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The dorm was unusually quiet that evening. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows of Ophelia Hall, painting pale streaks across the floorboards. Enid sat curled on her bed, phone dark in her hand, ears pricked for the sound of the door.
Wednesday had been gone longer than usual. She hadn’t said where — not that she ever really did — but Enid had grown used to the rhythm of her absences: the library, the greenhouse, occasional late-night “expeditions” with Thing. Tonight was different. Too long. Too quiet.
When the door finally creaked open, Enid straightened.
Wednesday entered with her usual deliberate steps, black boots clicking softly against the wood. Her expression, as always, was unreadable, but her hair was slightly mussed, and there was the faintest edge of… something in the way she moved. Like she’d been in a hurry and was only now remembering to compose herself.
Enid’s nose twitched before she could stop it. A sharp, unfamiliar thread laced through the air — clinging to Wednesday’s coat, her collar, even her skin. Not the comforting ink-and-metal tang Enid had grown used to, not the sterile paper of the library. No. This was warmer, living. Someone else.
Enid’s stomach dropped.
The world seemed to shrink around her. The silvery light of the room dimmed; the air turned heavy, pressing down on her chest. She felt her pulse in her throat, fast and uneven. That scent wound tighter and tighter through her senses until it was all she could smell. All she could think about.
She wasn’t used to this — jealousy. She’d never had a reason to feel it before. Not with Wednesday. Their relationship was careful, deliberate, the two of them circling each other like dancers afraid to miss a step. A handful of heated kisses, stolen in quiet corners, but never more. Enid had always held herself back, terrified of pushing Wednesday too far, of breaking whatever fragile trust had been stitched between them.
And it had been enough. More than enough, because it was Wednesday.
So why now, with one breath, did it feel like the floor had been yanked out from under her?
The answer was simple, primal. She had never smelled anyone on Wednesday like this before. Not faint, not accidental, not in passing. This was close. Clinging. A trace that whispered of proximity, of lingering touch. Her wolf bristled inside her, claws scraping against her ribs.
Enid wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold the jealousy in, but it was too late; it had already taken root.
“You’re late,” she said, aiming for casual but landing closer to brittle.
Wednesday set her bag down with her usual precision. “Time is a tedious metric. It matters only to those afraid of death.”
“Where were you?” Enid’s voice came out tight.
“Town.” Wednesday didn’t look at her as she slid off her coat, every movement deliberate.
“Doing what?”
“Acquiring supplies.”
“With who?”
Wednesday paused, just slightly, her head tilting. That faint, subtle gesture sent another pang through Enid. She hadn’t meant to push this hard, but the scent — God, the scent — was everywhere. “It’s… that’s not—your usual smell. It’s… someone else’s.”
Wednesday didn’t blink. Her posture stayed immaculate, but her fingers twitched once at her bag strap. “You are correct. I encountered someone in town.”
Enid blinked at her. That was it? She forced a smile, but it felt thin, wrong. “Just like that? ‘Someone’?” Her laugh snagged on her throat. “You make it sound like she barely exists. But I can smell her on you, Wednesday. It’s not faint. It’s—” her fingers twisted in the blanket, “—all over.”
Wednesday tilted her head, gaze unreadable. “You sound distressed.”
The words hit like a pinprick, small but sharp. Enid’s laugh cracked again. “What am I supposed to sound like? You walk in carrying someone else’s scent like a coat you forgot to take off, and I’m just supposed to… what? What am I suppose think?”
“Think rationally,” Wednesday replied, voice low and cold. Her hand flexed once at her side, the only sign of irritation. “It does not mean what you assume.”
Enid’s jaw tightened. Her eyes searched Wednesday’s face for any crack, any tell. “And what do you assume I’m feeling, then?” Her voice climbed despite herself.
Wednesday remained perfectly still, gaze flat as glass.
Enid scoffed. “No, really. Go ahead. Tell me. Because right now it feels like you’re standing there cataloguing me — every twitch, every word — like I’m just another case study to file away.” Her breath hitched, words spilling faster now, harder to rein in. “But I’m not a puzzle for you to solve, Wednesday. I’m your girlfriend. And this—” her hand pressed hard against her chest, fingers curling in tight, “—hurts.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed slightly, her jaw tight. “You overestimate my indifference. I am explaining with precision. You refuse to hear it.”
“Precision? That’s what you call this?” She shook her head, a bitter smile tugging at her mouth. “You stroll in reeking of someone else, and then you give me clipped little facts like they’re supposed to… fix it.” Her voice wavered. “Like that makes me crazy for even asking.”
Wednesday’s shoulders stiffened, her chin lifting by a fraction. “You are catastrophizing. Assigning weight to what is trivial.”
“Trivial.” The word landed like a slap. Enid repeated it softly, then again, sharper. Her chest ached. “God, do you even hear yourself?” She jabbed a finger at her sternum. “This isn’t about some passing scent, Wednesday. It’s about what it does to me. To my wolf?”
Silence cut deeper than words. Enid’s throat worked, trying to steady herself. “Do you… even care?”
Wednesday’s brow furrowed, just slightly—a crease caught between confusion and calculation.
“Of course you don’t,” Enid murmured bitterly. “Or maybe caring feels too much like… a feeling.”
The words landed like a scalpel. Wednesday’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her hands flexed once at her sides, a subtle motion betraying her agitation. She blinked slowly, gaze flicking to Enid’s hands curling into the blanket, the slight hitch of her breath.
Enid’s wolf clawed at her ribs. She pressed forward, desperation rising. “You didn’t even try to hide it. You let me breathe her in before a word left your mouth. And you stand there… like it doesn’t matter. Like I don’t matter. She’s all over you… everywhere I want to be, and it’s her. Not me.”
She swallowed, her voice trembling. “Did you… kiss her?”
Something cracked in Wednesday’s composure—a flicker of surprise, then a dark flare of offense. “Enid,” she said, sharp as a blade.
Enid’s eyes burned, a heat she couldn’t blink away. “That’s not a no.” The words slipped out, raw, trembling.
Wednesday’s mouth pressed into a hard line. Her gaze narrowed, offended that she even had to dignify it with an answer. She stepped closer, hands flexing at her sides. “The fact that you think I would need to answer that is insulting.”
Enid’s chest heaved, claws biting into her palms. “Then why?” Her voice cracked. “Why just stand there? Why let me spiral like that?”
Wednesday’s composure thinned, a faint crease at her brow. “Because I will not be interrogated like some unfaithful paramour. You assume treachery where none exists.”
Enid’s breath hitched. “She’s clinging to you, Wednesday — your neck, your chest — and you want me to pretend it means nothing?”
“That is precisely what I expect. There is no ‘she,’ Enid. You smell proximity, not intimacy. Contact, not connection.”
Enid’s lips parted, her voice raw. “Do you even hear yourself? You make it sound clinical, like I should just… file it under ‘proximity’ and move on. I can’t. I can’t be fine when it feels like I’m competing with someone I’ve never even met.” Her wolf surged beneath her skin, nails biting deep into her palms.
Wednesday’s jaw tightened. “You are not competing. If there is weight here, you are the one giving it form.”
Enid blinked, chest heaving. “It’s like my feelings don’t even register as real to you.”
“Emotion does not equate to truth.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one here who feels anything?”
Silence.
Wednesday’s gaze lingered, searching but impenetrable. Enid pushed herself off the bed, trembling, desperate for something—anything—that would reach her.
But Wednesday remained motionless. Unreadable. Silent.
Enid swallowed hard, her voice dropping to a whisper threaded with hurt and defiance. “You’re smart, Wednesday. Figure it out.”
And then, before she could crumble, before she could beg for gentleness or reassurance, she opened the door and slipped into the night, leaving the room hollow, echoing with the tension of what had been said—and left unsaid.
The room sealed itself into silence the moment Enid vanished. The door clicked shut like a verdict, and the scent she carried thinned almost immediately, leaving only absence and a hollow ache that felt louder than sound.
Wednesday remained where she was, rigid as a blade in its sheath. Only her pulse betrayed her calm—quick, uneven, unfamiliar. Enid’s last words echoed, sharper than any insult: You’re smart, Wednesday. Figure it out. A challenge. An accusation. But beneath it, Wednesday could still hear what Enid herself couldn’t say: desperation.
Her eyes flicked to the door. Every instinct in her urged her to follow—drag Enid back, force the matter to conclusion, impose order on the chaos clawing between them. Instead, she stayed rooted to the floorboards, hands flexing once at her sides, nails pressing into her palms.
Anger burned, yes—at the accusation, at the audacity of it. That she, Wednesday Addams, would lower herself to petty betrayal? Absurd. And yet, beneath the irritation, something deeper coiled. Something she refused to name.
She’s all over you… everywhere I want to be, and it’s her. Not me. The echo of Enid’s voice carved through her armour. It shouldn’t have. She prided herself on being untouchable, precise, untangled by sentiment. Yet the tremor in Enid’s tone, the wild, desperate flare in her eyes, landed like a blade, slicing through the careful walls she’d built around herself.
Enid had always been patient—so impossibly patient. She had been the first to reach, to bridge the distance that Wednesday preferred to leave. Hands that sought, fingers that lingered, subtle touches that tethered Wednesday when she otherwise would have drifted. Enid had been the one to initiate conversations, the one to bend down to meet Wednesday’s gaze when she refused to speak, to translate emotion into warmth, into something tangible. She had leaned forward when Wednesday retreated, pressed herself close when Wednesday allowed it, whispered words meant to anchor them both in moments that might otherwise have unravelled. Enid had carried the weight of connection, always starting, always offering, never demanding in return—simply giving.
And tonight, that devotion had recoiled back at her.
Finally, Wednesday moved—each step across the dorm deliberate, precise, controlled—as if measured distance might grant her leverage against a storm she hadn’t anticipated. Her bag waited where she had placed it earlier, silent and accusing. With mechanical care, she crossed to the desk, unfastened the clasp, and drew out the object at the heart of tonight’s disaster.
A handkerchief. Crisp linen, its corner frayed from overuse. Not hers.
The matron at the apothecary had thrust it at her after a vial shattered in her hands—leaning in too close, blotting at her collar before Wednesday could recoil. The fragrance—sweet, suffocating—had lingered like residue. Unwanted. Irritating. And somehow, devastating.
Wednesday set the handkerchief on the desk and stared at it, willing her thoughts to still. Logical. Simple. A misunderstanding. The explanation was obvious, ready to be delivered with the cold precision she usually wielded like a scalpel. And yet… she had not given it.
Why?
Because Enid had not asked for evidence. She had asked for reassurance. For acknowledgment. For the smallest gesture to tell her that she mattered—not as an experiment, not as a puzzle, not as a passive observer in Wednesday’s world, but as someone who counted.
And Wednesday had not known how. Not without relinquishing control, not without cracking open the shell she had fortified so meticulously over the years. Not without letting Enid see the quiet vulnerability she had always kept hidden.
So she did nothing.
Hours bled away in silence, the dorm cloaked in shadows that stretched and shifted as the night deepened. Wednesday hadn’t moved from where Enid had left her, rigid in her chair, the bag still resting at her side like an accusation. Her mind turned endlessly, circling the same jagged truth.
Her nails dug crescents into her palms. The knowledge sat in her chest like a brand, searing and insistent: if Enid had walked away believing she didn’t matter, it was because Wednesday had made it possible. Because despite everything—despite the hours Enid spent starting the connection, holding the warmth, pressing for closeness, enduring the distance Wednesday demanded—she had failed to meet her halfway, even once.
And that was intolerable.
The door creaked at last.
Enid slipped back inside, quiet as a shadow despite the clumsy way she usually moved through the world. Her presence filled the room instantly, like a storm front returning
Wednesday’s head snapped up, eyes locking on her. Her nerves—though she would never name them such—wound taut as piano wire.
“You came back,” Wednesday said. Her tone was even, but the words landed heavier than they should have.
Enid’s mouth pressed thin. She shifted, arms crossing herself like armour. “I’m sorry I left. I just… couldn’t breathe in here. Not with everything in my head.”
Wednesday studied her for a long, unblinking moment. Then she moved—quiet, purposeful—to the desk. She retrieved the handkerchief, holding it between two fingers like evidence in a case file.
“This is the culprit.”
Enid’s brow furrowed, suspicion flashing, but softer this time.
“At the apothecary,” Wednesday said, her voice clipped, controlled. “A vial broke in my hands. The clerk insisted on fussing—uninvited—and pressed this upon me. She leaned too close. Dabbed at the stain before I could stop her.” Her lip curled faintly. “Her scent clung. Floral. Cloying. Unwelcome.”
She held Enid’s gaze, firm, unyielding. “Proximity. Not intimacy. Contact, not connection. Nothing more.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Enid’s arms folded tighter. Her voice came out small, fragile. “You could’ve just said that. Instead, you let me spiral.”
Wednesday forced her fingers to unclench from the linen. She stepped forward—slowly, deliberately—until the space between them thinned to almost nothing. Her voice dropped, quieter than she intended, but steady.
“My instinct is to present facts. To dissect. To offer evidence, not comfort. But you… did not need proof. You needed reassurance. And I failed to provide it.”
Enid blinked, throat working. “So… you’re saying you don’t know how to—”
“I am saying I am unpractised,” Wednesday interrupted, eyes dark and searching. “But you matter enough for me to attempt it. Despite the difficulty.”
Enid’s breath caught, her chest rising sharply. She pressed her lips together, trying to hold steady, but they trembled anyway. “I’m sorry too. For how jealous I got. I don’t even know why it hit me that hard. I’ll… I’ll try to do better.”
“No.” Wednesday’s voice was low but unwavering, every word deliberate. “This is not yours to carry. You doubt because I offer no reassurance. You hold back because I give you no signal to reach closer. I have relied on your patience, your persistence, your courage to begin what I should have—what I should have claimed first. This is not your failure. It is mine. And I will do better. I will try. With you.”
For a moment, neither of them breathed.
Then, uncharacteristically, Wednesday lifted her hand first. Fingers brushed Enid’s wrist—hesitant, unsteady—then slid upward until they curled around her hand, grounding her.
“I do not tolerate the scent of others,” she said, voice low, unflinching. Her gaze held steady on Enid’s. “I prefer yours.”
Enid’s breath hitched, eyes shimmering as if the words alone knocked the ground out from under her.
Wednesday stepped closer still, until their foreheads nearly touched. “I am… not skilled at this,” she admitted, voice like a vow. “But I will try. Because you are not trivial. You are not nothing. You are—” her jaw tightened, but her grip on Enid’s hand did not falter, “—everything that matters.”
Enid let out a trembling exhale, shoulders softening as if the fight had drained from her. Wednesday’s hand lingered at Enid’s waist, her other still clasped around her fingers. For once, she did not analyse, did not retreat into thought. She simply looked at Enid—at the way her lashes trembled with unshed words, the way her chest rose and fell too quickly, the way her wolf seemed caught between fight and surrender.
Her own pulse beat hard in her throat. Unwelcome. Unfamiliar. But undeniable.
For so long, it had been Enid who closed the distance. Enid who reached for her hand, who leaned in, who kissed her first. Always patient, always waiting for a signal that never came. And Wednesday, cowardly in her own way, had allowed it—accepted what was given but never dared to claim it.
But tonight, something inside her snapped taut. The thought of Enid doubting—of believing, even for a heartbeat, that another could intrude—was intolerable. She would not leave this unspoken.
Wednesday lifted her free hand slowly, almost stiff with the unfamiliarity of the motion. She brushed a strand of hair from Enid’s face—a gesture so small, but one she had never allowed herself before. Her thumb lingered at the curve of Enid’s jaw, her palm cupping her cheek with uncharacteristic gentleness.
Enid’s breath caught. Her eyes widened, a flicker of shock breaking through the storm. “Weds…?”
Wednesday silenced her with action.
She leaned in—not rushed, not desperate, but deliberate, claiming the space between them as hers to cross. Her lips pressed to Enid’s—firm, steady, searing with intent.
It was not borrowed courage. It was not Enid pulling her forward. It was Wednesday. Choosing.
The kiss was strange at first, awkward in its honesty. Too much pressure, too little breath, as if she was learning the shape of the act by instinct alone. But beneath it ran something raw, something fierce. A vow carved into the press of her mouth: you are mine; I choose you, no one else touches this part of me but you.
Enid froze for half a heartbeat, stunned—and then melted, utterly, into the kiss. Her hands came up to grip Wednesday’s arms, clutching as though anchoring herself against the weight of the moment.
When Wednesday finally drew back, she did not retreat. Her face remained composed, but her eyes betrayed her—dark, intent, fixed on Enid’s with unsettling clarity.
Enid’s chest heaved. Her lips trembled, swollen and flushed. Her wolf, restless all night, went silent at last—soothed, claimed, calmed.
Wednesday’s forehead rested lightly against hers. Enid drew in a shaky breath, half-sob, half-relief. “You smell like me now.”
Something flickered in Wednesday’s gaze—not softness, but quiet satisfaction, sharp and certain. Her grip at Enid’s waist tightened, holding her fast.
“As it should be,” she murmured.
And then she kissed her again—fiercer, hungrier—as though to carve the truth into both of them: that there would be no rival, no doubt. Only this fire, this choice, this inexorable need.