”

Enid tilted her head, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. For a fleeting second, Wednesday remembered her carefully using that ridiculous pink eyebrow razor. “Last name. That’s either a good sign… or a terrible one.”

Wednesday didn’t answer immediately. Her voice would have betrayed her. Her thoughts had turned sticky, like candle wax half-melted and clinging to everything. The pen in her hand hovered just above the page of the ledger, frozen mid-stroke.

Enid’s cheeks were tinged a delicate pink, touched by the spring air and the warmth of the sun. Her curls, golden and loose, swayed slightly as a breeze skimmed through the open plaza. In her restless hands, she fidgeted with something thin and green—perhaps a ribbon, perhaps the stem of a flower. It was hard to tell, and Wednesday didn’t care to look closer. Her gaze remained fixed on Enid’s eyes—those glorious luminaries, blue as sky. They shone with life, absent of sorrow, unmarred compared to the gloom that had settled into Xavier’s after her rejection.

That was why Wednesday hadn’t dared to meet Enid’s eyes in the car. Why she had stared out the window. She couldn't bear the thought of watching those eyes darken because of her. She had made her choice, and she had delivered it without hesitation, without cracks or room for question. She refused to offer a scrap of uncertainty that might give Enid hope.

She felt it, that dreadful, familiar fluttering behind her ribs. The sensation she’d tried time and again to suffocate. To strangle with her usual detachment.

Wednesday wanted to be free of it. Desperately. She yearned for the old clarity of her life, back when her world had been a realm of family, personal study, and merciless structure. Back when romance had been a concept for others—foolish and inconsequential. She wanted to reach inside herself, grip that trembling, traitorous thing inside her chest, and crush it. Reduce it to pulp. Silence it.

She wanted Enid Sinclair to stop living behind her closed eyelids for the torture to end.

“Hi,” Wednesday said at last.

Next to her, Eugene eased deeper into his chair like a balloon losing air, mumbling something vague about checking the batch of creamed honey. He unwrapped the candy the old woman had given him with exaggerated care, making his exit as unobtrusive as possible.

Enid took a step closer. The sunlight framed her hair like a halo, curls catching gold where they bounced around her shoulders. Her expression had shifted, less playful now, eyes flickered with determination.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

Wednesday’s fingers twitched, the pen jerking across the page and leaving a dark blot of ink in the ledger’s corner. She stared at it for a moment like it might offer a distraction, an anchor, a way out.

It didn’t.

So she looked up again—at the girl who haunted her heartbeat, her dreams, and now, her waking hours.

“Yes”

Enid led Wednesday to the field adjacent to the farmers’ market, where spring had stretched itself comfortably across the town like a well-worn quilt. A gentle breeze tugged at the corners of the market tents, fluttering napkins off picnic tables and sending the occasional child’s kite dancing among the leafy boughs above. The day had settled into a golden lull—Sunday at its most idyllic—accompanied by the chorus of laughter from families sprawled on blankets, sizzling orders from food stalls, and the joyful squeals of children sprinting through patches of clover and scattered dandelions.

They strolled along the periphery of the commotion, the edge where chaos softened into quiet. Enid kept her arms relaxed at her sides, her fingertips brushing against wild thistles and the tall grass as they walked. Her shoes skimmed across the turf in gentle arcs, tracing invisible trails like the ground remembered where she'd once danced.

Wednesday walked beside her, hands clasped neatly behind her back. Her gaze wandered to everything except the girl next to her—the sky, the woods, the market’s faded umbrellas—anywhere else, as if by avoiding eye contact she could avoid the truth nestled in Enid’s confession. She hoped, quietly but fiercely, that whatever this conversation was building toward, it would preserve their friendship. But could it, truly, after what Enid had admitted?

A sudden blur of gold and motion interrupted the tension. A golden retriever, tongue lolling and tail a blur, tore across the field, hot on the trail of a tennis ball. The ball veered off course, bouncing wildly across the grass until it ricocheted toward Enid’s feet. The dog, all muscle and momentum, barreled through her legs in pursuit.

Enid’s foot caught on the uneven turf. Her balance faltered—arms outstretched, weight pitched forward—

but Wednesday’s hand shot out in an instant. Her fingers curled tightly around Enid’s elbow firmly. The contact held her steady just enough to prevent the fall.

“Sorry!” A young girl yelled as she ran past the two. “Ronald, come back here!”

Enid let out a surprised burst of laughter, bright and unrestrained, the kind that seemed to bubble straight from her chest. It rang through the air like windchimes caught in a storm—a sound so joyful it hurt. It sliced through Wednesday like a piano wire pulled taut. It was agonizing, in the best way. She could almost feel it reverberate through her bones. That laugh… it was something she wanted to trap in a bottle. Something she wanted to earn. Again and again.

Enid looked at her with a crooked smile and a mischievous glint in her eye. “Thanks. Pretty strong grip and fast reflexes for someone who reads all day.”

Wednesday tilted her head slightly, her hand lingering just a moment longer before she slowly let go. “Combat training,” she replied coolly, “and carefully cultivated paranoia. A delightful cocktail of neuroses.”

Enid’s laugh lingered as she started walking again, not the least bit surprised that Wednesday knew martial arts. She naturally fell back into step beside her. A comfortable silence hovered between them until Enid, voice half-teasing, said, “You know, sometimes I worry about you.”

Wednesday’s brow ticked upward. “Do elaborate.”

Enid gestured vaguely to Wednesday’s hand. “Every time you touch me it feels like a skeleton’s grabbing me.”

Wednesday didn’t hesitate. “Advantageous,” she said dryly. “Should the need arise to apply pressure to your brachial nerve.”

Enid nodded solemnly, playing along. “Makes sense, but I doubt you’ll actually do that to me.”

Most would have been unnerved by the comment—perhaps even alarmed—but not Enid. She had long since learned the language of Wednesday’s dry threats and biting observations, and she met every threat with a smile, every strange comment with unshaken ease. She understood Wednesday’s rhythm, knew when her words were real warnings or playful exaggerations. If anything, she embraced them.

A few steps passed in silence before Enid added, as if casually tossing it into the breeze, “Still think you should eat more, though.”

Wednesday turned her head slightly, casting her a sidelong glance. “And why is that?”

Enid grinned, wide and unapologetic. “Because I don’t want to accidentally snap you in half the next time I hug you.”

They kept walking until the chatter and clatter of the market softened in the distance, giving way to the rustle of leaves and the occasional birdsong. The air smelled of grass and faint cinnamon from the last row of food stalls. At the base of a large willow, nestled beneath its curtain of swaying branches, a blanket had already been laid out. The fabric, patterned in sun-faded blues, rippled faintly in the breeze. Upon it sat a modest picnic: a woven basket, two mismatched containers with soft lids, and a carafe of amber liquid that caught the sunlight in slow, glinting ripples.

Wednesday stopped just short of the setup. Her gaze swept over it, assessing with all the care of a detective at a crime scene. Then she turned her head slowly toward Enid.

“You say I should eat more,” she remarked, arching a single, dark brow. “This was premeditated.”

Enid feigned innocence with a shrug, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. “Maybe I knew you wouldn’t eat unless I lured you into a trap.”

“A most insidious plan,” Wednesday murmured, but the corners of her mouth twitched ever so slightly. She stepped forward and lowered herself onto the edge of the blanket, folding her legs neatly beneath her.

She wouldn’t say it out loud—not even under duress—but the thought that Enid had prepared this, had packed and carried and orchestrated a detour beneath the guise of a casual walk, made something tighten in her chest.

Enid joined her a moment later, sitting close but not quite touching, her knees angled toward Wednesday, as if pulled magnetically but held back by uncertain permission. She glanced over, hope, peeking out from behind the casual curve of her smile.

Wednesday stared at the basket as if it might sprout limbs and deliver a speech. Then, catching a familiar scent riding on the breeze, she leaned in slightly. Her curiosity briefly eclipsed her caution.

“You brought empanadas,” she said at last—not a question, but a statement edged with intrigue.

She glanced at Enid with a straight face: “I suppose I should inspect the contents for poison.”

“I made the empanadas myself,” Enid replied brightly, unable to keep the pride out of her voice.

“Then I’m absolutely certain they are,” Wednesday deadpanned.

Enid let out a snort of laughter. “Beef and mushroom. With onions, garlic, and some spices I saw on TikTok. I wasn’t sure if you liked spicy, so I made two batches. One’s mild. One might give you visions.”

Wednesday blinked once, slowly. “I welcome visions.”

Reaching into the basket, Enid handed her one of the golden, half-moon pastries wrapped loosely in parchment. Wednesday took a cautious bite. Steam curled upward from the exposed filling, and the scent deepened—earthy mushrooms, tender beef, softened onions laced with the heat of cumin and the unexpected smokiness of paprika.

She chewed slowly, methodically, parsing each flavor on her tongue.

After a pause, she swallowed. “Acceptable.”

Enid gave an exaggerated eye roll. “You’re welcome.”

A long moment passed beneath the weeping branches of the willow tree, where the filtered sunlight swayed like soft ripples across the blanket. Above them, the wind stirred the leaves into a slow, whispering dance, casting fleeting shadows across their faces. The breeze tousled Enid’s golden hair, lifting strands across her cheeks and lips.

Without thinking, Wednesday reached out.

Her fingers moved, brushing Enid’s hair behind her ear. The action was gentle, an unconscious touch before awareness caught up to both of them.

Enid’s breath hitched, the warmth on her cheeks deepening in a flash.

Wednesday withdrew her hand quickly, her posture stiffening. “There was a strand in your food’s flight path,” she said crisply. “I acted accordingly.”

Enid didn’t reply. She simply regarded Wednesday for a heartbeat longer, eyes soft, then reached for her own empanada.

Enid’s cheeks were already warm from the sun, but they flushed deeper at the sight of Wednesday—specifically the sight of her wearing that vest over a white t-shirt. The same one she made, imperfect, and stitched with care. The skull embroidery still looked neat despite a crooked eye socket or two. She bit the inside of her cheek, heart pattering like rain on an awning.

“So…” she began, attempting casual but failing as her voice pitched higher than intended, “do you like it?”

Wednesday glanced at her, deadpan. “I already gave my outstanding opinion on your culinary capabilities.”

Enid snorted, rolling her eyes. “Not the food, Wednesday. The vest.”

She leaned back on one arm, the other motioning lazily with two fingers as if pointing out the obvious, her chin tilted in mock sternness. Her gaze flicked pointedly to the vest draped across Wednesday’s torso.

Wednesday looked down, almost as if surprised by her own attire. Her palm smoothed slowly over the front, stopping where a thread snagged near the hem. She pressed it flat, fingers hovering briefly over the embroidered skull before retreating. Then, almost bashfully—almost—she gave a single nod.

“I find the craftsmanship commendable,” she said, voice quieter than before. “The stitchwork is uneven, but not unsightly. The skull motif is anatomically inaccurate in a few areas, but…” She hesitated, visibly searching for the right word. “Endearing.”

Enid grinned so widely it nearly hurt. She tilted her head, resting her cheek against her shoulder as her chest swelled.

“Endearing, huh?”

Wednesday tilted her head in that slow, heedless way she always did before choosing her words. “It’s… wearable.”

Enid laughed—a bright, barking sound that echoed off the willow’s hanging branches. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, arms hanging loosely as she stared at Wednesday like she was the most beautiful contradiction in the world.

“You look really good,” she said, tone softening to something more tender. “Like, really really good.”

The heat crawled up the back of Wednesday’s neck like a trail of fire ants—irritating, persistent, and impossible to ignore. The sensation annoyed her more than it should have. She attributed it to the compliment. Or perhaps to the weight of Enid’s gaze—so open, so soft. Maybe it was the unbearable sincerity threaded through her voice. Or worse, that smile. That ridiculous, honest smile.

She scolded herself for forgetting the point of this outing. This conversation wasn’t supposed to slip into gentle comfort. It was closure. That was the goal. Or at least, that was what she’d told herself.

With a subtle shift of posture, she sat straighter, her fingers brushing imaginary dust from the edge of the blanket. she decided it was time for a strategic redirection.

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” Wednesday asked,

Enid exhaled, slow and steady, as though gathering courage one breath at a time. Her hand moved to her side, vanishing briefly beneath the folds of her puffer vest. When it emerged, she held a single rose. The stem was long, wrapped carefully in a pale ribbon. A thorn jutted through the fabric as if determined to escape, to remind the world of its edge.

Wednesday’s gaze flicked to it, noting the contradiction—the tenderness of the ribbon, the aggression of the thorn. She said nothing, watched as Enid leaned forward and placed the rose between them on the blanket. Her hands retreated to her lap, fingers lacing and unlacing as if they didn’t quite know what to do. She tucked her legs beneath herself.

“I just want to say this, and then… I’ll leave it alone if you want,” Enid began, her voice quiet but steady. “If this—if me—makes you uncomfortable, or if you really, genuinely want me to stop, then I deserve to be told ‘no.’ Properly. Directly.”

She nodded to the rose, not daring to look up yet. “But the thing is… you didn’t say no. You just said you can’t.”

Wednesday blinked, slow and thoughtful, like a cat perched on a windowsill deciding whether to leap or retreat. She was unaware of her own blunder, and commended Enid for exploiting the technicality of her response.

“I’m not asking for an explanation,” Enid added quickly, one hand running through her hair as a nervous chuckle fluttered out. “You don’t owe me that. Whatever your reasons are, those are yours. I respect that. I just…”

She paused, her voice trembling just slightly before she steadied it. “I don’t want to sound like one of those creepy guys who go on about being ‘nice’ and ‘deserving’ a chance just because they’re polite. God, I hope that’s not what it sounds like.”

Her eyes met Wednesday’s, locking with startling clarity without even a hint of plea.

“I just want you to decide,” she said. “No pressure. No expectations. I’m not asking for a guarantee. I’m just asking… for a chance.”

Above them, the willow swayed. Its branches danced in the breeze like slow-moving ghosts, the leaves whispering against each other. The ribbon on the rose fluttered faintly, catching a shimmer of sunlight before settling again.

Wednesday looked down at the flower, her thoughts remained hidden, but her eyes—those dark, abyssal eyes—remained on Enid a moment longer than they had to.

Enid stood just beyond the threshold, the descending sun casting a soft halo around her. She wore a deep navy sundress that fluttered gently in the breeze, the fabric catching the light with every movement. A pale gray cardigan clung loosely to her frame, its sleeves pulled down over her wrists, the ends of her golden hair curling slightly from the lingering humidity of the spring evening. She looked breathtakingly transcendent, even in simplicity.

Wednesday wore a long-sleeved, asymmetrical dark grey tunic. The hem draped with uneven points at the sides, like the edge of a raven’s wing caught mid-beat. The high, cowl-like neckline wrapped around her throat in soft folds, protection from the evening chill. She paired the tunic with slim-fitting black trousers tucked neatly into knee-high leather boots, polished to a soft sheen. Her hair was styled into a refined crown braid, with loose strands and soft bangs framing the pale porcelain of her face. She looked, as always, like she had stepped out of a haunted portrait, only tolerating the modern world because someone had bribed her with peace, quiet, and the promise of tolerable company.

Behind her, Gomez descended the grand staircase of the manor, an unlit pipe twirling between his fingers and joy practically bursting from his expression. He spotted Enid near the door and threw his arms open dramatically.

“Ah, mi loba magnífica!(My magnificent wolf!)” he declared, his voice full of theatrical warmth as he bounded down the final step.

Enid blinked, caught completely off guard, just as Gomez wrapped her in a surprisingly firm and affectionate embrace. She gave a startled laugh, muffled slightly by his shoulder. “Oh. So we’re doing this now?” she gasped through her grin.

“But of course!” Gomez said with genuine delight, pulling back to beam at her. “You’ve been a radiant addition to our humble abode!”

He gave her a conspiratorial wink before turning toward his daughter. Wednesday, who had been watching with a faint expression of disdain, gave her father a small nod.

“Father,” she greeted with clipped formality. She stepped past them both, heading straight for Enid’s car parked along the gravel driveway.

Enid tossed a wave over her shoulder as she followed. “I’ll have her back before midnight,” she called brightly. “And if anything happens, we’ll send a raven!”

Gomez clutched his chest, as if overwhelmed by emotion. “Be still, my heart! She quotes us!” he declared dramatically, turning on his heel and retreating into the manor with pride practically radiating from him.

The drive to the restaurant was calm, touched by the low hum of soft jazz filtering through the radio. Wednesday sat with her gaze out the window, quiet but not withdrawn. The silence was neither awkward nor cold—it was, in every sense, simply Wednesday. Enid didn’t press for conversation. She liked the quiet when it felt like this.

They arrived just as the sky began to shift from amber to violet, the horizon melting into shades of twilight. The restaurant sat nestled at the edge of a still lake, its layout open to the elements but framed with dark-stained wooden panels that served both as barriers to the wind and as charming visual dividers between nature. String lights floated above in lazy, golden loops, casting warm halos over each table. The lake shimmered nearby, reflecting the ambient glow.

A small band played near the water’s edge, violin, cello, and acoustic guitar weaving together a sound that felt like falling leaves and soft goodbyes. On a wooden platform off to the side, two couples danced slowly, entirely lost to the music and each other.

Wednesday took in the scene with a slow, contemplative blink. Her gaze traced the lights, the shadows, the flicker of candle flames dancing in mason jars. The glow warmed the alabaster of her skin and softened the shadows beneath her eyes. After a long pause, she murmured, “It’s… not horrid.”

Enid stepped close, a playful grin touching her lips. Her fingers brushing Wednesday’s hand as if asking for permission. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

Wednesday didn’t pull away.

Enid led Wednesday to their reserved table—an intimate spot tucked near the edge of the lake, where the moonlight danced over the rippling surface like silver thread. The air was cool but gentle, touched by the scent of damp earth and lake reeds. The hostess placed two menus before them with a polite smile before disappearing into the warm haze of candlelight and soft conversation. Neither of them reached for the menus right away.

Instead, they sat in silence, momentarily wrapped in the ambience—the quiet clink of silverware, the distant murmur of laughter from a nearby table, and the dreamy haze of music drifting in from the stage.

After a beat, Enid broke the silence. “Thank you for giving me a chance,”

Wednesday turned her head to look at her. She studied the way the string lights caught Enid's eyes like tiny, restless stars, and how her lips curved, almost unconsciously, into the beginnings of a smile that refused to fully disappear.

The waitress came and went, their orders taken. Enid leaned back in her seat, lifting her water and sipping before setting it down with a muted clink. The glow from the overhead lights gilded the edges of her hair, casting a golden halo around her curls. She looked like she had stepped out of the pages of a modern fairytale, sunlight made flesh—and she carried herself with the same animated energy.

“So,” Enid began, her grin already taking shape, “last weekend I got kind of bored. Dad was busy fixing the fence, and I’d already milked the cows and let them out to graze. So, I figured—why not give the girls a show?”

Wednesday pulled her brows together in a frown. She imagined Enid making a production of her own. “A show?”

Enid nodded, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “I dragged a lawn chair out into the pasture, grabbed the Bluetooth speaker, and gave the cows a little jazz concert.”

There was a long pause. Then Wednesday blinked. “Jazz.”

“Yup! The good stuff. Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong. You’d think cows wouldn’t care, right? But the moment I hit play, they started wagging their tails like excited puppies. It was wild—they trotted right over like I was holding out food.”

She wasn’t embellishing. There was no irony in her voice—just pure, delighted recollection.

Wednesday raised a skeptical brow, though her lips threatened a twitch of amusement. “I find it difficult to believe even livestock would debase themselves so thoroughly for music.”

Enid’s grin widened. “Oh, really?” She reached into her small crossbody bag and pulled out her phone. A few swipes later, she was angling the screen toward Wednesday with triumphant flair. “Exhibit A, Your Honor.”

Wednesday leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the edge of the table as she watched. In the video, Enid sat cross-legged on a plastic lawn chair in the middle of a broad grassy field. Jazz crooned from a speaker perched beside her, the warm brass of a trumpet curling into the air. In the distance, a line of cows lifted their heads, ears twitching, then suddenly began trotting toward her with such enthusiasm that even the camera jostled from Enid’s laughter behind it.

“They recognize greatness,” Enid quipped proudly.

Wednesday stared at her, deadpan. “You have managed to create a pastoral version of the Pied Piper.”

“Minus the mass drowning,” Enid said with a grin. “So, I’m doing great.”

Wednesday gave a slow nod, trying—unsuccessfully—to mask the flicker of something dangerously close to fondness in her gaze. But just as she looked down at Enid’s phone again, something in the video tugged at her attention, an odd detail that refused to be ignored.

Her eyes lifted again, narrowing slightly. “You painted their hooves.”

Enid blinked, then burst into a delighted laugh. “You noticed!”

“You made their hooves pink.”

“And blue or rainbow,” Enid added with pride, as though presenting a portfolio of fine art. “Depends on the cow’s vibe.”

Wednesday narrowed her eyes. “You subjected sentient animals to color-coded pedicures.”

“They love it,” Enid said without a trace of shame, leaning forward in her seat as her curls bounced with the motion. “They get the full spa experience. I scrub their hooves, clean and dry them, then paint them with a non-toxic paint. I let it air dry while they lounge around and munch on alfalfa cubes. It’s like a beauty salon, but for cows. Honestly, it might be the highlight of their entire week.”

Wednesday was silent for a moment, her gaze dropping to her glass of water. Her fingers turned it slowly on the table, the condensation tracing lazy circles beneath it. She stared into it as if it might offer guidance, clarity—some kind of answer to the strange, delightful moral labyrinth that Enid Sinclair continuously presented her.

“Of all the disturbing things I have witnessed,” Wednesday murmured, voice low and contemplative, “watching you casually confess to pastel livestock modification ranks... unexpectedly low.”

Enid laughed again, the sound light and full of life, carrying over the clink of silverware and murmur of distant conversation. It danced above the soft clink of cutlery and the gentle hum of music, drawing brief glances and half-smiles from nearby diners.

Enid gently swirled the straw in her glass, the ice cubes clinking softly as they shifted against the sides. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the edge of the table, her head tilted to the side, with playful curiosity.

“So,” she began casually, a small smile tugging at her lips, “how’d you and Parker meet, anyway?”

Wednesday, who had been slowly cooling the hot soup, paused for a heartbeat. She glanced up through her lashes, took the spoon into her mouth and hummed thoughtfully. Enid was sure that the soup hadn't cooled that much. Wednesday set down her utensil and used the napkin to wipe the corner of her mouth.

“It began with a turf war,” she said flatly.

Enid blinked. “A what?”

“A turf war,” Wednesday repeated with the calm of someone discussing the weather. “Parker’s mother—Margaux Needler. Somehow, in an act of cosmic injustice and a complete disregard for constitutional sanity, she managed to become the president of the Ravenridge Grove Homeowners Association. A truly detestable woman. Think beige… but sentient.”

Enid snorted into her drink, struggling to recover from the image.

“Our estate,” Wednesday continued, “technically exists outside the HoA’s jurisdiction. Borderline—literally. But Margaux considered us a blight. Said the manor’s ‘ghastly aesthetic’ depreciated neighborhood value and frightened local joggers.”

“Your house is like... three blocks away from any joggers,” Enid pointed out, trying not to grin too much.

“Exactly,” Wednesday replied coldly. “Yet she insisted on sending weekly letters. About the trees, the lack of seasonal wreaths, One October, she even lodged a formal objection over the ‘un-American absence of decorative pumpkins.’ A relentless crusade to banish our darkness through unsolicited hydrangea catalogs.”

Enid covered her mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking with laughter. “You’re kidding—she complained about you guys having no pumpkins on Halloween?"

“But it came to a head,” Wednesday went on, “when she filed a formal complaint with city code enforcement—over the color of our roof tiles.”

Enid gasped, “The roof?! That’s not even—”

“Legal. Correct.” Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “My mother refused to acknowledge the absurdity. So, I retaliated.”

Enid raised a brow. “Retaliated how?”

“I enlisted Parker,” Wednesday said, her voice now holding an edge of something warmer—almost reminiscent. “We shared... similar disdain for the women who birthed us. At the time, my mother and I were—disagreeable. Loudly. Often. Parker’s mother was oppressively pristine and ran their household like a country club. We found a common cause in vengeance.”

Enid’s eyes lit up. “What did you do?”

Wednesday’s lip twitched. “A campaign of minor terror. Strategic pruning of Margaux’s front lawn topiary into… suggestive silhouettes. Luring a family of raccoons into her attic with sardines and a Bluetooth speaker programmed to play distorted opera on loop. And my personal favorite—filling her koi pond with red-dyed gelatin the day before HOA inspection.”

Enid let out an unholy wheeze. “You jello'd her koi pond?!”

“The koi were relocated beforehand,” Wednesday said matter-of-factly. “And honestly, they seemed happier elsewhere. But unfortunately, Margaux had resources. Surveillance cameras. Hidden ones. Illegal, no doubt. She recorded everything.”

Enid’s giggles faltered. “Wait—I think I saw that on the local news, actually.”

“Parker was supposed to be sent into the foster system,” Wednesday said, her voice low. Her eyes dropped briefly to the flickering candle between them, its flame casting soft shadows across her features. “With Margaux’s arrest, there were no relatives left to take her in.”

Enid’s chest tightened at the thought. The image of Parker—alone, boxed up and sent away by the state because of a woman who treated her like an accessory to power—made her throat burn, a sense of familiarity over the situation crawled beneath her skin uncomfortably.

“But then,” Wednesday said, her tone softening just slightly, “Uncle Fester intervened. Said she was all spit and vinegar. So, he adopted her.”

Enid blinked, mouth parting slightly. “He what?”

“He forged the paperwork, bribed a court clerk, and had her enrolled at Nevermore by the end of the week.”

Enid stared, awestruck, her fingers frozen around the stem of her glass. “That’s… actually really sweet.” She grinned. “But there goes plausible deniability on my part.”

Wednesday hid her smile behind the rim of her glass. “It was the only time I’ve ever thanked Fester sincerely. He claimed that us remaining in each other’s presence is a bonus—” She stopped herself, just briefly, and then, quieter, “He did what I couldn’t.”

Enid smiled gently, heart brimming. “So that’s what Parker meant that you two are cousins”

“She kept her name,” Wednesday murmured, the bitterness in her voice only faintly veiled. “Claimed it was too much of a nightmare to change all her identification and accounts to a new surname.”

They were barely halfway through their meal when Enid propped her elbow on the linen-covered table and leaned in with a playful grin. Her cheek nestled into her palm, dimpling slightly as she gazed across the flickering candlelight. Her free hand toyed lazily with her fork, spinning it over and under her fingers.

“Let’s play a game,” she said, her voice light.

Across from her, Wednesday raised an eyebrow, already mid-ladle into her clam chowder. She examined the thick consistency thoughtfully before lifting a spoonful toward her lips. The faint wisp of steam curled upward as she blew on it, then sipped delicately. Her tongue flicked out to catch a lingering drop at the corner of her mouth, and she swallowed with an audible hum of approval.

Her dark gaze lifted just in time to catch the flicker of Enid’s attention. Her eyes darted quickly to Wednesday’s lips before retreating just as fast, cheeks blooming a soft pink as she dropped her focus to her plate of carbonara. She poked at a strip of pancetta as though it had betrayed her.

Wednesday set her spoon down with a quiet clink against porcelain. “What kind of game?”

“Something simple,” Enid replied with a shrug, casually tearing off a bite of garlic bread. “Since first dates are all about getting to know each other better, we should each share a fun fact about ourselves—something the other doesn’t know yet.”

Wednesday tilted her head slightly, she leaned back into her seat just enough to seem mildly amused. “A social ritual masked in the guise of novelty. How quaint.”

Enid smirked, chewing her bite with mock seriousness. “That’s a fancy way of saying you’re scared.”

A small twitch tugged at the corner of Wednesday’s lips. . Without breaking eye contact, she picked up her spoon again, took another unhurried mouthful of chowder. Then just as casually said, “I have six toes on my left foot.”

Enid choked.

She slammed her glass of water down on the table as she coughed, wiping her mouth on a napkin. Her eyes were wide and incredulous, flicking between Wednesday and her own disbelief. “I’m sorry—what?!”

Wednesday sipped again, entirely unbothered. “You heard me.”

“No, no, back up—six toes? Like… for real?” Enid’s voice pitched somewhere between horror and awe.

“I don’t joke about matters of my own anatomy,” Wednesday replied coolly. She set her spoon aside and leaned forward just enough to rest her elbows on the edge of the table, eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction. “Now it’s your turn, Sinclair.”

Enid stared at her, completely thrown off-course. Her mind raced to recover, but her expression was still somewhere between bewildered and betrayed. “You can’t just… drop a major Wednesday lore bomb like that and then move on like you just told me your favorite color.”

“Your turn,” Wednesday said again, tone impassive but the smug glint in her eye made it very clear—she was enjoying this immensely.

Enid tilted her chin upward defiantly and stuck her tongue out, her brows raised in that exaggerated, childish challenge she wielded like armor. It was a motion that should have made her look ridiculous—infantile even—but to Wednesday, it lit something curious and warm in her chest. A flicker of affection she neither invited nor appreciated, but could not deny.

Wednesday tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly as she studied the girl across the table. How was it that even Enid’s most juvenile expressions wormed their way beneath her defenses? There was no rational explanation. Just the frustrating consistency of it—the way affection clung to her like maggots on rotten decaying flesh.

“Fine,” Enid relented, her posture softening as a breathy laugh escaped her lips. “Here’s another fact.” She reached for her water and took a small sip, the glass catching the amber flicker of candlelight as she shifted in her seat. The soft glow illuminated gold flecks in her blue irises, making them seem almost ethereal.

“I can speak a bit of Greek,” she said, casual, though her tone held a hint of pride.

Wednesday’s fork paused midair, hovering above a bed of arugula and roasted beet. Her mind, which had moments ago been dissecting her salad by texture and acidity, snapped sharply to attention. She lowered the utensil slowly and looked at Enid with renewed interest.

“I would request you say something in Greek,” Wednesday said, voice low and velvet-smooth, curiosity coiled beneath the words.

Enid’s bravado faltered slightly. Her hand drifted up to rub the back of her neck, fingers trailing against her skin as she glanced down at her lap, suddenly shy under Wednesday’s intense gaze. The breeze stirred a lock of her golden hair, brushing it across her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear, then leaned forward and spoke just above a whisper.

“Μου αρέσει να είμαι μαζί σου,(I like being with you,)” Enid said, the Greek rolling softly from her lips, it wasn’t said perfectly, but Wednesday wouldn’t know either way.

Wednesday’s breath caught, though she did not show it. She blinked once, slowly, and resumed picking at her salad, though her fingers had gone uncharacteristically still.

“And what,” Wednesday asked quietly, “does that mean?”

Enid hesitated, the corner of her mouth twitching into a sheepish smile. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her linen napkin as she leaned back into her seat.

“It’s your turn, Addams,” she replied, aiming for nonchalance—but her voice came out far too soft.

Wednesday narrowed her eyes, but didn’t press. Instead, she reached for her water, lifting the glass. She sipped once, then set it back down.

The plates had long since been scraped clean, the last remnants of their meal reduced to breadcrumbs and sauce stains on fine china. Yet neither seemed in a hurry to leave. The true warmth of the evening came not from the spring air or the soft candlelight but from the laughter traded across the table—flickers of shared delight passed like secrets between kindred spirits.

Wednesday sat back comfortably, the linen napkin folded beside her cleared plate. Only a few sliced cherry tomato halves remained, pushed to the edge—silent casualties of her quiet disdain. Her fingers idly traced the rim of her glass, the gesture more meditative than absentminded, before she broke the lull with another fact of herself.

“I’ve always wanted a tattoo,” she said, her voice even.

Across the table, Enid paused mid-sip, lowering her glass slowly. Her eyebrows rose. “Really? What kind?”

“Not one of those gaudy, inspirational word types,” Wednesday said, lips curled in disdain. “Something meaningful. Something obscure and grotesque. Perhaps a rendering of St. Bartholomew flayed alive. Or a stylized black widow. I haven’t decided, sadly none are willing to do it on me despite the bribery….or threats.”

Enid chuckled, leaning forward to prop her cheek against her palm, her smile playful. “Well, I hate to be the bearer of lawful logic, but it’s illegal to tattoo a minor. I don’t blame the artists for not wanting to end up behind bars.”

Wednesday’s gaze dropped to the last remnants of her salad. “Yes. That unfortunate detail has hindered my plans,” she muttered, stabbing a remaining piece of chicken with more force than necessary.

“But hey,” Enid offered brightly, “you’ll be eighteen this year! Then it’s not long ‘til you get stabbed by a dozen needles in the name of art. What a thrilling milestone.”

“Not too long, indeed,” Wednesday murmured with a touch less enthused than Enid portrayed, She chewed slowly in thought.

As the night aged, the band near the lake transitioned to a gentler tune, string instruments weaving together a dreamy waltz. Conversations at other tables softened. Laughter dimmed into fond murmurs. Couples began drifting toward the open platform beneath the string lights—some confident in their footing, others tentative, drawn by the music and their partners.

Wednesday’s eyes lifted toward the makeshift dance floor. Then, she rose from her chair and stepped smoothly around the table.

She extended her hand—pale, fingers slightly curled in elegant invitation. “Would you care to dance?”

Enid’s eyes widened, a rosy flush rising to her cheeks. “Uh… the only dancing I do is on TikTok,” she said, laughing nervously. “And it’s mostly shoulder shimmies and pointing at words.”

Wednesday rolled her eyes with exaggerated disdain. “Blasphemy. But come—I’ll ensure you keep your limbs intact.”

Despite the nerves fluttering in her chest, Enid slid her hand into Wednesday’s. The contact was warm and slightly trembling, the stark contrast of Wednesday’s cool and composed fingers. Wednesday led them to the wooden platform under the canopy of stars and lights, where the music weaved its soft spell over the small crowd.

Wednesday turned to face her, one hand resting lightly at Enid’s waist, the other clasping hers. Enid mirrored the posture a beat late, her free hand brushing against the fabric of Wednesday’s top with every sway.

They began to move—slowly at first, not perfectly, but with a rhythm that grew less awkward and more fluid with each step. Enid tried not to focus too much on her boots, or on the way her heart was thudding against her ribs like a trapped hummingbird. Instead, she focused on Wednesday—on the quiet concentration in her brow, the steady surety of her movements, the ghost of a smile she swore she saw flicker across her lips.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” Enid said, breathless but smiling.

Wednesday’s mouth curled. “I studied the Viennese waltz at age eight. You’re not the worst partner I’ve had.”

Enid laughed, a light, joyful sound that blended with the music. “Gee, thanks,” she said dryly, but her eyes sparkled. She would take that as a compliment.