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The dorm door creaked when Enid pushed it open. She tried to ease it quietly, like that would somehow make the night less obvious. She winced when the hinge betrayed her anyway, a thin groan that seemed to echo like a shout in the quiet.
The room was almost entirely dark. Only one light glowed — the small desk lamp by Wednesday’s typewriter, casting a pale circle across the neat stacks of paper and the stark silhouette of its owner. Of course she was still awake. Of course she was sitting there, perfectly still, as though she’d been waiting for this exact moment.
Enid froze halfway in, hand still clutching the knob. The sting in her shoulder flared in protest at the motion, reminding her of every claw that had grazed too close. Her thigh throbbed where she’d taken a hit diving to shield the freshman. She’d wiped off the worst of the blood in the bathroom mirror and tugged her jacket to hide what she could, but there was no hiding the torn jeans, the dirt streaks, or the stiffness in her gait. Maybe, just maybe, the dim lamp would soften it.
“Hey,” she said, voice pitched too casual, too bright. She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe like she hadn’t just been sprinting through the woods like a maniac. “Miss me?”
Wednesday’s eyes lifted from her folded hands. Black, bottomless, unreadable. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The weight of her stare alone was enough to send Enid’s stomach dropping straight into her shoes.
Not good. Definitely not good.
Enid forced herself to step further in, shutting the door with a soft click behind her. She summoned up a grin she didn’t quite feel, shoving it onto her face like armor. “Sooo, funny story—”
“You are limping.”
The voice was low, cutting, precise as a scalpel.
Enid scoffed on instinct. “Am not.”
Though the hitch in her stride betrayed her with every step. She tried to play it off, rolling her shoulders in a shrug — and instantly regretted it when pain bit sharp through her collarbone. She covered the wince with a laugh. “Okay, maybe a little. But I’m fine. Totally fine. Nothing major.”
Wednesday didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“Define ‘nothing major.’”
Enid waved a hand, as though she could swat the night away like it was nothing. “Handled it. Totally under control. Kid’s safe, everyone’s fine.”
“Everyone,” Wednesday said quietly, “is not fine.”
That landed hard, heavy as a gravestone. Enid’s grin faltered. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “Weds, seriously, you don’t have to make it a big deal. I—”
“Sit.”
One word. No volume. No room for debate.
Enid froze. She’d been bracing for sarcasm, maybe even one of those icy lectures. Not this. Not the coiled steel of a command that left no room for negotiation.
Still, she obeyed. She always did, in the end. She crossed the room slowly, lowering herself onto the edge of her bed. Her hands folded tight in her lap, her back straight, like a child caught sneaking out past curfew. Her pulse hammered harder than it had during the actual fight.
Wednesday moved. Not rushed — never rushed — but deliberate, every step across the floor measured like the tick of a clock. Her eyes never left Enid’s, not once, and that was somehow worse than yelling.
Enid wanted to fidget. She wanted to chatter her way out of this, to make a joke about claws and teeth and how she’d looked pretty badass out there. But every word she tried to summon shriveled under the burn of Wednesday’s stare.
When her girlfriend finally stopped in front of her, Enid summoned up a smile anyway. Small. Wobbly. Trying.
Wednesday’s gaze dropped, just briefly, to the jagged cut peeking through the rip in her sleeve. When she looked back up, her face was still composed, still the mask she wore like armour — but there were cracks at the edges now.
Enid shifted on the mattress, her weight making the springs groan softly. She suddenly wished she’d thought to change, or at least wipe away the streaks of dirt caked on her jeans. The blood stains looked darker under the lamplight, stark against the pale fabric. She smelled of pine and smoke and sweat.
Wednesday didn’t speak. She turned away, her black night gown whispering as she crossed to the desk. Her hands, pale and steady, unlatched the leather case sitting neatly by the typewriter. The sound — the crisp click of brass locks — seemed deafening in the small room.
Enid cleared her throat. “… not to brag or anything, but you should’ve seen the other guy.” She forced lightness into her voice, words spilling quick.
Nothing. Not even a twitch in her shoulders.
Enid tried again, brightening her tone. “Nurse Addams, reporting for duty? Because I’ve gotta say, you are extremely hot when you’re bossy.”
Still no reaction. Wednesday’s movements remained maddeningly precise as she laid out gauze, wipes, and gleaming silver scissors in a perfect row, each placed at a right angle. Her silence pressed heavier than anger, filling every inch of space between them.
Enid raised her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, yeah, you’re mad. Got it. Silent treatment, classic.”
Finally, Wednesday turned. Scissors in hand, her gaze locked directly onto the shredded sleeve of Enid’s jacket. She still didn’t speak as she approached, didn’t blink as she slid the cold blade against the seam.
Enid swallowed. “Wow. Straight to undressing me. Shouldn’t you at least buy me dinner first?”
The scissors snapped shut with a sharp metallic bite, close enough that Enid felt the edge whisper against her skin.
Her grin faltered. “…Kidding. Totally kidding.”
Wednesday peeled the fabric back with slow precision, exposing the shallow cut underneath. The wound looked worse in the warm glow of the lamp — angry red, ringed by bruising. Wednesday’s gloved hand brushed the edge, testing, assessing. Her touch was cool, clinical.
Enid hissed when the pressure stung, biting her lip. “Ooo. Okay. Big ouch. Little warning next time?”
“You did not give me warning before running headlong into claws and teeth.” Wednesday’s voice was flat, unhurried, as though it was simply a fact to record. The disinfectant-soaked gauze pressed firmly against her skin.
Enid flinched at the burn, then laughed breathlessly, forcing lightheartedness into the sound. “Touché.”
But Wednesday didn’t smile. Her jaw was set, her brows drawn tight enough to crease her pale skin. She might have looked angry to anyone else. Enid knew better. Her girlfriend’s hands gave her away.
Every motion was careful, meticulous — the slow swipe of gauze, the steady press of fresh bandage, the way her fingers lingered just a fraction too long against unbroken skin. Gentle. Almost reverent.
Enid caught it instantly. Her grin softened, voice dropping low. “I know you’re furious,” she murmured, “but you’re being so careful.”
Wednesday didn’t look up. “Hold still.”
Enid tilted her head, studying her face, memorizing every tight line and flicker of tension. “See, most girlfriends would just say, ‘I was worried.’ You? You patch me up and threaten to chloroform me if I squirm.”
Finally, Wednesday glanced up. Her eyes were dark, cutting, but her tone was almost too calm. “If you continue speaking, I will.”
Enid’s grin brightened instantly. “See? That’s the bossy hotness I was talking about.”
Wednesday ignored her. She switched to a fresh roll of bandage, wrapping it with the neat efficiency. Yet her fingers betrayed her again — brushing feather-light against Enid’s wrist as she adjusted the gauze, trailing just a touch longer than necessary.
Enid lowered her voice to a murmur. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”
Wednesday paused, mid-wrap. Just for a second, her thumb brushed gently over bare skin in a way that had nothing to do with medicine. Then it was gone, swallowed back into efficiency.
“It is called competence,” she said flatly, finishing the bandage with a crisp tuck.
Enid smirked, warmth blooming in her chest despite herself. “Mhm. Totally not because you were terrified I wasn’t coming back.”
That made Wednesday’s eyes snap up, sharp as broken glass. “You mistake fury for fear. Do not trivialize this.”
Her voice was dangerous — steady, but with an edge that trembled like a wire pulled too tight. Yet her hands, even as she spoke, were nothing but careful as they dabbed antiseptic over the shallow scrape at Enid’s collarbone.
Enid swallowed. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t need to. She let her eyes soften instead, her silence a quiet I’m here. I’m alive.
The sting of antiseptic lingered, sharp enough to make Enid hiss again. She tried to swallow the sound, but it slipped out anyway. Wednesday’s hand faltered for half a second — the tiniest pause before she resumed with her usual precision.
Enid caught it. Of course she did.
“Hey,” she said softly, trying to catch her girlfriend’s eyes. “I’m fine, really. Bruised, not broken. You don’t have to look like someone just killed your favorite violin.”
Wednesday didn’t answer. Her gaze stayed locked on the wound, movements methodical, deliberate. But her jaw tightened with every word.
Enid reached out, gently curling her fingers over Wednesday’s wrist. The pulse beneath her skin was quick, steady but faster than Wednesday usually allowed herself to show. Enid squeezed, grounding. “Talk to me.”
That did it. For just a heartbeat, Wednesday’s composure cracked — not much, but enough for Enid to see the storm roiling underneath.
“You think this is amusing,” Wednesday said at last, low and controlled, but her voice carried a tremor Enid had never heard before. “You make jokes. You minimize. But do you have any idea what it does to me… seeing you bleed?”
The words fell like glass shattering. Not loud, not angry — but fragile, splintering something unspoken between them.
Enid’s throat went dry. She blinked, her teasing grin dissolving into something softer, almost stricken. “Weds…”
Wednesday pulled her wrist free, setting aside the gauze with a click that was too sharp, too final. “Recklessness is unbecoming. You cannot protect every stray idiot who wanders into danger. You cannot throw yourself in front of teeth and claws as though your skin is expendable.”
Her voice sharpened. Enid heard what she wasn’t saying anyway.
She shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “I couldn’t just stand there. That kid would’ve been shredded—”
“And what about me?”
Wednesday’s voice cut, precise as a scalpel, but her eyes — dark, fierce, and burning — betrayed her.
Enid froze. Her breath caught.
Wednesday stepped back, folding her arms tightly across her chest, as though bracing herself against the weight of what she’d just said. “What am I meant to do if you don’t come back? Continue typing? Catalogue your absence? Pretend the hollow where you should be doesn’t consume every waking moment?”
It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t loud. It was worse — raw and stripped bare in a way Wednesday Addams never allowed herself to be.
Enid’s chest ached. She rose carefully from the bed, ignoring the pull in her side, and closed the space between them. She lifted a hand, hesitant at first, then firm when Wednesday didn’t pull away, cupping her cheek. The cool smoothness of her skin grounded her, steadying her own racing pulse.
“Weds,” Enid whispered, “I’m here. I’m right here. You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”
Wednesday’s lashes flickered, her breath uneven. “You say that as though permanence is assured.”
Enid smiled softly, even through the tightness in her throat. “Because it is. I’m not going anywhere. Not from you.”
For the first time since she’d entered the dorm, the silence between them wasn’t suffocating. It was heavy, yes — but in a way that felt like gravity, like something pulling them closer instead of apart.
Wednesday didn’t speak. Her hand came up, pale fingers sliding over Enid’s bandaged shoulder, trailing with care over bruises and cuts as though memorizing proof that she was alive.
Enid leaned into her touch, eyes fluttering shut, and let the closeness wash over them both.
_______
Wednesday sat perched on the edge of the bed like a statue, hands folded in her lap, back ramrod straight. She looked less like a girlfriend keeping watch and more like a sentinel guarding a crypt.
Enid sighed into the pillow, half-lidded eyes fixed on her. “You know,” she murmured, voice soft but teasing, “if you’re gonna sit there all night like a gargoyle, I’m never gonna get any sleep.”
“I am ensuring you don’t aggravate your wounds,” Wednesday replied, clipped as ever, gaze locked stubbornly ahead.
Enid smirked faintly. “You could do that lying down. Right now it just feels like I’m under surveillance.”
“I am ensuring you do not escape.”
Enid gasped dramatically, pressing a hand over her chest in mock offense. “What? Me? Defy medical orders? Never.”
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth twitched — brief, gone in an instant, but Enid caught it.
Silence settled between them. Enid shifted slightly, watching Wednesday’s sharp profile, the way her hair fell in a perfect sheet over her shoulder, the way her hands were clenched too tightly in her lap. She wasn’t just keeping watch. She was holding herself back.
“You can look at me, you know,” Enid whispered.
Slowly, reluctantly, Wednesday did. And the force of that stare nearly knocked the air out of Enid’s lungs — all intensity, all restraint, all the things she refused to say.
Enid’s smile gentled into something softer. “Hi.”
Wednesday blinked, the smallest crease forming between her brows. “…Hello.”
Enid shifted closer, careful not to tug at her bandages, her hand sliding to Wednesday’s wrist. She felt the tension there, rigid, unyielding. “You’re being careful,” she murmured.
“I will not cause further injury,” Wednesday said, tone flat, but her voice was quieter than before. Her lips hovered just above Enid’s temple, close enough for warmth, but not touching. Not quite daring.
Enid tilted her chin, closing the space another fraction, coaxing her down. “I’m not worried about that. You won’t hurt me.”
Wednesday’s fingers curled tighter into her side, the pressure deliberate but shaky. Her jaw tensed. “I cannot—”
“You can,” Enid cut in gently. She reached up, cupping Wednesday’s cheek, guiding her gaze back down when she tried to look away. Her thumb brushed across pale skin, firm and grounding. “You’re not gonna break me. I’m right here.”
Wednesday’s breath faltered, caught somewhere between protest and surrender.
Enid leaned in, closing the final distance with a soft, steady kiss. Not forceful, not demanding — just a clear, undeniable invitation. I want this. I want you.
For a heartbeat, Wednesday froze — rigid, uncertain. And then, finally, she kissed her back.
It wasn’t tentative. It was sharp, decisive, the way she wielded words like weapons — but underneath the bite was something desperate. A hunger Enid felt in the way Wednesday’s lips moved against hers, claiming and careful all at once.
Enid melted into it, sighing against her mouth.
The mattress dipped under their weight, their bodies aligning. Enid’s bruises protested, but the ache blurred into something else entirely with Wednesday pressed so close. Her hand found the collar of her girlfriend’s nightshirt, tugging gently. “You okay?” she asked softly.
Wednesday didn’t bother answering with words. Her mouth closed over Enid’s again, harder this time, fingers curling possessively at her hip. That was all the answer Enid needed.
Enid gasped, arching into the touch. Her own hands slipped under Wednesday’s shirt, splaying against cool skin, dragging upward. She grinned at the faint shudder that rippled through her girlfriend.
The control cracked further. Their kisses turned messy, frantic, all teeth and gasps. Enid laughed breathlessly against her mouth, heat curling low in her belly.
“You’re—” she started, voice rough with need.
Wednesday cut her off by nipping her bottom lip, sharp enough to sting, soothing immediately after with her tongue. Enid’s gasp melted into a moan, soft and unguarded.
Wednesday stilled for half a second, startled by the sound, then pulled her closer with sudden urgency, as though she needed every piece of her at once. Her hands roamed with precision but also desperation, mapping bruises, circling uninjured skin, careful not to push where it would hurt — but making certain Enid felt every ounce of her alive.
Enid tugged Wednesday’s shirt higher, fingers tracing bare skin, greedy for every shiver she caused. “You’re trembling,” she whispered with a grin.
“Do you ever stop talking?” Wednesday rasped, her fingers tightening at Enid’s waist.
Enid chuckled, kissing her again, softer this time. “Not when it gets me this.”
Wednesday didn’t move at first. She hovered above her, lips barely brushing, eyes shadowed with restraint. Enid could feel the tension wound tight in her — shoulders rigid, hands poised at her waist like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to press further.
“You’re holding back,” Enid murmured, tilting her head to catch her eyes.
“I will not risk aggravating your injuries.” The words were clinical, but her voice wavered at the edges, betraying the storm underneath.
Enid’s grin softened into something steadier. She caught Wednesday’s hand, guiding it higher, pressing it against her ribs where the bruises weren’t. “You’re not going to hurt me. I promise.” She leaned up, whispering against her lips. “You’re allowed to want me.”
Wednesday’s throat bobbed as if swallowing words she didn’t dare voice. Her silence stretched between them — and then it broke. She kissed Enid, fierce and sudden, like she couldn’t hold herself back anymore.
The kiss deepened until Enid’s lungs burned, until she was arching into it with needy abandon. Wednesday kissed like she did everything else: controlled at first. But beneath it was heat — sharp, insistent, consuming. Enid felt it in the way her girlfriend’s hands finally gripped with certainty, fingertips digging into her hips with a possessive edge.
“Weds—” Enid’s voice hitched, a half-laugh, half-moan.
“Yes?” The word came flat, but her breath against Enid’s throat betrayed her.
“You’re… ridiculously good at this,” Enid whispered, dazed and grinning despite the raggedness in her voice.
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed as though the compliment was an insult, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she lowered her mouth to Enid’s collarbone, tracing the delicate curve with reverent precision. Every brush of her lips was maddeningly slow, every touch calculated to keep Enid strung taut.
Enid’s breath stuttered. Her fingers found the fabric of Wednesday’s nightgown, tugging gently, urging her closer. “Stop thinking so hard,” she whispered. “Just… feel me.”
Something inside Wednesday cracked. Her lips grew more urgent, her teeth grazing lightly against sensitive skin, soothed immediately after with her tongue. Enid gasped, her nails dragging through dark hair, anchoring herself as her body arched instinctively into every touch.
Wednesday’s hands slid beneath the hem of her shirt, palms spanning the warm stretch of skin they found there. Her fingers explored with purpose — skimming up Enid’s sides, pressing lightly at her ribs, mapping every inch that wasn’t marked by bruises. She was deliberate, cautious even in her hunger, as though cataloguing proof that Enid was still whole.
Enid trembled, the careful devotion unraveling her faster than any roughness could. “God… Weds…” she whispered, voice catching as her back bowed off the mattress.
Wednesday kissed her harder, swallowing the sounds she made, guiding her with unrelenting hands. The world narrowed to heat and breath and the friction of bodies pressed close. Every brush of fingers, every press of lips carried weight — not just want, but need.
Enid’s body answered instinctively, chasing every touch, every deliberate press. Heat pooled low and sharp, her breaths breaking apart into soft, helpless sounds she couldn’t hold back.
God—” Enid’s voice cracked, laughter and desperation tangled together. She tried to smirk, tried to catch her breath, but every movement of Wednesday’s hand scattered her thoughts. “Y-you’re… not wasting any time, huh?”
Wednesday didn’t answer. Not with words. Her hand slid lower, finally giving Enid what she had been aching for.
The first touch stole the air from her lungs. Enid’s back arched off the mattress, a startled gasp leaving her throat before she could swallow it down. Heat shot through her in a way that was almost unbearable, like her body had been strung too tight and Wednesday had plucked the exact right string.
It was faster than usual — too fast. The pressure built sharp and immediate, leaving her scrambling to keep pace with her own body. Each deliberate stroke, each brush of fingers, wound her tighter until her thighs quivered, straining against the sheets.
“Wednesday—” Enid gasped, clutching at her nightgown like an anchor. “I—oh, god, I’m—”
The rest dissolved into broken sound.
The world snapped white as the surge of pleasure tore through her, hard and consuming, ripping the breath from her lungs. Enid cried out, her whole body seizing tight around it, every muscle trembling as waves of release dragged her under. It was raw, overwhelming, hitting quicker than she’d expected, leaving her gasping, clutching at Wednesday like she’d fly apart if she let go.
And Wednesday never let her go — holding her steady, grounding her with lips at her jaw, her temple, her mouth, reverent even in the chaos of it.
And Enid gave herself to it completely, offering her warmth, her laughter, her whole self without hesitation. She kissed her back slowly, tugged her closer, whispered between breaths, “See? Not broken. Yours.”
Wednesday swallowed the words in another kiss, trembling just slightly against her. A tremor that came from holding back too much for too long.
Enid smiled into it, heart full, body alight, and decided then she’d keep reminding her, for as long as it took.