Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The only open seat in the café was across from her.

Of course it was.

Enid hesitated for half a second, scanning for another option like one might scan for lifeboats on the Titanic. No luck. Full tables, crowded bar, and a hipster guy in the corner aggressively journaling like it was 1834. She clutched her to-go cup and reluctantly slid into the seat across from her personal antagonist.

Coffee in one hand. Phone buzzing in the other. A sigh that could have launched a thousand sad indie albums.

Across the table, Wednesday Addams didn’t even try to hide her disdain. She lifted her eyes over the rim of her black coffee—no cream, no sugar, no warmth, no hope—and regarded Enid like she was the one thing standing between her and a peaceful death.

“You,” Wednesday said flatly.

Enid didn’t even blink. “Me.”

Their last real interaction had involved glitter, a tray of cupcakes, and public humiliation in front of the university’s entire Fine Arts department. The memory came roaring back like a drunk raccoon at 3AM.

Graduation day. The most important academic moment of Wednesday’s life. Her thesis presentation: "Mortality and Meaninglessness: Gothic Symbolism in Decay."
Enid had been there as part of the gallery committee. Carrying desserts. Nervous. Sweaty. Trying to balance a tray of very Enid-coded cupcakes—pastel swirls, edible sparkles, tiny fondant bats because she was trying so hard to be supportive in her own glittery way.

Then the slip. The fall. The catastrophic splatter heard ‘round the Art Building. Pink icing all over Wednesday’s framed photographs of graveyards and decomposing architecture.

And the worst part?

Enid had laughed. Nervously. But it was a laugh.

Wednesday hadn’t said a word at first. Just stared at the wreckage with all the calm of a woman contemplating homicide.

Then, finally, she looked up, cold as winter.
"You’ll never make it in art, Sinclair. No one will ever take you seriously in glitter."

Charming, as always.

They hadn’t spoken since.

Until now.

Enid shifted in her seat and tried to pretend that wasn’t a highlight reel playing in her head on a loop. She stared down into her latte like it might reveal a way to escape into another dimension.

Her phone buzzed. Then again. And again.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Wednesday’s nails tapped lightly against her mug, the rhythm just judgmental enough. “Your phone’s being clingy.”

Enid groaned. “It’s my family. They’re excited. About my girlfriend.”

There was a pause. The kind of pause that could be gift-wrapped and labeled suspicious.

Wednesday tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Ah,” she said at last. “The invisible kind.”

Enid winced. “It was a panic lie, okay? Last Christmas, my mom was crying into the mashed potatoes about how single I was. So I invented someone. One-time lie. Emotional life raft. I didn’t even give her a name. I just said… she’s short.”

Wednesday blinked slowly. “So you created a woman out of thin air, gave her the sex appeal of being short, and told your family she was real?”

Enid slumped further in her seat. “It was supposed to fade away. But now they think we’ve been dating for a year. They bought us matching stockings. There’s an embroidered pillow. And now I’m supposed to bring her home for the holidays and to my cousin’s wedding. My ex will be there. With her new fiancé. Who’s an aerialist, because of course she is.”

Buzz. Buzz.

The phone screen lit up again:
Mom 💖 (Pray 4 Me): can’t wait to meet your girlfriend!! 💕 also what's her fave cookies so I can bake them!!!

“I’m gonna have to go home and admit that I’m a single loser with glitter-based trauma and a history of bad decisions.”

Another pause.

Wednesday set her coffee down with a delicate clink. She looked—disturbingly calm. A little too thoughtful. Like someone solving a puzzle labeled opportunity for chaos.

“What if we fake date?” she said.

Enid blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

Wednesday shrugged, casual as ever. “You need someone. I am someone. You already hate me. There’s no risk of emotional entanglement. Plus, I’m excellent at lying. And emotionally unavailable.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’ve never been unserious in my life.”

Enid stared. Her brain stalled out like a bad internet connection. “Why would you offer to help me?”

Wednesday took another sip. “I’m between projects. Bored. And if I have to watch one more pretentious poetry slam about mushrooms and moonlight, I will scream. Think of this as performance art.”

Enid looked down at her phone, then back up. “You want to fake a relationship for… fun?”

Wednesday smiled. Just enough to be terrifying. “And vengeance. Can’t forget that.”

“This is a terrible idea,” Enid whispered.

“But?”

Enid groaned. “But I don’t have any better ideas. And I do have to face my extended family in three days.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“God help me,” Enid muttered, grabbing her latte with both hands, “I think it is.”

And that—spectacularly, regrettably, inevitably—was how it began.

Chapter Text

The train shuddered forward with a metallic groan, rattling the windows and shaking dust motes loose from the ceiling. Enid Sinclair tucked herself deeper into her window seat, hoodie pulled up, phone clutched loosely in her hands. The glow of Twitter lit up her face, a rapid scroll of disaster headlines and suspiciously cute dog videos flying past in a blur.

Next to her, Wednesday Addams sat bolt upright, spine like a ruler, one hand resting on a battered copy of Frankenstein. She turned a page with slow, deliberate care, as if each word was something to savor—or dissect.

For a long stretch of miles, they didn't speak.

They barely even looked at each other, except for the way Enid's gaze kept flickering sideways, catching the edge of Wednesday’s sharp profile in the late afternoon light. The way her hair, impossibly dark, caught flecks of gold against the window. The steady twitch of her thumb against the paper. The way she seemed immune to the jostling of the train, the chaos of the world, the endless buzz of Enid’s phone.

It should’ve been awkward. It was awkward, technically.
But it was also... something else.

A silent, heavy kind of truce. Like they were two armies called into an unexpected ceasefire, sitting side by side, each pretending not to notice the other’s existence. Enid refreshed her feed again, another wave of horrible news rolling by.

"I think the world might actually be ending," she muttered, half to herself.

Wednesday didn’t glance up. "It’s been ending for years. You’re just catching up."

Enid snorted. A sound she immediately tried to smother by sipping her iced latte through a straw. It only made it worse, the straw gurgling obnoxiously in the half-empty cup.

Wednesday closed her eyes briefly, like she was praying for strength—or contemplating whether she could legally claim self-defense if she committed murder on public transport.

The minutes stretched. The train roared on. Fields and snowy trees blurred past the window like a living watercolor.

Enid scrolled. Wednesday read.

Their shoulders bumped once when the train jolted over a rough patch of track. Neither moved away.

Neither apologized.

They just stayed there, breathing in the same small pocket of air, pretending it wasn’t charged enough to short-circuit a small town’s power grid.

Enid peeked sideways again.
Wednesday turned another page, unbothered.

Enid’s heart did something weird and traitorous. Like a somersault it hadn’t agreed to.

She looked back down at her phone, the screen now frozen on a video of a puppy wearing a Christmas sweater two sizes too big.

“Doomscrolling will rot your brain,” Wednesday said absently, not looking up.

Enid grinned, a small, involuntary thing. “Good. Then maybe I’ll forget I’m bringing my fake girlfriend home for Christmas.”

Wednesday didn’t smile. But there was a glint in her eye when she turned another page. “You’re welcome.”

They rode in silence after that, but it wasn’t the awkward silence Enid had expected.

It was something slower. Softer.

The train kept rattling along, the steady clack-clack-clack of the tracks filling the space between them. Somewhere overhead, a speaker crackled, announcing the next town in a voice that sounded about three seconds from giving up on life.

Wednesday closed her book with a soft thump.
The movement made Enid glance over, her thumb hovering mid-scroll on a video of a cat knocking over a Christmas tree.

“What?” Enid asked cautiously, already suspicious.

Wednesday shifted slightly, angling her body toward her. Her expression was unreadable, which somehow made Enid's stomach tighten even more than if she'd been openly glaring.

“We need rules,” Wednesday said.

Enid blinked. “Rules?”

“Yes. A fake dating rulebook. Terms. Conditions. Contingencies.”
She said it like she was drafting a treaty, not offering to hold Enid’s hand at her cousin’s open bar wedding.

Enid dropped her phone onto her lap, the screen dimming. “You’ve put thought into this.”

“I don’t do anything without precision,” Wednesday said primly, like this was obvious.

Enid slouched lower in her seat, pulling her knees up slightly like a barrier. "Okay. Fine. Hit me."

Wednesday nodded sharply. "Rule one: No lying to me. If someone asks a question, you answer honestly to me later, even if you make something up in the moment."

Enid opened her mouth, but Wednesday cut her off with a lift of two fingers.

"This is critical. We can't maintain the illusion if we aren't aligned."

"You sound like you're prepping for a hostage negotiation," Enid said, a little awed.

"Same skill set," Wednesday deadpanned.

Enid smothered a laugh against her sleeve. "Okay, fine. Rule one: honesty between us. Got it."

Wednesday continued, ticking the rules off on her fingers like a general briefing a team before a black-ops mission.

"Rule two: Physical boundaries must be established."

Enid sat up straighter. "Physical boundaries?"

Wednesday’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. Almost.
"Handholding is acceptable. Light touching on the arm or back is acceptable. Kissing, if necessary for realism, will be discussed beforehand."

Enid was very aware, all at once, of how close they were sitting. Their knees nearly brushing. The shared heat between them, faint but undeniable.

"Discussed beforehand," Enid repeated, slightly breathless.

"Correct."

"And... what about cuddling?" she teased, nudging Wednesday's boot with hers under the table.

Wednesday leveled her with a flat stare. "Only if absolutely unavoidable."

Enid grinned. "Define 'unavoidable.'"

"A direct threat to the credibility of our ruse," Wednesday said without missing a beat. "Or an attack by overly sentimental relatives."

"So, like... if my grandma insists we cuddle up on the couch to watch 'The Polar Express,' you’re saying you'd...?"

Wednesday exhaled like she was being asked to donate a kidney. "I would endure it. For the mission."

Enid covered her mouth to hide the burst of laughter.
The thought of Wednesday Addams being forcibly snuggled under a crocheted Christmas blanket by her seventy-five-year-old grandmother was almost enough to make her believe in miracles.

"Rule three," Wednesday pressed on, a faint pinkness rising at the tips of her ears, "is emotional distance."

Enid’s smile faltered slightly.

"Emotional distance," she repeated slowly.

Wednesday nodded. "We are not actually dating. We will not confuse physical proximity or familial approval with genuine feelings."

Her voice was clinical. Brutal.
Like she was pre-emptively slamming a door shut between them.

Enid’s chest ached, just for a second.

"Right," she said brightly, too brightly. "No feelings. Got it."

Wednesday studied her for a moment longer than was strictly comfortable. Her dark eyes were impossible to read—calculating, measuring.

Maybe wondering if Enid was going to be a liability.
Maybe wondering why her own heart had just kicked hard against her ribs.

"Rule four," Wednesday said quietly. "We end this cleanly."

Enid tilted her head. "End it?"

"After the wedding. After the holidays. We return to our separate lives. No lingering communication. No post-mortem analysis. We disappear from each other's narratives."

The words hit heavier than they should have.

Enid nodded slowly, feeling something unsettled shift under her ribs.
"Disappear," she echoed.

Wednesday nodded once. Sharp. Final.

They sat in silence for a while after that, the rules hanging heavy in the air between them like invisible chains.

Outside, the sun was dipping low, painting the snowy fields in molten gold.

Inside the train, their shared seat felt too small.
Too warm.
Too complicated.

Enid picked up her phone again, staring blankly at the darkened screen.
Wednesday reopened her book.

But neither of them read.

Not really.

The train hissed as it pulled into the station, brakes screeching against the rails, the noise slicing through the quiet of early evening.
It was dark out, the sky a heavy velvet blue, stitched with faint stars and the far-off promise of snow.

Enid tugged her suitcase down from the overhead rack and nearly dropped it on her own foot. She let out a muffled curse, and when she glanced sideways, she found Wednesday already standing there—luggage in one hand, unreadable expression firmly in place.

"You are very bad at pretending to be casual," Wednesday said, voice dry as the winter air.

"Maybe I wasn't built for espionage," Enid muttered, blowing a strand of hair out of her face.

They shuffled down the narrow aisle, boots squeaking slightly on the worn rubber floors. Other passengers jostled past them, coats bundled, heads down against the cold, a blur of motion and muted conversation.

When they finally stepped onto the platform, the cold hit them full in the face—sharp and immediate. The ground was dusted with a thin, powdery sheet of snow, sparkling faintly under the station's dim lights. Their breath came in visible clouds, small ghosts in the air between them.

Enid shivered and jammed her free hand into her coat pocket. She glanced around the nearly empty parking lot and spotted a familiar beat-up blue SUV idling at the curb.

"There she is," Enid said, nudging Wednesday lightly with her elbow.

Wednesday nodded once but didn't move.

Enid hesitated. Then, awkwardly, she extended her free arm toward Wednesday. "For... you know. Realism."

Wednesday stared at her for a long, unreadable beat. Then, without a word, she shifted her suitcase to her other hand and looped her elbow through Enid’s.

Their coats brushed. Their bodies leaned instinctively into the space between them, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t.

It wasn’t supposed to be.

And yet.

Wednesday’s arm was solid and steady against hers, her glove-clad hand brushing lightly against the sleeve of Enid’s jacket. Enid had to fight the urge to squeeze tighter, to lean closer into the faint, unexpected warmth radiating from her.

They stood there for a second longer than necessary, tangled together awkwardly but stubbornly.

Then the SUV beeped twice.

Lyla Sinclair swung out of the driver’s seat, her ponytail bouncing as she jogged toward them across the icy pavement.
She was older by a few years, taller by a few inches, and somehow managed to radiate an aura of big-sister mischief even through her sensible parka and snow boots.

"Enid!" Lyla called, her voice carrying easily across the lot.

Enid grinned instinctively and waved, elbow jostling against Wednesday’s in the process.

As Lyla approached, her steps slowed, her sharp eyes flicking between them—at the way their arms were still looped, at the subtle way Wednesday leaned in like a coiled shadow, at the telltale nervous flush creeping up Enid’s cheeks.

Lyla’s mouth curved into a slow, knowing smirk.

"Well, well, well," she said, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. "You didn’t mention your dentist was hot."

Enid nearly choked on her own spit. "Lyla!"

Wednesday, to her credit, didn’t even flinch. She merely inclined her head in a faint, almost imperceptible bow. “Flossing is critical to maintaining both dental and personal hygiene,” she said evenly.

Lyla let out a delighted bark of laughter, loud enough that a few other travelers glanced over.

"Oh my god, you’re perfect," she said, clearly addressing Wednesday now. She shot Enid a wicked look. "I like her. Finally someone who can keep up with your chaos."

Enid made a strangled noise in the back of her throat. "Lyla, please, we're tired. Can we just go?"

Lyla laughed again, still grinning like she knew everything and was going to weaponize that information later.

She popped the trunk open and grabbed Enid’s suitcase, tossing it in with casual strength. Then she turned back toward them, appraising Wednesday more closely now, eyes dancing with curiosity and something softer underneath it—something almost protective.

"You good with snow?" Lyla asked Wednesday, jerking her thumb toward the barely salted roads. "Or do you need, like, emotional support boots?"

Wednesday blinked once. "I walk through graveyards barefoot for fun."

Lyla paused. Then laughed again, louder this time. "Yup. You’re officially my favorite."

Enid groaned and covered her face with both hands.

Wednesday’s elbow stayed hooked through hers the entire time.

Even when they made their way toward the car.
Even when Enid stumbled slightly on an icy patch and Wednesday’s grip tightened instinctively, steadying her.
Even when they climbed into the backseat, pressed a little too close, warmth blooming dangerously in the small space between them.

It was all for realism.
It had to be.

And if Enid’s heart was hammering against her ribs like it had been set loose inside a pinball machine?
Well.

That was nobody’s problem but hers.

Chapter Text

The inside of Lyla’s SUV was warm and smelled faintly of peppermint gum and wet wool. The heater rattled against the cold, blowing unevenly toward the windshield.

In the backseat, Enid fumbled with her seatbelt, still painfully aware of how close she was to Wednesday. Their arms brushed every time Lyla took a sharp turn, and each casual bump felt like it sent a small electric shock up Enid’s spine.

For realism, she reminded herself firmly.
For. Realism.

"You two good back there?" Lyla called over her shoulder, shifting gears with one hand and adjusting the radio with the other.
Soft Christmas music crackled through the speakers — some old, crooning version of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

Enid cleared her throat. "Fine! Totally fine."

Wednesday, naturally, didn’t say anything.
She just sat there, perfectly still, the picture of serene murder.

Lyla grinned at the windshield like she could hear the tension in Enid’s voice.
"So...," she drawled. "How’d you two meet?"

Enid stiffened.
She hadn't thought this far ahead.

There’d been no backstory planning. No fake first date story. No timeline. No funny little anecdotes about falling in love over tooth molds and fluoride treatments.

Panic sparked at the base of her skull.

Before she could answer, Wednesday spoke, smooth and unbothered.

"College," she said. "Mutual friends."

Lyla whistled low. "College girlfriends. That’s serious."

Enid, finding her voice again, laughed nervously. "Yeah, you know. Study dates and...um, dental floss."

She wanted to slap herself. Dental floss?? Really??

But to her amazement, Wednesday didn’t even blink.
She just reached over, casual as anything, and hooked her pinky lightly through Enid’s under the pretense of adjusting the blanket thrown over their laps.

The gesture was so small it could have been missed.
But Enid felt it like a flare going off inside her.

Lyla smirked into the rearview mirror.
"I knew it," she said. "I told Mom you were dating someone. She said no, Enid's too focused on her art stuff right now. But I said nah, it’s always the quiet ones. They’re the sneakiest."

Enid let out a strangled sound that could have been a laugh. Or a cry.
It was hard to tell at this point.

"You've been telling Mom?" she hissed in a whisper only Wednesday could hear.

Wednesday’s mouth tilted, just slightly.
"Apparently," she murmured back.

Outside the windows, the world blurred past in soft dark shapes — trees heavy with snow, porch lights glowing in the distance, the occasional dusting of frost skittering across the windshield.

It was the kind of night that felt like it belonged in a movie.
The kind where you fall in love if you aren’t careful.

Enid shifted slightly, pulling the blanket higher under the guise of warming her hands.
Wednesday didn’t move away.

"You know," Lyla said, a little more serious now, "I’m really glad you’re bringing someone home this year."

Enid blinked. "You are?"

Lyla shrugged, her voice softer. "You deserve to have someone in your corner. Especially with everything that’s been going on with..." She trailed off delicately, but Enid knew what she meant. Her ex. The wedding. The mess she was pretending wasn’t already clawing at her nerves.

Enid swallowed hard. "Yeah. Thanks."

Wednesday’s hand, still resting lightly against Enid's side under the blanket, flexed — just once, a subtle squeeze of support.

Enid didn’t dare look at her.

They drove the rest of the way in a silence that wasn’t heavy, but wasn’t exactly light either.
A middle kind of quiet.
The kind where you could almost hear your own heartbeat.

When they finally pulled into the Sinclair driveway — all fairy lights and lopsided inflatable snowmen — Enid let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Home.
Or at least something like it.

"You ready?" Lyla asked, throwing the car into park.

Enid looked at Wednesday.
Wednesday looked right back at her, calm and steady and infuriatingly unreadable.

"For realism," Wednesday said under her breath, offering her hand.

Enid took it without thinking.
Warm fingers laced through hers. A simple act.

But somehow, it felt like lighting a match in a room filled with gasoline.

"Ready," Enid said.

She wasn’t sure it was the truth.





The Sinclair front door swung open before they could even knock.

"ENID!" a voice boomed out — deep, gruff, and unmistakably delighted.

Wayne Sinclair barreled out onto the porch, bundled up in a battered denim jacket over a festive turkey-themed sweatshirt, his face splitting into a massive grin.
Before Enid could do more than blink, she was swept into a bear hug that lifted her half off the ground.

"Hi, Dad," she wheezed against his shoulder, laughing.

Wayne set her down and clapped her on the back like she was a quarterback returning from the championship game. His eyes immediately flicked over to Wednesday, still standing stoically beside her, their fingers barely brushing where they held the handles of their suitcases.

"And you must be the famous...?" Wayne said, stepping forward with a curious smile.

Enid’s brain momentarily fried.
Wednesday didn’t even blink.

"Wednesday," she said calmly, holding out her hand.

Wayne shook it with enthusiasm that could have knocked over a small horse.
"Well, shoot, welcome to the madness, Wednesday. We’re so glad you could make it!"

"Likewise," Wednesday said, voice smooth as ever, though Enid caught the almost imperceptible flinch when Wayne clapped her on the shoulder with enough force to rattle her bones.

Inside the house, it smelled like cinnamon and roasted apples and something warm and yeasty that made Enid’s stomach rumble.

The living room was strung with half-lit fairy lights and cluttered with homemade Thanksgiving decorations — construction paper turkeys, glitter pumpkins, and an alarming number of crocheted pot holders in vaguely autumnal colors.

Before Enid could even take another step, her mom appeared — arms outstretched, eyes already misty.

"My baby!" she cried, pulling Enid into another fierce hug. "I’ve missed you so much!"

"Hi, Mom," Enid managed, muffled against her scarf.

Her mom released her only to turn, zeroing in on Wednesday like a heat-seeking missile.
"And you must be the wonderful girl we've been hearing about!"

Enid felt her soul briefly leave her body.

Wednesday, unfazed, gave a small, courteous nod. "It’s a pleasure."

Her mom practically vibrated with excitement. "Come in, come in! We've got cider on the stove and pie in the oven and Grandma's been dying to meet you."

"Grandma?" Enid echoed, horror and fondness warring in her voice.

As if summoned by name, a short, wiry woman shuffled into view from the kitchen, a wooden spoon clutched in one hand and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Who's this tall drink of water?" Grandma demanded, squinting up at Wednesday.

Enid covered her mouth to muffle a laugh.

"This is Wednesday," her mom said brightly. "Enid’s... special someone."

Grandma snorted. "Special someone? Honey, with those cheekbones, she’s heaven-sent."

Enid thought she might actually die.

Wednesday simply inclined her head gravely, as if being praised for her cheekbones was the most natural thing in the world. "Thank you. I do my best."

Wayne was already hauling Enid’s and Wednesday’s suitcases toward the staircase, chatting about sleeping arrangements and warning them that the upstairs bathroom's hot water was temperamental.
Her mom was peppering them with questions — "Do you like pumpkin pie? Are you allergic to pecans? Enid mentioned you’re a dentist — can you look at this molar real quick?"

Wednesday, holding a mug of cider with both hands like she was posing for a toothpaste ad, tilted her head — all innocent confusion.

"I'm not a dentist," she said calmly.

The room went silent.

Enid went still.

Her mom blinked at her, confused. "Wait. You said—?"

Enid flushed scarlet, practically vibrating with secondhand embarrassment.
"I panicked, okay!" she burst out. "You kept asking so many questions, you were like—like a cavity! I said the first thing that popped into my head!"

Across the room, Grandma snorted into her cider.

Wayne raised an eyebrow like he wanted to say something and wisely decided not to.

Wednesday turned her gaze toward Enid slowly, blinking with exaggerated innocence, lips parted slightly like she was so confused by the chaos she herself had just unleashed.
Then, only when no one was looking — a tiny, sly smirk curved the corner of her mouth.

It was the most bratty, deliberate, gorgeous thing Enid had ever seen.

And it was aimed straight at her.

Enid kicked her under the coffee table. Hard.

Wednesday took a delicate sip of cider like she hadn’t just set the entire room on fire for her own amusement.

Enid buried her face in her hands and groaned into her palms.

Across the living room, Grandma was cackling again.
"God, I love the gays," she said proudly, and went back to knitting.

And Grandma was hovering by the fireplace, knitting needles flashing like weapons, watching them with a sharp eye that made Enid break out into a cold sweat.

In the chaos, somehow, Enid and Wednesday kept drifting closer.
Maybe it was instinct.
Maybe it was survival.

Their arms brushed again, lightly, almost unconsciously.

Wednesday leaned in slightly, her mouth close to Enid’s ear.

"Smile," she murmured, low enough that only Enid could hear. "You're supposed to look madly in love, not madly in distress."

Enid gritted her teeth into a frozen grin.

"Oh, I’m thrilled," she hissed back.

"You look constipated," Wednesday said dryly.

Enid elbowed her lightly, but the motion turned into something more affectionate than she'd intended.

From across the room, Grandma caught the movement and gave a satisfied nod.

"Knew it," she muttered to herself, going back to her knitting.

The fireplace crackled. The smell of cider and cinnamon wrapped around them like a thick blanket.

For a moment — just a heartbeat — Enid let herself pretend it was real.
That Wednesday was just her girlfriend.
That this was just home.

She shook the thought off quickly.
Rules. Distance. Clean ending.

Still.

When Wednesday's hand brushed against hers again — deliberate, steady — Enid didn’t pull away.

Not this time.


*

The family drifted back toward the living room, still laughing about Grandma’s running commentary on who should propose to who first.

Enid hung back in the kitchen, fiddling nervously with a mug, trying to un-scorch her own dignity.
Wednesday, of course, stayed too—silent and steady—like it was obvious she belonged there now.

Her mom paused in the doorway, glancing over her shoulder with a teasing smile.

"You two mind doing the dishes?" she called, already halfway toward the couch where Wayne was queuing up a football game.

Enid barely had time to nod before her mom added with a wink: "Consider it a bonding exercise!"

And then she was gone, leaving them alone in the soft, warm kitchen with only the clatter of plates and the muffled hum of holiday music in the background.

Wednesday calmly rolled up the sleeves of her black sweater, walked to the sink, and turned the water on without a word.
Enid blinked at her, still holding the abandoned cider mug like a security blanket.

"You wash," Wednesday said smoothly, already reaching for the sponge. "I dry."

"You’re so bossy," Enid muttered, stepping in beside her anyway.

"Efficiency," Wednesday corrected primly. "You should try it sometime."

Enid huffed but didn’t argue. She grabbed a dishtowel from the oven handle and stationed herself next to the drying rack.

For a few minutes, they worked in silence — the good kind. The kind that buzzed under the surface, full of things unspoken.

The dishwater steamed, making the windows fog up. The overhead light glowed golden against the dark winter outside.
Their hands brushed a few times by accident — Wednesday passing a plate too fast, Enid reaching too early.

Each touch sparked more heat than the room really needed.

"You know," Enid said eventually, trying for casual, "you didn’t have to rat me out back there."

Wednesday handed her a freshly scrubbed glass without looking up.
"I didn’t rat you out," she said lightly. "I clarified."

"Clarified my ass," Enid muttered, snatching the glass and drying it with unnecessary violence.

Wednesday's mouth twitched — not quite a smile.
More like a sinister little curl of amusement.

She rinsed a fork with exaggerated care, then said, voice pitched perfectly innocent:
"You called your own mother a cavity."

Enid groaned. "Because she wouldn’t stop asking questions!"

Wednesday turned her head slightly, so Enid caught the glint of her dark eyes over her shoulder.
"You panic beautifully," she said softly.

Enid dropped the fork she was drying.
It clattered into the sink with a splash, spraying both of them with lukewarm water.

"Shut up," she hissed, cheeks blazing.

Wednesday handed her another plate, expression utterly blank — except for the tiny, wicked smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"You’re very reactive," she observed coolly. "It’s adorable."

Enid seriously considered dumping the dishtowel over her head and screaming into the void.
Instead, she snatched the plate from Wednesday’s hands and dried it so aggressively she nearly snapped it in two.

Wednesday pretended not to notice.
She hummed under her breath — some low, distracted little tune — and passed the next dish just close enough that her fingers brushed Enid’s wrist deliberately.

Enid froze.

It wasn’t a hard touch.
It wasn’t even obvious.
Just a casual glide of skin over skin, like Wednesday had all the time in the world to drive her insane slowly.

Enid set the plate down hard.
Maybe a little too hard.

Wednesday looked at her sideways, all faux-innocence and unholy amusement.

"Problem, darling?" she asked sweetly, her voice barely louder than the trickling water.

Enid opened her mouth — to say no, to say you’re the problem, to say stop looking at me like that — but no words came out.

Behind them, in the living room, Grandma shouted something about needing more popcorn.
The world kept moving.
The faucet kept running.

But Enid felt pinned in place by the smirk curling at the edge of Wednesday’s lips.

Pinned and exposed and just a little breathless.

Somewhere deep in her brain, a warning siren was blaring:
This fake relationship is not going to stay fake for long.

Wednesday passed her another plate — hand lingering just a second too long.

And smiled.

Chapter Text

They climbed the stairs in a slow, awkward silence, their suitcases thumping against the carpeted steps.

Enid led the way down the hall, past framed family photos and holiday garlands strung unevenly along the banister. The house smelled like cinnamon, pine, and whatever Yankee Candle scent her mom had been obsessed with this season — "Frosted Cranberry" if she had to guess.

At the end of the hall, Enid pushed open the door to her old bedroom.

Immediately, a flood of bright colors and chaotic memories rushed to meet them.

The walls were still painted a soft pastel yellow, covered in hand-drawn posters and framed photos from high school and college — soccer games, art shows, Halloween parties. Fairy lights tangled around the headboard of her bed, which was neatly made up with a rainbow-striped quilt her grandma had given her years ago. There were still glitter stickers stuck to the closet doors. A pair of worn-out bunny slippers sat half-forgotten under the dresser.

Enid stepped inside and dropped her suitcase with a soft thud, already feeling the mortification crawling up her spine.

Behind her, Wednesday followed — slow, deliberate, surveying the room like a guest entering the lair of an unfamiliar and possibly unhinged species.

There was a long, loaded pause.

Then:

"So," Wednesday said, voice a perfect blend of dry amusement and false innocence, "this is where glitter comes to die."

Enid groaned out loud and flopped face-first onto the bed.

"Shut up," she mumbled into the pillow.

Wednesday wandered deeper into the room, hands clasped neatly behind her back, examining the decor like a museum curator.

"I feel as though I’ve been trapped inside a Lisa Frank fever dream," she observed.

Enid lifted her head just enough to glare at her through her hair. "You're literally wearing a sweater blacker than my soul. You're not allowed to judge."

Wednesday raised a single eyebrow. "I’m simply observing. This room radiates a concerning amount of... joy."

Enid threw a pillow at her.
Wednesday caught it one-handed, smirking.

And then, with surgical precision, she turned toward the bed.
Tilted her head.
Studied it.

"Oh," she said, fake-surprised. "One bed?"

Enid narrowed her eyes. "Don’t even start."

Wednesday widened her eyes slightly, playing the part of the innocent so badly it was practically criminal.
"I assumed," she said sweetly, "that as fake girlfriends, we would be afforded separate quarters."

"You knew," Enid growled, sitting up properly now. "You knew there was only one bed, you little menace."

Wednesday set the pillow neatly back on the bed.
"I simply thought it was worth clarifying," she said, deadpan.
"And expressing my deep emotional concern," she added, so mock-serious Enid wanted to both scream and laugh hysterically.

Enid pointed at her. "You're evil."

Wednesday stepped closer — slow, deliberate, the glint in her eyes unmistakable now.

"And you," she said, voice dropping to a near-whisper, "have glitter in your carpet from 2017."

Enid gasped. "You can’t prove that."

Wednesday smiled — full, wicked, delighted — and knelt down, running two fingers lightly through the plush carpet.
When she stood up, she held out her hand: a faint shimmer of pink glitter dusted her fingertips.

Enid buried her face in her hands again. "This is a hate crime."

Wednesday’s voice was so soft it barely brushed the air between them:

"If you insist on living in a unicorn crime scene, at least own it."

Enid peeked at her through her fingers — and found Wednesday staring at her, all sharp edges and barely-suppressed laughter, like she was having the time of her life.

It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair how good she looked standing there — in Enid’s childhood bedroom, black sweater sleeves pushed up to her elbows, glitter clinging to her fingers, smirking like she owned the place.

"You’re insufferable," Enid muttered, heart hammering.

Wednesday shrugged, stepping back toward the bed.
She pressed one knee into the mattress, testing it — bouncing slightly.

The bed creaked under her weight.

"I suppose," she said lightly, "we’ll have to share."

Enid stared at her — at the soft curve of her mouth, the dark gleam in her eyes, the way the overhead fairy lights painted her in hazy gold.

"Unless," Wednesday added, tilting her head, "you’re afraid of catching feelings in such close quarters."

Enid made a strangled sound.

"Go to sleep," she barked, grabbing her suitcase and yanking it open like it had personally wronged her.

Wednesday chuckled low under her breath, a sound so rare and dangerous Enid nearly tripped over her own feet.

"Sweet dreams, darling," Wednesday said sweetly.

And because the universe had no mercy whatsoever, she winked.

Actually winked.

Enid screamed silently into her rainbow quilt and wondered how she was going to survive even one night in the same bed as Wednesday Addams.

They weren’t ready for bed yet.
Not even close.

After the long train ride, the crowded dinner table, the sweaty anxiety of fake-dating under pressure, they both reeked — of train station air, woodsmoke from the Sinclair fireplace, and worst of all, each other.

It clung to them like static.

Enid was the first to peel herself out of her jacket with a groan, muttering something about "feeling like a wrung-out towel," before grabbing her toiletries and disappearing into the bathroom with a slam of the door.

Wednesday stayed behind in Enid’s room.

She moved around quietly, methodically — her way of pretending she wasn’t thinking too hard about anything at all.
She knelt by the suitcases and unpacked both hers and Enid’s things — underwear, socks, T-shirts, pajamas — folding them neatly into the small chest of drawers.

"It’s efficient," she told herself crisply.
Not intimate.
Not domestic.
Not absolutely terrifying.

When she finished, she stacked their shoes by the closet and set out two water bottles on the nightstand.
By the time she heard the water shut off, the room had settled into a heavy, humid quiet, thick with the lingering warmth of the shower.

And then the bathroom door creaked open —
and Enid walked out.

Still damp from the steam, her blonde hair hanging in loose wet waves down her back, she padded barefoot across the carpet —
wrapped in nothing but a towel.

Wednesday’s hands froze where they hovered over the drawer.
Her throat worked uselessly for a second.

Because Enid Sinclair in a towel was something the human mind should not have to endure without preparation.

The towel wasn’t even scandalous — fluffy, oversized, plain white — but it clung to the dips of her hips, the curves of her legs, the sharp jut of her collarbone still dewy from the heat.
Her cheeks were flushed from the hot water, her mouth pink and soft.
And she walked like she didn’t even realize she was committing war crimes against Wednesday’s sanity.

Wednesday swallowed hard, the movement sharp and visible.
For a horrifying second, she genuinely thought she might fall to her knees.

Enid rummaged lazily through her suitcase, oblivious, humming under her breath.

Then, towel still clutched around her chest, she drifted back into the bathroom —
door swinging shut behind her —
except it didn’t quite latch.
The door stayed ajar, just a few inches.
Just enough.

Wednesday turned back to the drawer sharply, determined to give Enid privacy.
Respect.
Boundaries.

But her traitor eyes flicked up at exactly the wrong time —
and through the cracked door, reflected in the bathroom mirror, she caught a glimpse:

Enid, towel dropped to the floor, completely bare, reaching for a fresh pair of underwear.

The image seared itself into Wednesday’s brain so fast and hard she almost staggered backward.

A flash of golden skin, the line of her spine, the round curve of her ass, the delicate flex of muscle under her thighs —
like a masterpiece half-hidden by steam.

Wednesday jerked her head down so fast she almost gave herself whiplash.

Her heart hammered against her ribs in a way that felt violent.
Visceral.
Out of control.

She forced herself to stare at the drawer, the stupid folded socks, the ugly pastel pajama pants she’d unpacked —
anything, anything but the mirror.

Behind her, she heard the faint shuffle of Enid moving around, the rustle of cotton sliding over skin, the whisper of a zipper.

Wednesday squeezed her eyes shut and counted backward from ten in Latin.
It didn’t help.

By the time Enid emerged again — this time in a baggy T-shirt and loose sleep shorts, still drying her hair with a towel — Wednesday had managed to school her face back into polite neutrality.

But inside, she was a screaming black hole of disaster.

"You okay?" Enid asked, tossing her towel onto a chair without looking.

"Fine," Wednesday said, voice just a little too tight.
She cleared her throat. "Overheated."

Enid smirked, clearly assuming she meant the humid room.
She flopped backward onto the bed, stretching like a lazy cat, arms above her head.

Wednesday didn’t move.

She couldn’t move.

Not without betraying everything she wasn’t supposed to be feeling.

Outside the window, snow had started falling again — soft and slow, like the whole world was catching its breath.

Inside the room, every inch of Wednesday’s skin was on fire.

And Enid Sinclair — oblivious, ridiculous, beautiful — had no idea.

Or maybe, just maybe, she did.

*

The bathroom door clicked shut behind Wednesday, and a second later, the soft hiss of the shower filled the room.

Enid flopped backward onto the bed, her heart still beating a little too fast from the slow-motion disaster that had been her entire evening.

The ceiling above her was the same one she'd stared at through countless teenage nights — full of dreams and catastrophes and bad pop songs hummed into her pillow.
But somehow, tonight, it looked different.
Or maybe she did.

She turned her head toward the dresser — and paused.

The suitcases were gone.
Neatly stacked against the closet wall, zipped up like they’d never even exploded into the room.

The drawers were filled — clothes folded tight and efficient, socks paired off, T-shirts stacked by color.

Wednesday had unpacked both of them.

Enid sat up slowly, the rainbow quilt sliding off her lap.

She padded over to the dresser and pulled one drawer open.
Sure enough — her clothes were there.
Folded like someone had measured them with a ruler.

Her favorite oversized T-shirt, her flannel pajama pants, the underwear she'd packed without thinking — all handled with careful, clinical precision.

Enid bit her lip.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.
It was just Wednesday being Wednesday — precise, efficient, meticulous.

But still.

A stupid, ridiculous thought wormed its way into her brain, uninvited:

She touched my underwear.

Enid snapped the drawer shut, feeling her ears burn.
Like just thinking it was illegal somehow.

But it was too late — the image was already there.

Wednesday's pale, deft fingers skimming over soft cotton, folding them neatly.
Holding them.
Touching the things that touched her.

A hot spike of something dangerous curled low in Enid’s stomach.

She pressed her palms to her face and groaned.

It was fine. It was nothing. Wednesday probably hadn't even thought about it.
She was just... being efficient.
Helping.
Fulfilling the duties of a very professional, very fake girlfriend.

And yet.

Enid leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the dresser and exhaled slowly, trying to will her brain back into a less traitorous shape.

The shower kept running, steady and distant.
She could picture it too easily — Wednesday under the hot spray, water sluicing down the long line of her back, her hair wet and heavy, her sharp jaw softening under the steam.

Enid squeezed her eyes shut.

One intrusive thought after another after another —
each hotter, each worse, each making her want to crawl under the bed and stay there forever.

She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Wednesday like this.
They were fake dating.
They had rules.

No real feelings.
No real thoughts.
No real wanting.

And yet.

Enid sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the quilt in white-knuckled fists, and stared at the closed bathroom door like it might catch fire under her gaze.

She didn't know if she'd survive even one night like this.

The shower stopped.

The pipes groaned.
The house shifted.

And Enid’s heart tried to tear itself in half.

The bathroom door creaked open.

Enid, still sitting on the edge of the bed trying very hard not to combust, looked up automatically —
and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Wednesday stood there, calm as ever, hair damp and pushed back from her face —
wearing a set of pajamas that were...
not black.

Not even close.

Bright turquoise flannel pants printed with tiny red cherries.
A pale yellow T-shirt with an ancient, slightly cracked graphic that read:
"Bite Me 🍒"
in bold, bubblegum-pink letters.

Enid stared at her, mouth opening slightly.
No sound came out.

Wednesday arched an eyebrow, her expression blank, utterly unaffected.

Enid blinked once. Twice.

"You're," she said, voice strangled, "you're wearing—"

Wednesday stepped into the room fully, utterly composed, towel slung over one shoulder like an afterthought.

"Pajamas," she said coolly.

"Colorful pajamas," Enid blurted, pointing at her like she was accusing her of a felony.

Wednesday set the towel down neatly on the chair.
"Astute observation."

Enid scrambled up to her knees on the bed, still gaping.
"You—you own those?"

"I found them in the drawer," Wednesday said mildly.
"As you made a point of informing everyone tonight, we're fake dating. I assumed blending in would be expected."

Enid gawked at her.
"You picked those on purpose."

Wednesday gave a slow, deliberate shrug.
"No," she said, perfectly deadpan. "The cherries spoke to me."

Enid made a wheezing sound and collapsed back onto the mattress, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

"Oh my God," she gasped. "You're a menace. You’re evil. I can’t believe you."

Wednesday walked past her to the bed, the soft cotton of her absurdly cheerful pajamas brushing Enid's ankle as she sat down primly on the far side.

Enid sat up again, still giggling helplessly.

"You look like—like—" she waved a hand vaguely, "a delinquent who got cursed by a kindergarten teacher."

Wednesday turned to look at her, slow and regal, as if she had chosen this particular hill to die on.

"I find it strategic to disarm the enemy," she said calmly. "No one expects mischief from someone wearing cherries."

Enid laughed harder, flopping sideways onto the bed and clutching her stomach.

"And besides," Wednesday added, deadpan, "you seemed so emotionally attached to your rainbows and unicorns. I thought you might find it comforting."

Enid froze mid-laugh, blinking at her.

There was no real mockery in Wednesday’s voice.
No sharp edge.

Just a quiet, almost imperceptible softness — the smallest thread of I notice things about you woven through her usual brutal precision.

Enid swallowed thickly.

She rolled over onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow, staring at Wednesday’s profile in the dim, cozy light.

"You're such a weirdo," she said finally, but it came out too fond.

Wednesday glanced at her, one eyebrow lifting — and for just a second, her mouth twitched.
A hint of a smile.
A secret.

"You're welcome," she said simply.

Enid groaned and buried her face in the pillow again, heat blooming in her cheeks.

How was this her life now?
Sharing a childhood bed with Wednesday Addams, who wore cherry-print pajamas like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Who unpacked her socks without asking.
Who made her heart beat like it was learning a new language.

Enid peeked out from under the pillow, catching another glimpse of Wednesday — legs folded neatly, hands resting in her lap, face turned slightly toward the window where snow was still falling softly outside.

The yellow shirt glowed faintly under the string lights.

"Bite me," Enid read again under her breath, giggling.

Wednesday turned her head, meeting her eyes directly.

"Maybe later," she said without blinking.

Enid choked so hard she nearly fell off the bed.

They turned off the lights without speaking.
The room dipped into a soft, muted darkness, lit only by the faint, hazy glow of the fairy lights still tangled above the bed.

Enid stood awkwardly for a second at the foot of the mattress, fidgeting with the hem of her sleep shirt.
Wednesday just looked at her — blank-faced, waiting.

It was stupid.
It was one bed.
They were adults.

They'd survived the train, the car ride, the awkward family dinner, the dishwashing debacle, the pajamas.

And yet — getting into the bed felt like trying to navigate a minefield barefoot.

"You can take... whatever side," Enid said finally, waving a hand vaguely toward the mattress, her voice a little too loud in the quiet.

Wednesday nodded once, precise as always.
Without ceremony, she pulled back the covers and slipped into the left side — cool, controlled, like she was getting into a coffin.
Which, Enid supposed, wasn't that far off brand.

Enid stared for a second longer than necessary.

Then — before her courage could evaporate — she crawled in too, clutching her pillow like a lifeline.

The mattress dipped under her weight.
The quilt settled over both of them.
Their shoulders were close, but not touching.

It should have been weird.
It should have been uncomfortable.

Instead — it was easy.

Almost shockingly so.

They each turned toward the edges of the bed instinctively, facing opposite walls, giving each other space like a ceasefire agreement.

Within seconds, the room settled into a slow, steady rhythm — the shared sound of their breathing, the soft creak of the old house around them, the distant murmur of a TV left on downstairs.

The nerves, the buzz of tension — it all faded under the blanket of warmth.

It felt... normal.

Like they'd done this a thousand times before.
Like they'd always belonged like this — not touching, not speaking, just existing in the same small space, side by side.

Enid closed her eyes and let herself drift.

She thought it would be impossible to fall asleep with Wednesday Addams less than a foot away.

Instead, sleep came quickly.
Easily.
Like breathing.

And somewhere in the middle of the night — after the tension had ebbed, after the house had fallen completely silent — their feet found each other under the covers.

Not deliberate.
Not careful.
Just the slow, inevitable slide of skin against skin, ankle knocking ankle, toes curling instinctively toward warmth.

Their feet tangled naturally, thoughtlessly.

No words.
No gasps.
No earth-shattering realization.

Just quiet, unconscious contact — soft and steady and real — two bodies leaning toward each other in the dark, because that’s what bodies do when the mind finally stops getting in the way.

Enid slept deeper than she had in weeks.

And Wednesday —
Wednesday didn’t pull away.

Not even once.

Chapter Text

The morning crept in slowly —
gray light filtering through the curtains, dust motes drifting lazily in the pale beams.

For a moment, Enid floated in that soft, blurry space between sleep and waking —
warm, comfortable, heavy-limbed.

Something pressed against her shin.
Something warm.
Something alive.

She cracked one eye open blearily —
and immediately wished she hadn’t.

Wednesday was sprawled next to her, hair a dark halo against the rainbow-striped pillowcase, breath slow and steady, lips parted slightly.

Their legs —
their bare legs —
were tangled together under the quilt.

Knee to calf, shin to ankle, the easy, casual weight of one person unconsciously reaching for another in sleep.

Enid blinked hard, brain stuttering.

And then, like a snapped rubber band, Wednesday’s eyes fluttered open.

For one suspended second, they just stared at each other —
wide awake, wide-eyed, caught.

Then Wednesday’s expression shuttered.

In a sharp, almost violent movement, she pulled her leg back — jerking away like Enid’s touch had burned her.

The quilt shifted wildly with the force of it, dragging half off the bed.

Enid flinched back instinctively, sitting up too fast.

Wednesday was already upright, back ramrod straight, feet flat on the floor, as if she might need to bolt at any second.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

The silence was loud enough to choke on.

Finally, Wednesday said — voice cool and crisp and too casual:
"You kick in your sleep."

Enid gaped at her. "I do not."

Wednesday reached for her suitcase, not looking at her.
"You do. It’s very disruptive. You should see someone about it."

"You’re such a liar," Enid snapped, still trying to unknot her pulse from her throat.

Wednesday shrugged one shoulder — cold, effortless.
"I would never fabricate something so irritating."

The words hit like a slap and a dare at the same time.

Enid swallowed the thousand messy things she wanted to yell —
the confusion, the embarrassment, the ache she hadn’t even known was there until it was ripped away.

Instead, she threw back the covers and stomped toward the dresser, snatching the first outfit she could find without even checking if it matched.

"Fine," she muttered. "Next time I’ll make sure to sedate myself for your royal comfort."

Wednesday didn’t answer.

By the time Enid whirled around again, Wednesday was already standing, fully composed, pajamas abandoned neatly on the bed, black jeans and a severe black T-shirt materializing like armor across her frame.

All the bright, wild, human parts of her —
the softness, the sleep-rumpled hair, the warmth —
tucked away like they had never existed at all.

Enid’s chest squeezed tight.

She didn’t say another word.

Neither did Wednesday.

They dressed in a heavy, prickling silence —
close enough to touch, close enough to shatter something —
but neither daring to close the gap.

Downstairs, they could hear the clatter of dishes, the faint rise and fall of cheerful family voices.

Breakfast was waiting.

They just had to survive it.

Without killing each other.

Or — worse —
without doing something they couldn’t take back.

By the time Enid trudged downstairs — hair still damp, hoodie pulled over her head like armor — the kitchen was already alive with Sinclair family chaos.

The smell of bacon and maple syrup hit her like a freight train.

Her mom was at the stove, flipping pancakes with terrifying enthusiasm. Wayne was fiddling with the coffee machine like it was a bomb about to detonate. Lyla sat at the kitchen island, sipping from an enormous mug that said "WORLD’S OKAYEST SISTER."

And at the center of it all —
like she belonged there —
was Wednesday.

Calm. Composed.
Talking softly to Enid’s mom about the best methods for seasoning cast iron pans.
Listening — actually listening — like this was something she did every weekend.

Enid blinked hard, thinking maybe she was hallucinating.

It got worse.

Because when Wednesday spotted her lingering awkwardly in the doorway, she didn’t smirk.
She didn’t roll her eyes.
She didn’t make some sharp comment about tardiness or bedhead or emotional instability.

She just —
smiled.

Small.
Soft.
Effortless.

As if seeing Enid standing there in her stupid hoodie was the best part of her morning.

And before Enid could even form a word, Wednesday turned back to the counter —
grabbed a clean plate —
and started piling food onto it.

Pancakes. Bacon. A perfect dollop of scrambled eggs. Even a few slices of fruit arranged like she was competing on a reality show for polite girlfriends.

By the time Enid made it to the island, Wednesday slid the plate toward her neatly.

"Eat," she said simply.

Enid stared at it.
At her.
At the whole disaster she was apparently now living inside.

Lyla raised her eyebrows in a slow, dramatic arc.

"Damn," she said. "Did you train her?"

Enid opened her mouth —
closed it —
tried again.

"I—uh—no," she croaked.

Wednesday sipped from her coffee mug, serene as a winter lake.
"I believe in supporting my partner’s well-being," she said calmly, without looking up.

Enid’s mom made a delighted noise, clapping her hands together.
"She’s wonderful," she gushed, beaming at Wednesday like she’d personally crafted her in a lab.
"Enid, you’re so lucky!"

Enid seriously considered crawling under the table and living there for the rest of her life.

Wayne chuckled into his coffee.
Grandma shuffled in from the living room, knitting still in hand, and took one look at Wednesday before declaring:
"Someone put a ring on that girl before she figures out she’s too good for you."

Enid squeaked.

Wednesday finally — finally — turned those dark, unbothered eyes on her again.

The tiniest smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth.

Invisible to everyone else.
Devastatingly obvious to Enid.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

She was winning.

Enid picked up her fork and jabbed it into her pancake like it had personally wronged her.

Wednesday, meanwhile, accepted another mug of coffee from Enid’s mom with a polite thank you and proceeded to compliment her "excellent use of nutmeg."

Enid ate in furious, embarrassed silence —
feet still tingling from where Wednesday had pulled away just mintiues ago —
heart hammering too fast from being looked at like she was loved.

Fake.
All fake.

She had to remember that.

Even if it was the best pancake she’d ever had in her life.

*

The house was too quiet.

It pressed against Enid’s skin, made her feel like she was vibrating out of her body.

She wiped down the already spotless counter again, the rag squeaking uselessly against the laminate, pretending — hoping — praying for something to break the tension.

Wednesday sat at the table, ankles crossed neatly, watching her like she was something pitiful.

"So," Enid said, trying for a smile, failing. "We could, um— we could watch something? Christmas movies? Elf? Die Hard? I don’t care."

She laughed — too loud, too desperate.

Wednesday didn’t even blink.

"You don’t have to perform when no one's watching," she said flatly. "Save the sparkle for your audience."

Enid flinched, stung.

"I wasn’t—"

"You were," Wednesday said, voice like a scalpel.
"And it’s exhausting."

Enid’s throat tightened.

"I was trying to make it less awkward," she muttered, color rising in her cheeks. "Sorry for not being a stone-cold bitch like you."

That got Wednesday’s attention.

Her mouth twisted — a mean, mirthless smile.

"You know," she said, slow and deliberate, "it’s not surprising you had to lie about having a girlfriend."

Enid froze.

The words landed like a slap.

"You talk too much," Wednesday continued, calm as glass. "You try too hard. You need too much. It's suffocating."

Enid’s hands clenched around the rag, twisting it tight.

"But that's you, isn't it?"
Wednesday's voice dropped lower, softer — more lethal.
"All noise. All glitter. No substance."

Enid opened her mouth — to fight, to scream, to deny —
but no sound came out.

"You couldn't keep someone real," Wednesday said, almost gently now, almost pitying.
"That's why you're stuck dragging me home like a prop."

The silence that followed was sharp enough to bleed on.

Enid blinked hard, fast, her vision swimming.

"I get it," she said, voice shaking so badly she barely recognized it. "You don't have to—"

"Apparently," Wednesday said, standing smoothly, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeves, "I do."

Enid stepped back like she'd been hit.

Her back bumped the counter, sharp and grounding.

She refused to cry.
She refused to cry.

She bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood.

Wednesday gathered her coffee cup, turning away like she hadn’t just shattered her.

Enid sucked in a shallow breath — one, two, three — and turned too.

She walked upstairs without a word, feet thudding too loudly on the steps, a lump in her throat so big she could barely breathe past it.

When she slammed the bedroom door behind her, it rattled the fairy lights still tangled on her headboard.

And in the empty kitchen —
in the cold silence she’d carved out so carefully —
Wednesday sat back down at the table.

She set the cracked coffee cup down in front of her.
Stared at it.

The echo of her own words rang loud in the hollow space she'd made.

For the first time all day,
Wednesday felt something like regret scrape raw against her ribs.

Maybe she'd won.
Maybe she'd proved her point.

But somehow —
it didn’t feel like victory.

It felt like loss.

Enid slammed the bedroom door and immediately regretted how loud it sounded in the heavy quiet.

She stood there for a second —
still, brittle —
staring blankly at the posters on the wall, the string lights that hadn't changed since high school, the rainbow quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

Everything looked the same.

She didn't.

She crossed the room in three stiff steps and sank onto the edge of the mattress, hands fisting the quilt so hard her knuckles whitened.

Her heart was hammering, slamming against her ribs in a way that didn’t feel normal.

It felt wrong.
Panicked.
Broken.

"Is this what you do? Beg for scraps?"
"No wonder no one stayed."
"All noise. All glitter. No substance."

The words circled her like vultures, sharper every time.

Enid squeezed her eyes shut, willing them away.

But they stayed.
Louder.
Meaner.

Maybe Wednesday was right.

Maybe everyone had been right —
all those years of teachers writing "bright, but distractible" on report cards.
Friends teasing her for being "too much" at sleepovers.
Dates ghosting after a week because she was "a lot."

Maybe it wasn't bad luck.
Maybe it was her.

Her chest seized, a sharp, sudden squeeze.
She dragged in a breath —
and it stuck halfway.

Too shallow.
Too fast.

She pressed a hand to her sternum, trying to force her lungs open, but it was like there wasn’t enough air in the room.
The walls were too close.
The bed was too big.
The silence was too loud.

"You couldn't keep someone real."

Her vision blurred at the edges.

She curled forward instinctively, pressing her forehead to her knees, trying to make herself smaller, quieter, better.

The tears came fast, hot, unrelenting —
burning down her cheeks, soaking into her sleeves.
She tried to stop them, tried to bite them back, but they kept coming, kept spilling out, too big to hold inside anymore.

Everything was too big.
Her heart.
Her noise.
Her hope.

She rocked herself without meaning to, back and forth, fists twisted in the quilt, gasping for air in short, broken sobs.

"I'm not—" she choked out, voice cracking.
"I'm not that bad—"

But she didn't believe it.
Not right now.

Not with Wednesday’s voice still carved into her.

Maybe this was all she would ever be.
Too loud.
Too needy.
Too easy to leave behind.

A glitter bomb no one wanted to clean up after.

Enid squeezed her eyes shut harder, trying to ride it out.

She hated panic attacks.
Hated how helpless they made her feel.
Hated that no one was here to see it — and hated even more that maybe no one would ever want to be.

Minutes blurred.

It felt like drowning.

Like falling into a hole she couldn’t climb out of, no matter how hard she scraped her nails against the sides.

She pressed the heel of her hand to her chest, rocking harder, whispering stupid, broken things into the curve of her knees.

"You're fine. You're fine. You're fine."

But it was a lie.
And she was terrible at lying.

Finally — eventually — her breathing started to slow.
Not because she felt better.
But because she was too exhausted to panic anymore.

She sat there, small and hollowed out, the rainbow quilt bunched around her knees, the familiar scent of home feeling alien and cruel.

Alone.

Because that’s what she was.

That’s what she deserved.

She scrubbed the back of her hand across her wet cheeks, trembling still, and drew in a ragged breath.

Somewhere downstairs, a clock ticked.

Somewhere beyond the window, snow fell silently against the glass.

Enid didn’t move.

She didn’t trust herself to.

She just sat there —
broken, shaking —
and tried to remember what it felt like to believe she was lovable.

She couldn't.

Not anymore.

Not tonight.

The clock downstairs kept ticking.

Steady.
Relentless.

Enid sat frozen on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped tight around her knees, heart beating too loud in the empty room.

The sobs had stopped —
only because there was nothing left to give.

Just hollow breathing and aching muscles.
The aftermath.

The ugly, lonely part that no one ever talks about.

She wiped her face on the sleeve of her hoodie, rough and clumsy, not caring that it probably just smeared everything worse.

Her head ached.
Her chest hurt.

Her whole body felt like it had been wrung out and left in the cold.

The thought of staying upright — staying awake — was unbearable.

Slowly, numbly, Enid unfolded herself and crawled under the covers, dragging the rainbow quilt up to her chin like it might protect her from anything.

It didn't.

It only made the room feel bigger.
Emptier.

The bed dipped slightly under her weight — but it didn’t feel like safety.
It felt like sinking into quicksand.

She curled onto her side, fists clenched tight under her pillow, and squeezed her eyes shut.

"Just sleep."
"Just sleep it off."
"When you wake up, maybe it won't hurt so much."

But sleep didn't come.

It never did, after things like this.

Her brain kept chewing on itself, digging into old wounds like a dog worrying a bone.

"You're too loud."
"You're too much."
"No wonder they left."
"No wonder you're alone."

She pressed the heel of her palm hard against her forehead, trying to physically shove the thoughts out.

It didn't work.

Of course it didn’t.

Because the worst part wasn't what Wednesday had said.

It was that some small, broken piece of her believed it.

Had always believed it.

And hearing it out loud — from someone who didn’t even care enough to lie —
just made it real.

Her throat burned with the effort of not crying again.

Another wave of exhaustion crashed over her, dragging her under.

Not the soft, clean tiredness of a long day.
The heavy, suffocating kind that made it hard to move, hard to breathe, hard to imagine anything getting better.

She buried herself deeper under the covers, trying to disappear.

Maybe if she stayed still enough, the world would forget about her too.

Her fingers clutched the quilt tighter, nails digging into the cheap cotton.

"You're fine."
"You're fine."
"You're fine."

The words were empty now.

Even she didn’t believe them.

A fresh tear slipped down her cheek, hot and silent, soaking into the pillow.

She didn’t wipe it away.

What was the point?

Another one followed.
And another.
Until she wasn't sure where the tears ended and the tiredness began.

She stared blankly at the fairy lights above her bed —
still faintly glowing, still tangled, still stubbornly burning —
and hated them for it.

She hated how the light kept shining when she couldn’t.

She turned her face into the pillow, squeezing her eyes shut until colors exploded behind her lids.

She didn’t know how long she lay there.
Minutes.
Hours.

Time stopped mattering.

Only the hurt stayed.

Loud and sharp and endless.

Enid didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t hope.

She just lay there —
curled up small under a rainbow quilt —
and let the loneliness eat her alive.

Because today —
for the first time in a long time —
she believed it.

Maybe she really was too much.

Maybe she really was exhausting.

Maybe no one would ever stay.

Maybe no one was ever meant to.

*

The front door swung open on a gust of cold air and woodsmoke.

Lyla kicked off her boots in the entryway, shaking snow out of her hair, balancing a grocery bag in one arm.

"Forgot the damn pie crust," she muttered to herself.

The house was too quiet.

She frowned immediately.

Usually, by now, there would be music, bickering, someone shouting for coffee.

She set the bag down on the counter — and that’s when she saw her.

Wednesday.

Sitting at the kitchen table, utterly still.
Hands folded neatly on the wood.
Eyes dark and unreadable.
An untouched mug of coffee cooling in front of her.

Lyla paused, instincts flaring.

Something was wrong.

"Hey," she said, casually enough. "Where’s Enid?"

Wednesday blinked once, slow.
Almost like she had to reboot herself to answer.

"Upstairs," she said finally.
Flat.
Empty.

Lyla’s stomach twisted.

Without another word, she turned and jogged up the stairs, two at a time, heart thudding harder with every step.

She knocked lightly on Enid’s door.

"Bug?" she called softly, using the old nickname.

No answer.

Frowning deeper, she cracked the door open —
and her heart nearly stopped.

Enid was curled under her rainbow quilt, small and still and wrong.
Not sleeping.
Not reading.
Just lying there, eyes open and glassy, staring blankly at the string lights above her bed.

Her face was blotchy, tear-streaked, raw in a way Lyla hadn’t seen since—

Since the bad years.

Since the dark, ugly months no one talked about.

The ones full of locked doors and broken mirrors and therapist offices with cheap chairs.

Lyla’s throat closed up.

"Bug," she whispered, stepping fully inside.

Enid didn’t react.

Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even blink.

Just lay there, curled into herself like she was trying to disappear.

Lyla knelt down beside the bed slowly, carefully — like approaching a wounded animal.

She brushed a strand of hair off Enid’s forehead.

Still no reaction.

No smile.
No grumble.
No warmth.

Lyla stood there for a long moment, helpless —
then exhaled a breath that shook more than she wanted to admit.

She straightened up, turned on her heel, and walked out of the room —
careful not to slam the door.

Her chest burned.

By the time she made it back downstairs, her hands were fists at her sides.

Wednesday was still sitting at the table, still as a statue, like she hadn’t moved since Lyla left.

Lyla didn’t bother sitting down.

She planted herself across from her, arms crossed over her chest, voice quiet and deadly.

"What the fuck did you do to her?"

Wednesday didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.

But she didn’t answer, either.

Lyla leaned in slightly, the movement deliberate.

"I knew this was fake," she said, voice low.
"I knew you weren’t real. I let it go, because for once, she looked... happy."

Her voice cracked — just a little — but she steamrolled through it.

"But now she's upstairs looking like she did when she was sixteen and she thought nobody would ever love her again."

The words hung heavy between them.

Wednesday’s hands tightened imperceptibly against the table.

Lyla shook her head, furious and heartbroken all at once.

"I don't care how fake this is. I don't care what stupid rules you think you're playing by."

She took a step closer, lowering her voice until it was barely more than a breath:

"I won't let you break her."

Finally — finally — Wednesday’s mask cracked.

The faintest ripple of something — horror, regret, fear — crossed her face.

But it was too late.

Lyla straightened up, eyes burning.

"You don't get to hurt her and pretend it doesn't matter," she said.
"You don’t get to touch her life and then leave her worse than you found her."

She turned away sharply, grabbing the forgotten grocery bag from the counter.

"I’m not asking you to fix it," Lyla said over her shoulder, voice tight.
"Honestly, I don’t think you can."

She glanced back once —
at Wednesday, still frozen at the table, looking smaller than Lyla had ever seen her.

"But if you even care a little bit —"
Lyla’s voice softened, the anger bleeding into something rougher, sadder —
"—do something."

And with that, she left to go help her sister.

Leaving Wednesday alone in the kitchen, staring at nothing, the broken weight of her own choices crashing down around her.

Chapter Text

The door creaked open quietly.
Lyla stepped inside, closing it softly behind her.

The room was dim — only the faint blue wash of daylight seeping in through the curtains.
Enid hadn't moved.

Still curled under the rainbow quilt.
Still small.
Still so heartbreakingly quiet.

Lyla’s throat tightened.
She crossed the room slowly, sinking down to her knees at the side of the bed — low enough that she was eye-level with her little sister.

She didn’t touch her yet.
She just... sat there.
Waited.

"Bug," she said softly.
The old nickname cracked slightly on her tongue.

At first, nothing.
Enid didn’t flinch, didn’t blink.

But then —
slowly —
Enid’s eyes shifted.
Found hers.

The focus in them was faint — like looking through glass warped by rain —
but it was there.
A tiny spark.
A thread reaching out, desperate not to drown.

"I don’t know what Wednesday said to you," Lyla said, voice trembling despite how hard she fought it.
"But whatever it was — whatever she made you feel — it’s not true."

Enid blinked, slow and heavy, like even that small act took everything she had left.
Her lips parted, chapped and trembling.

And then —
barely louder than a breath —
she spoke.

"I’m too much."

The words were raw.
Not angry.
Not dramatic.
Just broken.

Lyla’s chest cracked clean in two.

"No, you’re not," she whispered immediately, fierce and helpless all at once.
"Bug, you’re—"

"No one’s ever gonna love me," Enid interrupted, voice thick and clumsy with grief.
"They don’t stay. They never stay. I'm... I'm too loud. I need too much. I'm not—"

She broke off with a shaky inhale that made Lyla want to punch the universe for being so cruel.

"I'm not easy," Enid finished, voice barely a whisper now.
"And no one wants the hard ones."

The room was too quiet after that.
Lyla felt her nails dig into her own jeans just to stay grounded.

She understood more than Enid knew.

The panic attacks.
The spiral thoughts.
The nights spent thinking if she could just be quieter, smaller, better — maybe someone would stay.

It wasn’t new.
It was an old wound, ripped open by the wrong words at the worst time.

"Bug," Lyla said again, softer, reaching out this time — letting her fingers brush against Enid’s wrist lightly, carefully, like you might touch a butterfly.

"You’re not too much," she said.
"You’re just—more. And the right people... they don’t get scared of more."

Enid squeezed her eyes shut, shoulders hitching once in a silent, involuntary sob.

"They don’t leave because you’re loud or bright or messy," Lyla continued, voice breaking.
"They leave because they can't handle what they don't understand.
That’s not your fault.
That’s never been your fault."

Enid shook her head weakly — not believing it — but not pulling away either.

"And you’re not hard to love," Lyla whispered, voice shattering completely now.
"You just need someone brave enough to love you right."

Enid made a tiny, wounded sound — something between a breath and a sob — and Lyla climbed up onto the bed without waiting, pulling her into a hug.

It wasn’t perfect.
It wasn’t magic.

It didn’t erase the hurt twisting under Enid’s skin.

But it was solid.
It was warm.
It was someone staying.

Enid buried her face in Lyla’s shoulder and cried —
deep, ugly, wracking sobs that made her whole body tremble.

And Lyla just held her, rocking them gently, pressing her face into Enid’s hair, whispering over and over:

"You are not too much."
"You are not broken."
"You are not unlovable."

And outside the window, the snow kept falling —
soft, endless, steady —
like the world refusing to give up.

Like it was learning how to stay.

Chapter Text

The house was too quiet.

Wednesday sat frozen at the kitchen table long after Lyla’s footsteps had faded upstairs.
Long after the front door had swung shut again.
Long after the last tendrils of cold air had been swallowed by the radiator’s hum.

Her coffee had gone stone-cold.
The mug heavy and useless between her hands.

She should have felt triumphant.
She should have felt untouchable.
She had gotten what she wanted — distance, detachment, clean lines between real and fake.

But all she felt was sick.

Every cruel word she'd thrown at Enid still echoed inside her —
sharp enough to flay her from the inside out.

She rose from her chair stiffly, every motion mechanical.
Her body moved before her mind could stop it —
toward the stairs.
Toward the wreckage she had caused.

The first step creaked under her boot.
Wednesday froze, heart hammering so loud it felt like it was trying to claw its way out of her chest.

Upstairs.

Enid was upstairs.

And she... she needed—

No.

She didn't know what she needed.
Only that sitting down here pretending she didn't care was no longer an option.

She took the stairs slowly.
One step at a time.
Each creak of the old wood was deafening, a hammer to her skull.

Her pulse quickened with every step she climbed, a wild, panicked rhythm she couldn't control.

By the time she reached the top of the staircase, she was breathing harder than she wanted to admit.
Guilt flooded every nerve ending like poison.

She approached Enid’s door — half-shut, the faintest slice of light leaking out.
Voices inside —
low, broken, too soft to make out the words.

She didn’t need to.

She heard the emotion —
the quiet devastation in Enid's voice, the ragged edge of her sister’s attempts to piece her back together.

Wednesday stopped short just outside the doorway.
Her hand hovered near the frame but didn’t touch.

Through the gap, she caught a glimpse:

Enid curled up small under her quilt, her face blotchy and tear-streaked, eyes wide and hollow.
Lyla kneeling by her side, one hand stroking her hair, murmuring words Wednesday couldn’t make out.

The sight hit Wednesday like a body blow.

She stumbled back a step —
staggering, almost —
until her spine hit the wall with a quiet thud.

She pressed her palms flat against the cold plaster, trying to anchor herself.
Trying not to fall apart.

Because she knew —
without a shadow of a doubt —
she had done this.

She had pulled the strings that unraveled Enid this badly.

And the worst part —
the part that gutted her more than anything —
was that she understood.

The glassy-eyed despair.
The heavy breathing.
The way Enid clutched the blanket like a shield.

Wednesday had lived that.
Had been that.

But she had never, not once, seen it from the outside —
until now.

Until she had caused it in someone else.

She closed her eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
Her chest ached in a raw, unfamiliar way, like something inside her had been broken open with no way to stitch it shut again.

She wanted to run.
Wanted to turn and vanish into the cold, sharp air outside.

But her legs wouldn’t move.

She stayed pressed to the wall —
trapped by the sight of Enid Sinclair breaking quietly in the next room.
Trapped by her own betrayal.

Somewhere deep inside her —
somewhere she had buried and cemented and sworn to keep dead —
something shifted.

A crack in the ice.

Small.
Dangerous.

Irreversible.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, Wednesday Addams was afraid.

Not of violence.
Not of pain.

But of what she had just realized —
too late —
she might already have lost.

Fifteen minutes crawled by like hours.

Enid lay motionless under the quilt, still breathing shallow and uneven — not crying anymore, but not really present either.

Lyla stayed with her — knelt on the floor like a guard dog, stroking slow, steady circles into Enid’s hand, murmuring nonsense words that didn’t matter half as much as the fact that she was still there.

Finally, when Enid’s breathing evened out a little more — when her hands stopped shaking quite so hard — Lyla squeezed her fingers gently.

"I’m gonna grab you some water, Bug," she said, voice low and rough with unshed tears.
"You stay here. I’ll be right back."

Enid didn’t answer.
Didn’t move.
But her fingers twitched once around Lyla’s — the tiniest, most exhausted signal.

It was enough.

Lyla stood slowly, knees cracking from sitting too long, and crossed to the door.

And that’s when she saw her.

Wednesday.

Standing just outside, half-hidden in the shadows of the hallway —
rigid, pale, eyes dark and stormy.

For a long, electric second, they just stared at each other.

Lyla’s hand tightened around the doorknob.
Her whole body radiated fury — tight, vibrating with it — the kind of protective rage that could break bones if she let it.

She didn’t say a word.
She didn’t have to.

Her glare said it all.

You did this.
You broke her.
If you hurt her again, I will bury you in the backyard and sleep like a baby.

Wednesday didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.

But she flinched — almost imperceptibly — under the weight of it.

Lyla’s lip curled slightly — a silent warning — before she turned and stalked down the hallway toward the stairs.

Wednesday was alone now.
Alone with the door cracked open.
Alone with the choice she had been running from since the second her words left her mouth.

She didn’t hesitate this time.

She stepped inside.

The room was heavy with the aftermath of heartbreak —
thick, airless, still.

Enid was still curled on the bed, wrapped tight in her quilt, face blotchy and tear-streaked.

She had turned slightly — toward the door — toward the sound of footsteps.
Her eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, found Wednesday’s.

For a second, neither of them breathed.

Enid didn’t speak.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t bother wiping the dried tears from her cheeks.

She just stared at Wednesday — hollowed out, exhausted, too emptied of anything to care how she looked.

It gutted Wednesday in a way she couldn’t explain.

Because she knew that look.

Knew it from nights when she was sixteen and hating herself more than she hated anything else.
Knew it from mornings when even breathing had felt like too much work.
Knew it from old, buried memories of sterile therapist offices and endless, aching silence.

She knew it — and she had caused it.

Her stomach twisted sharply.

She crossed the room slowly, carefully — like approaching a wild animal too wounded to lash out.

She stopped a few feet from the bed, her hands flexing uselessly at her sides.

Words felt heavy and clumsy and wrong in her mouth.
She couldn’t fix this.
Couldn’t take it back.

But maybe—
maybe she could offer something else.

Something no one had known how to offer her.

Wednesday knelt down beside the bed — lower than she usually allowed herself to be.
Lower than pride or coldness or cruelty.

Close enough that Enid could see her hands shaking slightly.

She didn’t reach out.
Didn’t touch her.

Instead, she sat — knees tucked under her, spine straight — and spoke.

Voice low.
Steady.

"I know how it feels," Wednesday said.

Enid blinked slowly — not quite reacting, but not looking away either.

"To be tired of yourself," Wednesday continued, each word costing her more than she could say.
"To think it would be easier for everyone if you just... weren't."

Her throat tightened painfully, but she forced herself to go on.

"I know what it's like," she said, "to feel too loud. Too much. To believe no one could ever want you — not the real you."

She swallowed hard.

"And I know," she said, softer now, almost breaking, "that when people tell you it's not true, it sounds like a lie."

Enid’s eyes shone again — fresh tears welling up, hanging there, trembling — but still not falling.

Wednesday shifted slightly closer.

Not touching.
Not crowding.
Just... staying.

"But it isn't a lie," she said.
"Not this time."

She dragged in a ragged breath.

"I was cruel," she said simply, brutally.
"And you didn’t deserve it."

The words sat heavy in the space between them.

A confession.
A surrender.

Wednesday kept her eyes steady on Enid’s — refusing to let herself look away.

"I’m not good at this," she said, voice dropping even lower. "I don’t know how to be... kind. Or gentle. Or anything that would make this easier for you."

She exhaled shakily.

"But I can stay," she said. "If you want."

Silence.

The clock downstairs ticked once, loud and lonely.

Enid’s eyes blinked again — slow, broken — and one tear slid down her cheek, trailing a shiny line across her flushed skin.

She didn’t speak.

But her fingers, clenched tight around the quilt, loosened slightly.

Not enough to reach out.

But enough to stay open.

And for now —
for this fragile, broken moment —
that was enough.

Wednesday stayed where she was —
kneeling by the bed, heart hammering, the sharp, terrifying ache of feeling too much blossoming inside her chest —
and watched over her.

Silent.
Steady.

Unmoving.

Finally — finally — doing something right.

The room was so quiet, it almost didn't feel real.

Wednesday stayed kneeling on the floor, hands pressed lightly to her knees, watching Enid like she was something fragile made out of breath and glass.

Neither of them spoke.

For a long time, they just stayed like that —
the only sounds the soft creak of the house settling, the muted whisper of snow falling against the windows.

Then —
slowly —
Enid moved.

She shifted under the quilt, pulling herself upright inch by inch like it hurt, like gravity itself had turned against her.

The rainbow blanket fell around her waist, forgotten.

She sat slumped forward slightly, hands loose in her lap, hair messy and wild around her face.

Her eyes were red and swollen.
Her cheeks blotchy.
Her voice — when she finally spoke — was barely a rasp.

But the words —
they cut straight through the air between them.

"I don't think you meant to," Enid said quietly, raw as an open wound.
"But you made me feel like being loved is a chore."

The words landed with a force that made Wednesday flinch physically — a small, involuntary jerk of her shoulders, like she'd been hit without warning.

Enid didn’t look at her.

She stared at her own hands instead —
at the way they trembled faintly, even now, even after the worst of it had passed.

"I know I'm a lot," she whispered.
"I know I’m loud, and messy, and I get too excited about stupid things, and I talk too much when I’m nervous."

Her mouth twisted into something small and broken.

"But I never thought—"

She had to stop, chest hitching, voice splintering apart like cheap wood.

She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, fighting for control.

"But I never thought someone I cared about would make me feel like... like loving me was work."

Wednesday felt the words sink into her like knives —
slow, deliberate, unforgiving.

She wanted to look away.
Wanted to defend herself.
Wanted to crawl out of her own skin.

But she didn’t.

She stayed.

She listened.

She made herself hold the wreckage she had caused.

Enid dragged in a shaking breath and finally — finally — lifted her head to look at her.

And there was no anger in her face.

No bitterness.

Just... sadness.

An old, tired sadness that had nothing to do with Wednesday, and everything to do with the life she had been carrying inside her chest for too long.

"I'm so tired," Enid whispered.

And somehow —
somehow —
those three words hurt more than anything else.

More than the fight.
More than the breakdown.

Because they were the truth.

And Wednesday — for the first time — saw it.

Saw all of it.

The bright girl who smiled too hard because no one ever stayed long enough to see what it cost her.
The rainbow soul trying to outrun her own loneliness.
The beautiful, aching heart that had never been treated like it was enough just by existing.

And she — Wednesday —
had only made it worse.

She hadn’t protected it.

She had wounded it.

Wednesday’s throat closed up tight, the weight of guilt and something sharper — something almost like grief — crushing the breath out of her lungs.

Because Enid wasn’t asking for anything right now.

Not an apology.
Not a promise.
Not even forgiveness.

She was just telling the truth.

And it was the most devastating thing Wednesday had ever heard.

For a long moment after Enid spoke, the room stayed unbearably still.

Wednesday sat there, hands knotted tightly in her lap, pulse pounding loud in her ears.

She didn't know how to fix this.

She didn’t know how to fix herself.

The words clawed their way up her throat before she could stop them —
hoarse, wrecked, falling out of her in pieces.

"I don't know how to be good to people," Wednesday said, voice trembling at the edges.
"I don't know how to stay soft when it matters."

Enid didn’t move.

She just watched her — open, broken, listening — in the way only someone who still cared could listen.

"I make everything sharp," Wednesday whispered.
"I make people feel small because if they get too close, if they see how much I —"

Her voice cracked.

Her hands curled into fists against the bedspread, nails digging in deep.

"Because I'm afraid," she said, barely more than a breath now.
"I’m afraid that if they really know me — if they stay long enough to see everything — they’ll leave anyway."

A wet sound escaped her throat — ugly, unfamiliar —
and then, to her horror, the tears came.

Real ones.

Not the kind she could bite back or ignore or turn into anger.

Real, hot, helpless tears that blurred her vision and shook her shoulders.

"I hate it," she gasped out, shaking her head violently.
"I hate how easy it is for me to hurt people. I hate how good I am at pushing them away before they get the chance to leave on their own."

The tears slipped down her cheeks unchecked, and for once —
for the first time —
Wednesday Addams didn't wipe them away.

She let them fall.

She let herself be seen.

"I don't want to be this person," she choked.
"But I don't know how to be anything else."

Silence swallowed the room whole.

Wednesday pressed a trembling hand against her mouth, trying to hold herself together — but it was a losing battle.

She had spent her whole life building walls so no one could touch her.

And now, here she was.

Bleeding out at Enid’s feet.

"I’m sorry," Wednesday whispered, voice cracking open completely.
"I’m so fucking sorry."

And this time —
there was no armor.

No cool mask.
No dry sarcasm.
No sharp edges to hide behind.

Just a girl who had never been taught how to love without first wounding everything she touched.

A girl who had just realized too late that she might have broken the only thing that ever made her want to try.

The room felt like it was breathing —
slow, heavy, ragged —
trying to find its way back to something like life.

Enid sat curled under the quilt, every part of her exhausted —
from crying, from fighting, from hoping.

Wednesday sat a few feet away on the bed, hunched forward, fists pressed to her knees, trembling under the weight of everything she'd just said.

Neither of them spoke.

Words felt too big.
Too dangerous.
Too clumsy for what lived in the space between them now.

Slowly —
with hands that still shook —
Wednesday shifted closer.

Not fast.
Not demanding.

Just a careful movement — like approaching something holy you didn’t deserve to touch.

She sat there for a second, so still Enid could hear the soft hitch of her breathing.

And then, without looking up —
without forcing it —
Wednesday reached out.

A hand.

Open.
Offered.
Shaking just a little.

It hovered there —
between them —
an invitation and a prayer all at once.

Enid stared at it.

At the way Wednesday's fingers curled slightly, not quite closing —
like she was bracing for rejection, expecting it even now.

Enid’s chest ached —
deep and sharp and endless.

But for the first time all day, she wasn’t afraid of the ache.

She knew it.

She understood it.

Because it lived in her too.

Slowly, so slowly it felt like the earth had to stop spinning to make space for it —
Enid lifted her hand from where it lay crumpled in her lap.

She didn’t hesitate.
She didn’t question.

She just put her hand in Wednesday’s.

Their fingers laced together clumsily —
awkward at first, like they’d forgotten how to do this —
and then firmly, solidly.

Holding.

Not for show.
Not for anyone else’s eyes.

Just for them.

Just to say:
I’m still here.
You’re still here.
We survived this, somehow.

Wednesday let out a shaky exhale —
the sound almost like a sob, almost like relief —
and squeezed Enid’s hand once, tightly, fiercely, like she could anchor herself there.

Enid squeezed back.

They sat there for a long time, hands tangled together, hearts raw and battered but still beating.

No apologies.

No promises.

Just contact.
Just connection.
Just understanding — pure and imperfect and real — for the very first time.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

Inside, for the first time all day —
neither of them felt alone.

Chapter Text

The morning came slowly.
Not in a golden, soft, cinematic way.
But in the heavy, bruised way it always came after a night spent not sleeping —
spent simply enduring.

The faint blue light crept in through the crack between the curtains, washing the room in a muted, ghostly glow.

Wednesday sat slouched against the headboard, still in yesterday’s clothes, still feeling the ghost of Enid’s hand in hers — even though neither of them had moved in hours.

Enid lay curled under the rainbow quilt, eyes open, staring at some invisible point just beyond the wall.

Neither of them spoke.

They hadn't spoken all night.

Not after the shaking confessions.
Not after the clumsy, desperate grip of their hands finding each other.

They just... stayed.

Breathing the same thin air.
Sharing the same silence.
Existing in the same broken, aching space.

Wednesday's body ached in strange places — her knees, her back, the line of her neck where she'd been holding tension like a wire pulled too tight.

But she didn’t move.
Not even to stretch.

It felt too dangerous.
Too fragile.

Like the tiniest shift would undo the delicate thread that had been spun between them overnight —
not forgiveness, not healing, but something quieter.

Something like:
I’m still here.
You didn’t scare me away.

The radiator clanged faintly downstairs, the house waking up around them.

Neither of them reacted.

The world outside could spin all it wanted.
Inside this room, time had folded in on itself.
Just them.
Just breathing.

At some point, Enid shifted slightly under the covers — not much, just enough that her bare hand slipped free from under the quilt and rested against the bedspread.

Her knuckles brushed Wednesday’s thigh — barely a graze, featherlight.

But it felt seismic.

Wednesday didn’t pull away.

Instead, she carefully, deliberately, turned her hand over —
and after a long moment of trembling stillness, she let her fingertips brush lightly against Enid’s.

Not a grab.
Not a clutch.

Just a touch.
An echo of the night before.

Enid’s fingers twitched once in response —
a barely-there flinch —
but then they stayed.

That was all.

No words.
No declarations.
No desperate, fumbling apologies.

Just two exhausted, hurting people sharing the same bed,
the same breath,
the same unbearable, tentative hope that maybe — just maybe — it wasn’t too late.

The clock ticked softly in the hallway.

Wednesday closed her eyes for the first time in what felt like forever —
not to sleep,
but just to exist alongside her.

Still breathing.

Still staying.

The silence between them had grown thicker, but not heavier —
not the brittle, cracking kind from before.

Something gentler now.

Something almost peaceful.

Wednesday could feel the exhaustion pulling at the edges of her mind —
the slow, sticky drag of too many emotions, too many unspoken words.

Across the small stretch of bed, Enid’s breathing had deepened slightly —
still awake, but quieter now, like her body was starting to surrender even if her mind hadn't yet.

Wednesday let her gaze slip sideways, studying her in the dim half-light.

The way Enid’s blonde hair spilled messily across the pillow.
The way her fingers, resting loose and unguarded on the quilt, twitched every so often — like even in stillness, she was fighting some unseen battle.

It hit Wednesday all over again — sharp and dizzying —
how fragile she was.
How strong.

And how much she hated herself for every tear she'd carved out of her last night.

A slow, unsteady breath shuddered through her chest.

Enid stirred faintly, as if sensing it, her fingers brushing against Wednesday’s leg again —
still featherlight, still hesitant.

Still there.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them dared to break whatever fragile thing was blooming between them now —
this space that wasn’t forgiveness yet, but wasn’t hopelessness either.

Minutes passed.
Or maybe hours.

Wednesday couldn't tell anymore.

All she knew was the way her body slowly, reluctantly began to give up the fight —
the tight coil of vigilance unwinding, the iron grip on her spine softening.

Her eyes fluttered closed —
just for a second, she told herself.

Just a second.

Across from her, she felt the same slow surrender in Enid —
her breathing slowing further, smoothing out, matching Wednesday’s rhythm without even meaning to.

Two broken girls,
two stubborn hearts,
finally letting go enough to rest.

Finally letting themselves believe — if only for a few hours —
that maybe it was safe to fall asleep.

Not because everything was fixed.
Not because the world was kind.
But because they had survived each other.
Because for once, someone had stayed.

The morning light grew brighter, washing pale gold across the room.

And as it rose,
Wednesday and Enid slipped quietly, finally, blessedly into sleep —
facing each other,
breathing the same air,
existing in the same fragile, broken, stubborn little orbit.

Together.

Still here.

Still staying.

Chapter Text

The world swam into focus slowly.

Wednesday blinked against the dim afternoon light slanting in through the curtains, her body sluggish and heavy with exhaustion.

Everything was warm.
Too warm, almost.
Too real.

It took her a long, disoriented moment to realize why.

Her hand was resting — no, anchored — against something soft.
Warm.
Alive.

Enid.

Wednesday froze.

They were tangled together again, somehow — not in the clumsy chaos of yesterday morning, but something quieter.
Something deliberate without meaning to be.

She was curled slightly around Enid’s back —
hand splayed gently against her waist, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of her breathing.

Their legs brushed where the quilt had slipped down, bare skin against bare skin, featherlight but undeniable.

It should have set her nerves on fire.

It should have made her bolt upright, scrambling for distance, for safety, for cold.

Instead, Wednesday just... stayed.

Breathing shallow.
Heart pounding slow and hard against her ribs.

She tilted her head slightly, careful not to jostle them, and looked down.

Enid’s face was turned toward her shoulder —
hair a messy golden spill across the pillow and Wednesday’s arm.

There were faint tear tracks still visible on her cheeks,
a lingering pinkness around her nose and mouth from crying too hard for too long.

And yet.

She looked —
stunning.

Not the way Enid usually looked — all bright smiles and neon chaos and unstoppable energy.
Not the Enid the world got to see.

This Enid was different.
Raw.
Unvarnished.

Beautiful in a way that felt almost unbearable to witness.

Wednesday stared at her for a long time —
long enough that she forgot to be afraid of being caught.

She traced the freckles dusting Enid’s nose with her eyes, soft and stubborn against skin that still looked heartbreakingly fragile.
She studied the mess of her hair, the gentle twitch of her lashes against flushed cheeks, the faint curve of her lips.

She felt every tiny, unconscious move Enid made —
the shift of her breathing, the occasional little sighs in her sleep —
through the thin cotton of their shirts, straight into her skin.

And for the first time —
the very first time —
Wednesday realized something terrifying and pure:

This was the real Enid.

Not the glitter.
Not the noise.
Not the brightness.

This —
messy, tear-streaked, soft and still trying —
was her.

And she was devastatingly beautiful.

Wednesday’s chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with guilt now.
Something older.
Something deeper.

She wanted —
God help her —
she wanted to stay like this.

Just for a little longer.
Just to memorize her.
Just to protect whatever fragile, stubborn thing had survived the worst of last night.

Her thumb twitched against Enid’s side —
not quite a stroke, not quite a pull —
but a soft, involuntary thing.

Enid shifted slightly in her sleep, pressing back into Wednesday’s touch without even waking.

Wednesday’s throat closed up.

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing her in.
The scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her skin, the impossibly soft sound of her breathing.

And for the first time —
without armor, without cruelty, without games —

Wednesday let herself want.

Not possession.
Not victory.

Just this.

Just Enid.

Exactly like this.

Exactly as she was.

Exactly enough.

Enid stirred against her without warning.

A soft sound — almost a whimper — escaped her as she blinked groggily into the low light of the room.

Wednesday stayed utterly still, hand still curved gently against Enid’s waist.

Enid shifted, the movement slow and confused, her brows furrowing as she came back into herself —
and into the quiet, unbearable closeness of their bodies.

For a second, she froze too.
Breath catching.

Her lashes fluttered, and then — carefully — she turned her head.

Their noses were inches apart.

Their bodies aligned like magnets too exhausted to resist the pull.

Enid's eyes — still glassy with sleep, still red-rimmed from last night’s tears — found hers.

Wednesday felt the breath punch out of her chest.

For a moment, neither of them moved.
Neither of them dared.

The room was thick with it —
the silence, the intimacy, the shattering tenderness of seeing and being seen.

Enid looked at her —
truly looked —
and Wednesday saw it:

the fear.
the hope.
the bruised, aching part of her still too afraid to trust this wasn’t some cruel trick.

But she also saw something else.

Something warm.

Something brave.

Something that whispered: please don’t look away.

Wednesday didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Enid’s mouth parted slightly, the smallest intake of breath —
and Wednesday’s gaze dropped without meaning to, tracing the curve of her bottom lip like it was a tether holding her to the earth.

A spark shivered in the space between them.

Electric.
Heavy.
So fragile it felt sacred.

Wednesday wanted to close the distance.
Desperately.

Wanted to bury her face in Enid’s hair.
Wanted to kiss her stupid, sleepy mouth until all the ache inside her turned into something softer, something survivable.

But she didn’t move.

Neither did Enid.

Because somehow —
they both knew.

If they crossed that line now,
there would be no going back.

So instead —
they just looked.

Like two people standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying and beautiful —
knowing the fall was inevitable.

Enid blinked, slow and dazed, her breath feathering across Wednesday’s cheek.

Wednesday swallowed hard, fingers curling faintly against Enid’s side without meaning to.

And for one long, unbreakable moment —
they existed only for each other.

Breathing the same air.
Sharing the same silence.

Both trembling with everything they weren’t saying.

Neither daring to ruin it.

Neither daring to leave it.

Just... staying.

Because somehow, impossibly, heartbreakingly —
this was enough.

For now.

Chapter Text

The heavy silence between them stretched —
not awkward anymore, but taut.
Fragile.
Trembling with everything they weren't ready to say.

Finally, Enid moved first —
peeling herself off the bed with a low, exhausted grunt.

"I'm gonna shower," she said, scrubbing a hand through her messy hair.

Wednesday just nodded —
too full of everything and nothing to trust herself with words.

Enid shuffled toward the door —
still wearing yesterday’s worn-in clothes, wrinkled and clinging in soft places Wednesday shouldn’t have been looking at.

But halfway there, Enid paused.

Turned back.

And when she looked over her shoulder —
it wasn't sadness that gleamed in her eyes anymore.

It was something sharper.
Brighter.
Wicked.

A smile tugged at her mouth —
not a real one.
Not sweet.

A smirk.

An Enid smirk.

Something slow and knowing and dangerous in a way Wednesday had never seen before.

"You want a shower too?" Enid asked, voice light but edged —
like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Wednesday blinked —
slow, deliberate, forcing herself to breathe through the sudden spike in her pulse.

"I suppose I could," she said, crisp and contained.

"You should go first."

Enid’s smirk deepened —
turned downright sinful.

"I meant," she said —
low, almost purring — "with me."

The words hit like a punch to the gut —
hot and reckless and so casually cruel that Wednesday forgot how to breathe for a second.

Enid let it hang there —
one, two, three beats —
and then, with a shrug so infuriatingly smug it should have been illegal, she added:

"Oh well.
Too bad."

And she turned away —
disappearing into the bathroom with a lazy, taunting little laugh.

The door swung almost shut behind her —
almost.

It stayed ajar by two inches.
Wide enough to see the steam already starting to curl out into the hallway.

Wide enough to be deliberate.

Wide enough to burn.

Wednesday stood frozen in the middle of the room —
air shivering around her, throat gone dry, heart hammering so hard it hurt.

She swallowed once.
Hard.

Because she had seen Enid before —
wild, radiant, explosive.

But this?
This was different.

This was Enid weaponized.
Unapologetic.
Unafraid to be wanted.

And Wednesday—
God help her—
wanted.

Not sweetly.
Not gently.

But raw.
Sharp.
Bone-deep.

It clawed at her from the inside out —
the memory of that smirk, that open door, that invitation not quite given and not quite taken away.

She stood there —
trembling, furious, hungry —
and hated how badly she wanted to follow.

Hated how easy it would be to lose herself in it.

Hated how, for the first time in her life, she didn’t know if it would be a mistake.

She closed her eyes —
exhaled slow and shaky.

Held herself there —
between ruin and restraint.

And somewhere deep in her ribs, something cracked open wider.

Something she wouldn’t be able to close again.

Not after this.

Not after her.

*

The bathroom door swung open on a cloud of steam.

Wednesday didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

She just watched — helpless, transfixed — as Enid padded into the room barefoot, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

Not just any towel.

A small towel.

Small enough that it barely reached the tops of her thighs.
Small enough that the curve of her hip peeked out with every casual step.
Small enough that if she breathed wrong, it would slip.

Wednesday’s throat closed up.

She stayed frozen on the bed, fists clenched in the quilt so tightly her knuckles ached, every muscle locked like she could somehow force herself to behave if she just tried hard enough.

Enid didn’t seem to notice.

Or worse —
she noticed everything.

She moved around the room lazily, like she had all the time in the world —
rummaging through her bag, humming under her breath, still damp and flushed from the heat of the shower.

The towel clung to her in all the wrong ways.

And then —
as if the universe had decided Wednesday hadn’t suffered enough —
Enid dropped something.

Her brush.

It hit the floor with a soft clatter.

And Enid —
without hesitation, without a second thought —
bent to pick it up.

Bending at the waist.
Slow.
Careless.

The towel rode up.

Too far.
Way too far.

Wednesday’s heart stopped.

Literally stopped.

For a suspended, agonizing second, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but burn alive inside her own skin.

Enid straightened up again — casual, oblivious — and flicked a look over her shoulder.

And she smirked.

Not big.
Not cartoonish.

Just enough.

Just enough to say:
I know exactly what I’m doing to you.

Wednesday’s jaw tightened so hard she thought something might crack.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, like that could possibly erase the image already scorched into her brain.

It didn’t.

Of course it didn’t.

When she opened them again, Enid was at the dresser, still humming, still pretending nothing had happened.

Wednesday bit down hard on the inside of her cheek — hard enough to taste blood — and muttered under her breath, too low for Enid to hear:

"She's going to be the death of me."

And for once —
for the first time maybe ever —
it didn’t sound like a threat.

It sounded like a prayer.

A desperate, helpless prayer she already knew she wouldn’t survive.

And God help her —

she didn’t want to.

Wednesday stood up from the bed, spine straightening with military precision.

Fine.

If this was a game —
if this was a challenge —
then she wasn’t going to lose.

She refused to lose.

Not to Enid.
Not when Enid was practically glowing — cheeks pink, towel slipping, dripping with sunshine and sin — and acting like she didn’t know exactly what she was doing.

Wednesday crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps — brushing so close to Enid that the faint heat from her skin soaked right through her clothes.

She didn’t look at her.

Not directly.

That was the first move in the game: pretend you’re unaffected.

Pretend you don’t notice the way Enid's breath hitched when she passed.

Pretend you don’t see the tiny shiver that raced down her bare spine.

Wednesday let the bathroom door creak open behind her.

Paused in the doorway.

Looked over her shoulder —
finally —
and met Enid's eyes full on.

No smirk.
No mockery.

Just a long, slow, assessing look.

Like she was memorizing her.
Cataloging every inch.
Deciding exactly what to do with her — and when.

Enid visibly swallowed.

Wednesday’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile —
razor-sharp and devastating —
and then, without a single word, she peeled her black T-shirt off over her head.

Slowly.

Too slowly.

And dropped it to the floor with careless precision.

Underneath, she wore a simple black sports bra — nothing fancy, nothing delicate — but the way she moved made it obscene.

The way the muscles of her stomach flexed.
The line of her ribs.
The effortless, brutal grace of her body.

Enid’s face flushed deeper — so pink it almost hurt to look at her — and she whipped her head away too fast, pretending to dig through her suitcase.

Wednesday’s smirk widened.

Victory.
Clean.
Simple.
Deadly.

She didn’t stop there.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans —
and slid them down slow.

Not revealing anything too scandalous.

Just a glimpse.

Black cotton briefs.
Long legs.
Lean, deliberate lines built for damage and devastation.

The jeans hit the floor with a soft thud.

And Wednesday stepped neatly out of them —
pausing just long enough for Enid’s peripheral vision to catch it.

Then —
calm as a queen —
she turned, pushed the door open wider, and disappeared into the bathroom.

The door clicked shut.

The water turned on.

The steam began to rise.

And Enid —
still facing the opposite wall, still clutching a pair of socks like they were a lifeline —
was very visibly losing her mind.

In the shower, Wednesday tilted her head back under the spray, let the water scald her skin, and smiled.

Score one for me, she thought, ruthless and giddy and wrecked all at once.

But somewhere —
somewhere deep down where she couldn’t quite reach —
she knew:

This wasn’t a game anymore.

Not really.

Not where it mattered.

Chapter Text

The house was still heavy with the quiet of a too-long night.

Afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows — pale and thin — catching dust motes in its glow.

Enid sat at the kitchen island, a mug of tea cooling between her hands.

She was dressed in soft sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, sleeves pulled over her hands, the fabric swallowing her whole.

She didn’t look up when she heard footsteps.

She didn’t have to.

Lyla padded into the kitchen, socked feet whispering against the tile, and stopped right beside her.

For a second, she didn’t say anything.

Just reached out and ruffled Enid’s hair gently — the way she used to when Enid was little and sad and hiding in the laundry room.

"Hey, Bug," she said softly.

The old nickname cracked something warm and aching open inside Enid's chest.

She let out a slow breath, small and shaky, and finally looked up.

Her eyes were still a little puffy from crying, but the wild, glassy panic was gone.

Softened now. Bruised, but breathing.

"I’m okay," she said quietly — not quite a lie, but not the full truth either.

Lyla sat down next to her, resting her chin in her hand, watching her carefully.

"Yeah?" she said.

Enid nodded — small, quick.

"She... she apologized," she said, voice so low it barely made it past her lips.

"And it wasn’t like... fake. It was real."

Lyla’s eyebrows lifted slightly — not judgmental, just surprised.

"Good," she said, after a beat. "You deserve real."

Enid’s throat tightened.

She fiddled with the edge of her sleeve, twisting the fabric between her fingers.

"And — um — can you maybe..." She trailed off, biting her lip hard before trying again. "Can you not tell Mom about the fake dating thing?"

Lyla snorted — soft, affectionate.

"Bug," she said, grinning crookedly. "You really think I’d blow up your whole operation two days before Thanksgiving?"

Enid huffed a half-laugh — a real one this time, small but alive.

"I just... I want her to have a good holiday," she mumbled. "Even if it’s built on, you know... a giant flaming lie."

Lyla leaned over and bumped her shoulder gently against Enid’s.

"Hey," she said. "I’ve got your back."

Always.

She didn’t have to say it.

It was stitched between them already — in every memory, every late-night rescue mission, every whispered "Bug" when things got too heavy.

Enid blinked hard, swallowing down the sudden lump rising in her throat.

"Thanks," she whispered.

Lyla reached out again — ruffling her hair just enough to be annoying — and grinned.

"Just don’t make me be your maid of honor at the fake wedding," she teased.

Enid let out a real laugh this time — wet, wrecked, but real.

And for the first time since the world cracked open, it felt like maybe — maybe — it could still be put back together.

One small step at a time.

The clock ticked softly over the stove.

The snow kept falling outside.

And upstairs, Wednesday Addams sat on the edge of the bed — hand still tingling from where Enid had held it hours ago — staring out the window, wondering how the hell you were supposed to put yourself back together after you had finally let someone see you broken.

Chapter Text

enid's mom stepped out of the kitchen to take a call, Enid snuck closer.

She wiped her hands on her apron — pink and ridiculous, a gift from Lyla years ago that said WORLD'S MESSIEST CHEF — and leaned against the counter near Wednesday's elbow.

The air between them shifted immediately —
from warm and noisy to something quieter, charged.

Wednesday didn't look up.
But her body tensed —
just slightly.

In a way that Enid had learned, finally, was not fear.
Not avoidance.

Just... noticing.

Feeling.

Enid smiled to herself — small and secret.

"What are you making?" she asked, voice low, teasing.

Wednesday's eyes flicked up — dark, steady — and for a second Enid forgot how to breathe.

Because up close —
with the morning light catching in her hair, flour smudged across one cheek —
Wednesday looked less like a threat and more like a miracle.

"A surprise," Wednesday said, voice smooth.

"Good surprise or bad surprise?" Enid asked, grinning.

Wednesday arched one eyebrow.

"I don't believe in labeling my creations before they've had a chance to wreak appropriate havoc."

Enid laughed — a real one this time — and for the first time in days, it didn’t hurt to do it.

It felt good.

Whole.

Alive.

She bumped Wednesday’s shoulder lightly with her own.

Wednesday didn’t flinch.

Didn't pull away.

She just bumped her back —
a tiny nudge.
A quiet answer.

And Enid’s heart bloomed so fast and so wide it almost hurt.

The morning slipped by like that —
in easy, golden pieces.

Music playing.
Pots bubbling.
Flour flying.

Wednesday kept working on her mystery project with maddening patience.

Enid kept sneaking looks at her every few minutes —
pretending to check the oven or grab a dishcloth —
but mostly just to watch the small, precise movements of her hands.

At one point, while trying to wrestle a too-large casserole dish into the fridge, Enid dropped the lid with a clatter.

Wednesday looked up sharply —
eyes wide, defensive out of instinct —
and then softened immediately when she saw it was just Enid, clutching the counter and laughing breathlessly at herself.

"You’re a disaster," Wednesday muttered under her breath.

Enid grinned at her — wide and shameless — and said, "You love it."

And this time —
God help her —
Wednesday smiled.

A real one.

Small.
Secret.
Devastating.

Enid thought she might never recover.

And she didn’t even want to.

Around ten, the rest of the family started trickling into the kitchen —
Grandma, Lyla, cousins from across town.

The house got louder, busier, brighter.

But somehow —
somehow —
the tiny thread between Enid and Wednesday didn’t fray.

If anything, it held tighter.

A glance across the table.

A passing brush of fingers when they both reached for the cinnamon at the same time.

A slow, private smile when no one else was looking.

It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t flashy.

It was quieter than anything Enid had ever known.

But it was real.

And for the first time in a long, long time —
it was enough.

More than enough.

It was everything.

And the day was just getting started.

*

The early afternoon sun slanted low and warm through the windows, casting gold across the kitchen counters still cluttered with flour and mixing bowls.
The house smelled like cinnamon, butter, and impending chaos.

Somewhere in the background, a football game blared from the living room — all whistles and roaring crowds and commentary that made exactly zero sense to Wednesday.

She sat stiffly at the kitchen table, arms folded across her chest, glaring at nothing.

Across the room, Enid bounced on her toes, practically vibrating with excitement as she zipped up her puffy coat.

"C’mon, Willa," she teased, grinning wickedly.
"You’re not gonna get out of it. It’s family tradition."

Wednesday narrowed her eyes. "I fail to see how running aimlessly through mud constitutes tradition."

Enid laughed — bright, wild, reckless.
"You’ll love it. Trust me."

"I have never once trusted those words when they precede physical exertion," Wednesday deadpanned, but she stood up anyway.
Because Enid was looking at her like that — eyes wide and sparkly, full of mischief and sunlight — and Wednesday was powerless to deny her anything when she looked like that.

"Here," Enid said, tossing her a coat.
Wednesday caught it on instinct and immediately grimaced.

It was bright.
It was puffy.
It was... hideously cheerful.

Enid clapped her hands together.
"You look so cute," she declared, shamelessly admiring her.
Like Wednesday was a particularly delightful cupcake she couldn’t wait to sink her teeth into.

Wednesday tugged the zipper up to her chin with a resigned sigh. "If I die of embarrassment, you will be solely responsible."

Enid just winked. "Totally worth it."

She shoved a football into Wednesday’s hands, which she immediately held like it was a bomb about to detonate.
"Okay, first rule of Sinclair Family Football," Enid said, walking a slow circle around her like a coach sizing up a very unimpressive recruit.
"Have fun. Second rule: no tackling the children. Third rule: try not to get decimated by Grandma."

Wednesday arched an eyebrow.
"I thought you said this was a friendly game."

Enid just gave her a too-bright, too-innocent grin.
"Grandma plays to win."

Before Wednesday could ask any more questions, Enid stepped closer — close enough that the world shrank to just the two of them again.
The air between them crackled, warm and dangerous and full of the promise of something neither of them dared name.

"Here," Enid murmured, reaching out —
and sliding her hands around Wednesday’s waist.

Wednesday froze.
Absolutely, completely froze.
Her brain short-circuited.
Her lungs forgot how to inflate.

Because Enid wasn’t just standing close.
She was pressed up behind her — her chest against Wednesday’s back, her chin brushing Wednesday’s shoulder, arms wrapping low and firm to adjust her grip on the football.

"Relax," Enid said, voice low and playful near her ear.
"You’re holding it all wrong. You gotta loosen up."

Wednesday might have blacked out a little bit.
She felt every single point of contact between them —
Enid’s hands curving around her wrists, guiding her.
Enid’s breath, warm against her neck.
Enid’s body, solid and humming and unbearably close.

She swallowed hard.
"I do not loosen up," she rasped.

Enid just chuckled — the sound low and devastating — and shifted even closer, if that was physically possible.
"Okay, fine. Be stubborn," she teased.
"But at least pretend you want to throw the ball and not murder it."

Wednesday wanted to say something dry and cutting.
Something that would prove she was still in control.

But Enid’s hands were moving again — guiding her arms back, adjusting her elbows, pressing lightly against her waist to correct her stance —
and Wednesday was not in control.
Not even a little bit.

"Now," Enid said, her voice dropping slightly, thick with mischief and something warmer.
"You pull your arm back, like this..."

She moved Wednesday’s body for her — slow, deliberate, hands smoothing up her arms.
The muscles under Wednesday’s skin twitched violently, trying to memorize every second of it.

"And then you snap forward," Enid said, "with your whole body. Not just your arm. Like this."

She pressed her palms lightly against Wednesday’s hips —
and moved her.

Just a tiny nudge.
Just a suggestion.
But it lit Wednesday’s nerves on fire.

She stumbled forward half a step, flinging the football awkwardly across the yard —
nowhere near the makeshift target Lyla had set up.

The ball landed in a snowdrift with a sad plop.

Enid burst out laughing — loud, delighted, gorgeous.
"Okay, so maybe not NFL material," she teased, tugging lightly at the back of Wednesday’s coat.
"But hey, you’re adorable, and that's what really matters."

Wednesday turned around stiffly, fixing her with a narrow glare —
but there was no real venom behind it.

Enid just grinned wider, eyes sparkling with wicked affection.
"You know you love it," she said, sing-song and obnoxious.
"You love being my cute little quarterback."

"I am considering multiple forms of revenge," Wednesday said darkly.

Enid only bounced on her toes again, beaming.
"Whatever makes you feel better, babe."

Babe.

Wednesday blinked hard.
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.

And then — very dignified, very slow —
she turned around, marched over to where the football had landed, and picked it up.

Anything — anything — to hide how pink her ears were turning.

Behind her, Enid laughed again — light and free and full of something dangerous.

Something that sounded a lot like victory.

*
The backyard looked like something out of a snow globe —
powdery drifts sparkling under the sharp blue sky, breath fogging in the cold air.

Wayne was already out there in a battered parka, tossing a football from hand to hand like a man preparing for war.
Grandma, wrapped in an absurd amount of scarves, was doing jumping jacks.
Lyla leaned against the porch railing, cradling a mug of hot chocolate and looking entirely too amused.

Wednesday hovered near the back steps, arms folded across her chest, doing her best impression of someone who was not internally screaming.

Enid grinned wickedly, bumping her hip against Wednesday’s.
"You ready, QB?"

"To suffer public humiliation at the hands of your relatives? Always," Wednesday deadpanned.

Enid just giggled, bright and delighted.
She tugged on Wednesday’s sleeve, dragging her onto the snow-packed lawn.

Teams were hastily assigned —
Wayne and Lyla versus Grandma and the girls.

("You two need all the help you can get," Wayne said with a wink.)

And then the game began —
a blur of laughter and shouting and absolutely no actual adherence to football rules.

Wednesday learned three things very quickly:

1. Grandma Sinclair was terrifyingly aggressive.
2. Enid’s competitive streak was lethal.
3. Every single touch between them — every accidental brush of fingers, every jostle of shoulders, every shove and grab and scramble for the ball — was like being set on fire.

She wasn’t imagining it.
She couldn’t be.

The way Enid's hand lingered a second too long on her wrist when she pulled her into a huddle.
The way their knees bumped when they crouched low to strategize.
The way, when Wednesday made a particularly clumsy pass, Enid grinned wide —
and smacked her ass.

A quick, sharp slap.
Barely a second long.

But Wednesday damn near fumbled the ball anyway.
Her whole body locked up.
Heat shot up her spine.
She heard Lyla snort behind her, muttering something under her breath like, "Jesus Christ, just kiss already," but it might have been her imagination.

Probably not.

Enid just shot her a look — wide-eyed, innocent, utterly full of shit.
"Good hustle," she chirped sweetly, like she hadn’t just derailed Wednesday’s entire nervous system with one casual touch.

Wednesday ground her teeth so hard she was surprised her molars didn’t crack.

She was going to kill her.
She was going to kill her, and then she was going to die of how much she didn’t want to.

The game raged on — wild and ridiculous and full of too many fumbled plays and not enough rules.

At one point, Lyla launched the ball into orbit.
Grandma intercepted it with a surprisingly vicious elbow jab.
Wayne tripped over a patch of ice and rolled ass-over-teakettle into a snowbank.

But none of it mattered.

Because every time Wednesday turned around, Enid was there —
bright and laughing and right there.
Brushing shoulders.
Tugging on her sleeve.
Yanking her hand when she didn’t move fast enough.

And every touch —
every spark —
built higher and hotter under her skin.

Until finally —
finally —
Grandma called time-out to berate Wayne for "playing like a damn city boy."

And Enid turned to Wednesday, grinning wide, cheeks pink from the cold and the chaos.

"Chest bump!" she declared.

Wednesday blinked. "What."

Enid was already jogging backward, bouncing on her toes like she couldn’t wait.
"C’mon! That’s what you do after a good play! You bump chests!"

"I find this ritual barbaric," Wednesday muttered.

But Enid was looking at her — wild and radiant and happy —
and Wednesday could no more say no than she could stop breathing.

She braced herself.

Enid barreled toward her.

And they collided —
not hard, not painful —
but perfect.

Chest to chest.
Heat to heat.

It should have been ridiculous.
It should have been funny.

But it wasn’t.

It was devastating.

Because their bodies pressed together for one, suspended, earth-shattering second —
shoulders, ribs, hips —
and Wednesday felt every single line of Enid’s body against hers.
Soft.
Warm.
Alive.

Her breath caught.
So did Enid’s.

They stumbled back a step, eyes wide, chests heaving —
and for a second, just one heartbeat-long second, it wasn’t a game anymore.

It wasn’t funny.

It wasn’t innocent.

It was something hot and dangerous and so close to tipping over into something else entirely.

Something they might not be able to take back.

Enid’s eyes flickered —
down to Wednesday’s mouth.
Back up.
Fierce and scared and desperate.

Wednesday felt her heart claw against her ribs, felt herself sway forward without meaning to —

And then Lyla wolf-whistled from the sidelines.
"Get a room!" she yelled, laughing her ass off.

Enid flushed so red she looked like she might spontaneously combust.
She ducked her head, laughing breathlessly, stepping back fast.
Wednesday bit the inside of her cheek so hard it hurt —
anything to anchor herself, to stop herself from reaching out and pulling Enid back into her arms where she belonged.

The moment broke.
The world rushed back in.

But the feeling —
the heat, the pull, the gravity between them —
didn’t go anywhere.

It stayed.
It burned.
It waited.

And both of them knew —
deep in their bones —
that the next time they got that close,
there wouldn’t be a crowd around to save them.

Not anymore.

Not this time.

*

The house was alive with noise and heat and the kind of chaos that only came from trying to wrangle too many dishes, too many relatives, and too much love into one place.

The kitchen smelled like heaven —
savory and sweet, butter and sage and cinnamon all braided together.

Enid was at the stove with her mom, elbows deep in mashed potatoes, music blaring from the little speaker by the window.
Oldies — bright and nostalgic — the kind that made it impossible not to smile.

Wednesday moved around them in a slow, deliberate orbit —
quiet, focused, efficient.

She was carefully transferring her secret contribution from the cooling rack to a serving platter — one by one — her fingers ridiculously delicate with each small, perfect cupcake.

Little bats.
Neatly piped in black icing.
Tiny fanged smiles and crooked wings.

No one else would notice the significance.
No one else would know.

But Enid would.

Enid would remember the afternoon she had barged into Wednesday’s life and wrecked her thesis presentation with homemade cupcakes that tasted like chaos and looked like crime scenes.
She would remember the embarrassment — the clash — the way Wednesday had hated her so instantly and so thoroughly she hadn’t known it was already something else.
She would remember.
And she would understand.

This wasn’t just dessert.
It was a message.
A peace offering.
An apology.
A beginning.

Wednesday swallowed hard and set the platter carefully in the center of the long, crowded table.

Enid caught her eye across the kitchen —
grinned, wild and golden —
and for a second, it was like the world tilted.

Like everything had been leading to this.
This moment.
This feeling.
This almost.

Wayne shouted from the living room:
"Food’s on? Good, I’m starvin’!"

Lyla hollered back something about patience being a virtue, and the whole house shifted —
plates banging down, chairs scraping, laughter rising like a tide.

Wednesday and Enid moved around each other seamlessly —
passing utensils, brushing shoulders, reaching for the same bowl at the same time without even thinking.

It was easy.
It was thoughtless.
It was them.

Enid’s hand brushed Wednesday’s wrist once —
a barely-there touch —
and Wednesday felt it everywhere.
Like being branded.

They ended up next to each other at the table.
Of course they did.

Wayne sat at the head, Enid’s mom at his side, Lyla across from Grandma —
but Enid and Wednesday, without a word, without a glance, found their seats together.
Close enough that Wednesday could feel the heat radiating off her.

The prayer started —
Grandma's voice leading the chorus, scratchy but full of fierce, stubborn love.

It wasn’t polished.
It wasn’t fancy.

It was:
"We're grateful for the food, the roof over our heads, the people we love, and the people who piss us off enough to make life interesting."

Everyone chuckled —
even Wednesday, a ghost of a smirk pulling at her mouth.

Enid squeezed her eyes shut tight —
like she was holding something inside her chest too big to say.

And somewhere in the middle of the prayer —
in the middle of the warmth and noise and messy, overwhelming humanity of it all —
Enid’s hand slid under the table.

Slow.
Careful.
Deliberate.

And landed on Wednesday’s thigh.

Not high.
Not scandalous.

But close.
Too close.

The heat of it seared through the denim of Wednesday’s jeans.
Her breath caught —
sharp and involuntary —
but she didn’t move away.

She didn’t even blink.

Enid’s fingers curled slightly —
just enough to grip.
Just enough to anchor.

Not asking for anything.
Not rushing.

Just being there.

Claiming a space that had always — somehow, impossibly — belonged to her.

Wednesday shifted her hand under the table —
casually, lazily —
and let her pinky brush against Enid’s.

A tiny, secret rebellion.
A tiny, reckless prayer.

Enid’s grip tightened —
infinitesimally, but it was enough to make Wednesday’s heart lurch sideways in her chest.

The prayer ended in a chorus of Amens and laughter and clinking glasses.

Plates were passed.
Dishes heaped high.
Grandma started yelling about "city folks who didn't know good stuffing if it bit 'em."

The world spun on.

But under the table —
where no one could see —
where it was just them —
the world had stopped.

And when dessert finally rolled around —
when the pies and cakes and fruit salads started making their rounds —
Wednesday stood up.

Enid blinked up at her — startled, curious —
and Wednesday just smirked.

She returned a minute later —
carrying the cupcake platter like it was made of glass.

And she set it down —
right in front of Enid.

Enid’s breath caught.
Audibly.

Her hands lifted to her mouth —
small, shaking —
and her eyes blew wide.

Little bats.
Perfect little bats, hand-piped and glinting under the kitchen lights.

Not perfect in a bakery way.
Perfect in a Wednesday way.
Precise.
Sharp.
Made of patience and blood and stubborn, ferocious attention.

Enid looked up at her —
and Wednesday met her eyes squarely.

No words.
No explanations.

Just:
I see you.
I remember you.
I choose you.

Enid’s throat worked around a sound —
something small and wrecked and too big to let out.

She reached for the platter —
and then, without thinking, without asking, she reached for Wednesday’s hand too.

Their fingers tangled —
awkward and clumsy and perfect.

And Wednesday —
for the first time in longer than she could remember —
smiled without meaning to.

Small.
Real.
Undeniable.

The rest of the family whooped and cheered for cupcakes and calories.
Grandma tried to sneak two when she thought no one was looking.
Wayne declared them "damn fine batcakes, best I ever had."

But for Wednesday and Enid —
the world had narrowed.
Quieted.
Softened.

Just a plate of cupcakes.
Just a look.
Just a hand held tight under the table.

And something new, something electric and terrifying and beautiful, sparking into life between them.

Something neither of them wanted to survive without anymore.

*
The house had gone soft around the edges.

After dinner, after dessert, after too many rounds of coffee and pie and sleepy arguments about football scores, the day finally exhaled.
The world outside was black velvet and falling snow; the world inside was warm, golden, safe.
A movie played on the old television — something ancient and cozy, all scratchy film grain and soft piano music.
Nobody really watched it.
Not properly.
Wayne had already dozed off in his chair, mouth open slightly, snoring like a chainsaw.
Grandma was knitting without looking at her needles.
Lyla was curled sideways on the carpet, half-listening, half-texting on her phone.

And on the couch — tucked into the farthest corner, half-buried under a ridiculously fuzzy blanket — sat Wednesday and Enid.

It hadn’t been planned.

It hadn’t even been discussed.

It just... happened.

They had wandered into the living room together after dessert, still lazy with food and laughter, and somehow they had ended up here — side by side, their legs brushing under the blanket, close enough that breathing felt different.

Enid leaned into the corner first — an easy, natural sprawl, her legs folding up underneath her, her shoulder bumping against Wednesday’s by accident.
Or maybe not by accident.
Wednesday didn’t move away.

Instead, she sat there — stiff and aching with how badly she wanted to sink into it — until Enid tipped her head sideways... and landed.

Right on her shoulder.

Just like that.

No big announcement.
No shy hesitation.
Just the soft, sleepy weight of her.

As if it was the most natural thing in the world.

As if it had always been inevitable.

Wednesday froze for half a second — heart clawing at her ribs, lungs forgetting how to work — but then, slowly, she allowed herself to breathe.
To exist inside it.
Inside her.

The movie flickered light across the room — silver and blue, soft and dreamlike — but Wednesday didn’t watch it.
Not really.

She watched Enid.

She let herself look — truly look — because no one else was paying attention.
Because no one could see the way her hands trembled lightly under the blanket.
Because she wasn’t sure she’d ever get another moment like this.

She memorized the way Enid’s hair curled slightly behind her ear, messy from the long day.
The way her freckles stood out darker against the faint flush still lingering on her cheeks.
The way her mouth — soft, relaxed in sleep — tugged slightly at the corners, like she might be dreaming something beautiful.

Every inch of her.

Every soft breath against Wednesday’s collarbone.

Every tiny twitch of her nose when she shifted closer in her sleep.

It was unbearable, how beautiful she was.
Not the bright, chaotic beauty Enid wielded when she was awake — all laughter and mischief and motion — but the quieter kind.
The kind you only saw when someone forgot to be brave.
When they let themselves be vulnerable.

Enid was beautiful like that.

Like a secret only Wednesday was allowed to keep.

And God help her —
she wanted to keep it.
She wanted to keep her.

The movie played on.

The house murmured and breathed around them.

And Wednesday stayed very, very still — terrified that if she moved, even a little, the moment would shatter.

She let her head tilt — just a fraction — until it brushed against the top of Enid’s.
Barely a touch.
Just enough to feel her there.
Just enough to promise:

I’m here.

I’m not going anywhere.

She closed her eyes.

Let the moment hold her.
Let Enid hold her.

And for the first time in forever —
Wednesday Addams let herself belong to something she didn’t want to ruin.

Chapter Text

The house was too quiet.

No clatter of dishes.
No shouted conversations from room to room.
No bad Christmas music crackling through the kitchen speaker.

Just silence.
Heavy.
Electric.

Wayne, her mom, Lyla, Grandma — even the cousins — had all piled into the old truck for Black Friday shopping chaos.
Dragging themselves into coats and boots and mittens and shrieking about doorbusters and discounts at ungodly hours.

And Wednesday and Enid?

They stayed behind.

"Someone has to guard the fort," Wayne had said, winking exaggeratedly before the door slammed shut behind them.

And now they were alone.
Completely alone.
With nothing but time and the weight of yesterday hanging hot and heavy in the air.

Wednesday sat at the kitchen table, a book open in front of her, pretending to read.

She wasn't reading.

She hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes.

Across the room, Enid was perched on the counter, swinging one bare foot back and forth, eating a cold slice of pie directly out of the tin with a fork.

Every few seconds, she'd glance over — casual, devastating — and catch Wednesday not looking.
(Not looking hard.)

Wednesday tightened her grip on her book.

She was... aware.

Painfully aware.

Of the way Enid's sweatshirt slipped off one shoulder, exposing a stretch of soft, golden skin.
Of the way her hair tumbled loose and wild around her face, still a little tangled from sleep.
Of the way her laugh — low, throaty — vibrated against the silence when she scrolled her phone and found something funny.

It was unbearable.

And Enid knew it.

Oh, she knew it.

Because when she slid off the counter — slow, lazy, stretching like a cat — she did it with the full knowledge of Wednesday’s eyes glued to her every movement.

And when she padded barefoot across the kitchen — past the table, past Wednesday — she let her fingers trail lightly, barely brushing across the back of Wednesday’s chair.

Not touching her.

Just enough to feel the ghost of it.

Wednesday’s whole body locked up.

She swallowed hard, turning a page she hadn’t read.

Enid leaned over the counter to grab a glass from the cabinet —
stretching on tiptoe, sweatshirt riding even higher, the curve of her back arching in a way that had to be illegal.

Wednesday stared at her book like it held the secrets of the universe.

It didn’t.

It only held the unbearable weight of her own sanity slipping away.

"You know," Enid said idly, still not looking at her, "we could put on a movie or something. Pass the time."

Wednesday flipped another page.
Felt her pulse trip over itself.

"Unless," Enid added, voice dropping slightly, "you’re too scared to be alone with me."

Wednesday set the book down very, very carefully.

She turned to look at her.

Slow.

Measured.

Deadly.

"I fear nothing," she said, voice low and dark.

Enid grinned — a lazy, slow-blooming grin that made Wednesday's fingers twitch against the wood grain.

"Prove it."

She sauntered toward the living room — barefoot, smug, utterly lethal — and flopped onto the couch like she owned it.

Like she owned Wednesday.

And maybe she did.

God help her, maybe she did.

Wednesday followed, heart hammering against her ribs, blood rushing too hot in her veins.

She sat stiffly at the far end of the couch, keeping three feet of empty space between them.

Enid immediately stretched out along the cushions — sprawling, luxurious — until her toes bumped Wednesday’s thigh.

She didn’t move them.

She just looked at her —
all golden hair and wicked eyes and a mouth made for sin —
and smiled.

"Comfortable?" Wednesday asked, biting each syllable like a weapon.

Enid tilted her head back lazily. "Getting there."

The TV flickered on — something random, some action movie neither of them would pay attention to.

The real battle was happening right here.

Underneath every breath.

Every glance.

Every stupid, accidental brush of skin.

Enid shifted — like she was just getting comfortable —
and let her knee nudge against Wednesday’s.

A tiny, casual touch.

Too small to fight.

Too big to ignore.

Wednesday stayed very still.

She was winning this game.
She was.

Until Enid —
without warning, without mercy —
slid one socked foot up the side of Wednesday’s calf.
Slow.
Languid.
Deliberate.

Wednesday bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.

Enid’s eyes flicked sideways — catching her reaction, devouring it — and her smile turned downright feral.

"You okay, Willa?" she asked, all fake innocence and velvet malice.

"I’m fine," Wednesday gritted out, voice strangled.

Enid hummed — soft, indulgent — and stretched again.

This time, her hand brushed Wednesday’s wrist.

Barely.

A whisper.

But it was enough.

Enough to set every nerve ending screaming.

Enough to make Wednesday’s composure crack, just a little.

Enough to make her turn — sharply, violently — and catch Enid’s hand in her own.

Their fingers tangled.

Hot.

Breathless.

Enid didn’t pull away.

She just tilted her head — studying Wednesday like she was some beautiful, breakable thing.

"You sure about that?" she whispered.

The air between them was molten.

Searing.

Wednesday squeezed her hand once — sharp and warning and desperate — and let go.

Stood up too fast.

Crossed the room to the window, pretending to study the falling snow outside.

Pretending she wasn’t drowning.

Behind her, Enid laughed — soft and lethal and victorious.

"Running away already?" she teased.

"I do not run," Wednesday said without turning around.

Enid padded up behind her — silent, sure — until Wednesday could feel her heat along her back again.

Like yesterday.

Like the backyard.

Like every time Enid touched her, the whole world cracked open.

"You know," Enid murmured, voice a bare thread of sound, "we could play another game."

Wednesday closed her eyes.

Inhaled slow.

Dangerous.

"What game?"

Enid’s breath brushed her ear.

Hot.

Murderous.

"How long can we drive each other crazy without actually doing anything?"

Wednesday turned then.

Slow.

Controlled.

And found Enid inches away.

Smiling.

Daring her.

Waiting.

And God help her —
Wednesday smiled back.

Sharp.

Hungry.

Unforgiving.

"I intend to win," she whispered.

Enid’s smile widened — brilliant and reckless and unbearably sweet.

"We'll see about that."

They stood there —
breathing the same air, not touching, absolutely burning alive —
and somewhere deep inside, both of them knew:

This wasn’t the end.

This was only the beginning.

Of a very, very dangerous game.

One neither of them was ever going to survive intact.

The living room was dim now. Just the flicker of the TV screen. Just the low hum of the heater. Just them.

Wednesday turned from the window, slow and deliberate — only to find Enid leaning lazily against the back of the couch, arms crossed, a wicked smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.

"So," Enid said, voice syrup-thick and lazy. "You wanna help me clean up?"

The words were innocent. The tone was not.

Wednesday arched an eyebrow — because it was the only thing she trusted herself to do without combusting — and nodded once.

Enid pushed off the couch and sauntered past her — not brushing, not touching — but close enough that the air itself pulled taut between them.

They moved into the kitchen like two magnets orbiting the same pole — close, circling, daring.

Enid reached for the dishes. Wednesday reached for a towel.

At first, it was almost normal — awkward, distracted, too much breathing and not enough actual cleaning.

Until Enid bumped into her.

Not hard. Not clumsy.

Just enough.

Just enough for the soft curve of her hip to brush against Wednesday’s.

Wednesday stiffened. Bit down on a curse.

Enid giggled under her breath like she'd heard it anyway.

And then — it got worse.

Or better.

Enid leaned in — under the pretense of grabbing another plate — and her mouth brushed Wednesday’s ear.

Not a kiss. Not really.

Just breath.

Hot. Devastating.

"You're so tense," Enid whispered, so close her lips ghosted along Wednesday’s skin. "Scared of me, Willa?"

Wednesday sucked in a sharp, ragged breath.

"Of you?" she rasped, trying — and failing — to sound unimpressed. "Never."

Enid’s chuckle was dark and delighted.

"Good," she murmured, dragging the word out like silk.

And then — without warning — she pressed against her.

Barely.

Just her chest brushing Wednesday’s back. Just her hands sliding slow over Wednesday’s wrists, pretending to guide her with the dishes.

Wednesday went stock-still.

Because everywhere Enid touched her — wrists, elbows, the faint curve of her waist — caught fire.

Because Enid was doing it like it meant nothing. Like it was casual.

And it wasn’t.

It was war.

It was ruin.

It was drowning.

Enid breathed a laugh against the shell of her ear, and Wednesday felt her knees weaken like they might actually give out.

"You’re doing great, babe," Enid said sweetly, voice dripping with false encouragement.

Babe.

Again.

Wednesday dropped the plate into the sink with a clatter. Whirled around.

And Enid was right there.

Too close.

Smirking.

Glowing.

Beautiful and lethal and so sweet it burned.

Neither of them spoke.

The air between them cracked and sizzled like static electricity.

Wednesday’s hands twitched at her sides. Fighting themselves.

Because she could. She could grab Enid. Could press her into the counter. Could make her beg.

God, she wanted to.

But Enid wasn’t moving.

She was waiting.

Waiting for Wednesday to snap.

Wednesday clenched her jaw. Inhaled slow.

And then — two could play this game.

She stepped closer.

So close her chest brushed Enid’s. So close her breath stirred Enid’s hair.

She leaned in — a whisper away from her ear — and spoke.

"Careful," she murmured, voice low and lethal. "You start something with me, Enid Sinclair..."

Her lips brushed the shell of her ear.

Enid shuddered. Visibly.

Wednesday smiled — a slow, vicious thing.

"You better be ready to finish it."

Enid’s hands twitched. Clenched at her sides.

She was breathing fast now.

Wednesday watched her — watched her fall apart without a single touch.

It was intoxicating.

And Enid — God, Enid looked wrecked.

Flushed. Bright-eyed. Mouth parted slightly, panting soft little breaths.

Wednesday straightened — slow, unhurried — and stepped back half a pace.

Not enough. Never enough.

Enid’s hand shot out. Grabbed her wrist.

Held it. Tight.

Their eyes locked.

Enid swallowed hard.

"Don’t you dare walk away," she whispered, broken and furious and begging all at once.

Wednesday’s heart slammed against her ribs.

She turned her hand over — twining their fingers together, slow and deliberate.

And leaned in again.

Close.

Closer.

Their noses almost brushed. Their foreheads almost touched.

She could feel Enid’s shuddering breath against her lips.

"Then make me stay," Wednesday whispered back.

Challenge. Invitation. Plea.

Enid made a wounded, desperate sound in her throat — like she wanted to.

Like she might.

Like she would.

But she didn’t.

Neither did Wednesday.

The house was silent.

Too silent.

Dangerous silent.

Wednesday could hear the tick of the old wall clock from the kitchen.
The faint whistle of the heater kicking on.
The soft, thready sound of Enid’s breathing — shallow, ragged, barely holding on.

They stood maybe a foot apart —
a foot that felt like the length of the universe.

Enid’s back hit the wall first —
not rough, not hard, just enough to anchor herself because her knees weren’t working anymore.

Wednesday followed, slow, deliberate —
like gravity had been waiting for this moment, for them,
like the whole world had tilted on its axis to shove them together.

They stared at each other — wild, starved, trembling.

Enid’s mouth was pink and parted slightly, her chest rising and falling in tiny, broken gasps.

Wednesday’s hands hovered at her sides — twitching, shaking, like she didn’t know if she was allowed to touch.

"Say it," Wednesday rasped, voice wrecked and lower than Enid had ever heard it.

Enid swallowed hard, back arching slightly off the wall like she couldn’t stand it anymore.

"I want you to kiss me," she whispered.

Wednesday didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t dare.

"Say it," she said again —
hoarse, desperate, pleading.

Enid’s hand lifted — trembling — and fisted itself in the front of Wednesday’s shirt.

Their bodies barely brushed —
a whisper of contact —
but it was enough to shatter something inside both of them.

"I need you to kiss me," Enid said.

And that was it.

That was everything.

Wednesday surged forward —
one sharp, desperate movement —
and crashed their mouths together.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was war.

It was surrender.

It was teeth and tongue and ragged gasps, hands fumbling and grabbing and anchoring wherever they could find skin.

Enid moaned — small and broken and wrecked —
and it sent lightning down Wednesday’s spine.

Wednesday shoved one thigh between Enid’s legs without thinking —
a brutal, instinctive thing —
and Enid gasped, hips canting forward without shame, chasing friction like she would die without it.

The sound she made —
raw and cracked open —
nearly made Wednesday drop to her knees right there.

Their kisses turned frantic, messy —
slick and wild, full of teeth, like they couldn’t get enough, like they would never get enough.

Wednesday bit Enid’s bottom lip gently, tugging it between her teeth —
and Enid whimpered, high and desperate.

"Fuck," Enid breathed, shuddering, grinding down without meaning to, riding the flex of Wednesday’s thigh like her life depended on it.

Wednesday kissed her harder —
hands sliding up under the hem of Enid’s sweatshirt, just fingertips grazing overheated skin, not enough, never enough.

Enid’s head thunked back against the wall —
eyes fluttering shut, lips parted, flushed and trembling.

"You’re so beautiful," Wednesday said, wrecked and breathless, mouth brushing over Enid’s cheek, her jaw, her throat.

"You’re killing me," Enid whispered back, voice broken open, so wet she could feel it soaking through her underwear.

They kissed again —
hotter, harder —
until it wasn’t kissing anymore, it was colliding, desperate gasps shared between mouths that couldn’t stop.

Enid tugged Wednesday closer by the waistband of her jeans —
needing her, needing her —
hips grinding down slow and helpless against her thigh, chasing, chasing, chasing.

Wednesday groaned into her mouth —
low and guttural —
and the sound almost broke Enid completely.

She rocked against her again, whimpering —
tiny, broken sounds spilling out between frantic, wet kisses.

"I’m gonna—" she gasped, nails digging into Wednesday’s hips, helpless against it, against herself.

"Not yet," Wednesday growled against her lips —
dark and possessive —
dragging her hands up Enid’s sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts through the thin fabric of her sweatshirt.

"Wednesday," Enid sobbed, body trembling, soaked through and aching, so close she was shaking.

Wednesday kissed her again —
harder, deeper, ruthless —
and Enid fell apart against her.

Not an orgasm.

Not yet.

But close.

So close it hurt.

So close she could taste it.

They broke apart panting —
foreheads pressed together, bodies heaving.

Hands trembling.

Legs shaking.

"Jesus Christ," Enid whispered, dazed.

Wednesday just smirked —
ruined and wild and beautiful —
and said, voice like a sin:

"We’re not done."

And God help them —
they both knew it was true.

Because this wasn’t even the beginning.
This was just the match hitting the gasoline.

And neither of them was walking away unburned.

Chapter Text

after an hour of intense teasing from Wednesday who knew Enid was still in shock she had a plan to get revenge

Enid buried her face in her hands.

They made it through the next hour — somehow, miraculously — with Enid flushed and squirming and barely able to look at anyone.

But Wednesday sat there — calm, serene, innocent as a saint —
smiling to herself.

Because no one else knew.

No one else knew how she had wrecked Enid Sinclair with nothing but a kiss, a whisper, and a touch.

Dinner wrapped up slowly —
the noise mellowed into soft conversation, the clink of forks against plates, the shuffle of feet settling in for a long evening.

Wednesday sat tall and still at the kitchen table — the very picture of control —
but Enid knew better now.

She knew what was hiding under that perfect posture.
The frayed edges.
The hunger.

And after the way Wednesday had destroyed her earlier —
after the whispered filth, the teasing touches, the smug little smirks —
Enid decided it was only fair to return the favor.

With interest.

She shifted closer —
innocent, easy —
until their thighs brushed under the table.

Wednesday stiffened almost imperceptibly.
Not much.
Just a slight twitch.
But Enid caught it.

She pretended not to notice —
just reached for a bread basket, laughing at something Wayne said —
and, under the cover of the tablecloth, slid her hand over Wednesday’s knee.

Casual.

Delicate.

Deadly.

Wednesday’s fork paused halfway to her mouth.

Not frozen — not obvious — but Enid saw it.

Felt it.

Felt the tremor in her thigh when Enid’s hand smoothed higher —
past her knee.
Past her lower thigh.

Resting dangerously high up, where the heat between them was starting to simmer.

Wednesday forced her fork to her lips.
Took a bite.
Chewed slowly.

Like she wasn’t seconds from cracking.

Enid smiled sweetly across the table.
Grandma asked about the new TV.
Wayne grumbled about setting it up.

No one noticed.

No one but Wednesday.

And Enid —
sweet, smiling, merciless Enid —
dragged her fingertips in slow, lazy circles along the inside of Wednesday’s thigh.

Barely pressing.

Barely touching.

Enough to drive a lesser woman insane.

And Wednesday?
Wednesday Addams was not a lesser woman.

But she was still human.

And when Enid leaned in — all wide-eyed innocence — and breathed against the shell of her ear:

"You look tense, Willa," she murmured,
voice low and thick with syrup-sweet poison.

"You need me to help you relax?"

Wednesday dropped her fork.

It clattered against her plate, loud and sharp.

Everyone turned.

Wayne raised an eyebrow.
"You alright, kiddo?"

Wednesday —
in the most dignified, deathly calm voice Enid had ever heard —
said:

"I am perfectly fine."

(Enid almost burst out laughing.)
(Almost.)

Grandma cackled about "kids these days" and the conversation shifted.

Enid pushed her luck.

Literally.

She shifted her hand higher —
until the tips of her fingers brushed the seam of Wednesday’s jeans.

Right where she was burning.

Soaked.

Ruined.

Wednesday’s whole body went ramrod stiff.

Her fingers clenched white-knuckled on the table edge.
Her breath hitched — barely audible — but Enid heard it.

Felt it.

Savored it.

And just when Wednesday looked ready to combust —
when her pupils had swallowed her irises whole, her jaw locked tight —
Enid pulled back.

Slow.

Lazy.

Casual.

She wiped her hand on her napkin, smiling like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and chirped:

"I’m gonna grab dessert! Anyone want pie?"

A chorus of yeses.

Wednesday didn’t answer.

She couldn't.

She just sat there —
hands clenched, chest heaving almost imperceptibly, pupils blown wide —
wrecked.

Enid caught her eye —
across the room, past the plates and the noise and the family chatter —
and smiled.

Slow.

Wicked.

Mine, it said.
I can make you fall apart just like you made me.

And Wednesday —
Wednesday’s lips twitched into the tiniest, sharpest, most dangerous smile Enid had ever seen.

Challenge accepted.

Round two was coming.
And they both knew it.

*

The moment dessert ended —
the moment the last crumbs of pie were cleared and the laughter started to soften —
Enid leaned into Wednesday’s side and murmured, just loud enough for her to hear:

"I’m exhausted. You?"

Wednesday didn’t even pretend.

"Utterly," she said, voice dry, eyes burning holes into Enid’s smirking mouth.

Enid turned to the room, bright and sweet and deadly:
"We're gonna crash early," she announced, grabbing Wednesday’s hand in hers.

Everyone just waved them off —
too full, too sleepy, too distracted to notice the earthquake rumbling beneath the surface.

They didn’t run.
They didn’t bolt upstairs like guilty teenagers.

They walked.

Slow.

Steady.

Heavy with the gravity of what they both knew was about to happen.

When the door clicked shut behind them, the world shrank —
smaller than small —
to just the two of them.

Enid turned to face her —
silent, smiling.

Wednesday stared back —
shoulders rigid, heart slamming against her ribs, mouth dry.

She opened her mouth —
to say something, anything —
but Enid moved first.

She stepped close.
So close their chests brushed.

And then — slow, deliberate —
she pushed Wednesday backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed.

Wednesday sat hard — stunned, breath knocked right out of her — and stared up at her like she'd never seen anything more dangerous.

Enid smiled.
Soft.
Sweet.

Lethal.

"You wrecked me earlier," she whispered, sliding a knee up onto the mattress between Wednesday’s thighs.

"You think I wasn’t gonna get you back?"

Wednesday's throat bobbed in a hard swallow.
Her hands curled into fists against the bedspread.

"Do your worst," she rasped.

Enid’s smile sharpened into something vicious.

"Oh, Willa," she whispered, ghosting her mouth over Wednesday’s jaw without kissing her —
so close, so excruciating —
"I intend to."

And then —
the slowest, hottest, cruelest undoing began.

Enid didn’t kiss her — not yet.
She hovered —
breath hot against her ear, her neck, her mouth —
never touching.

She trailed her fingers over Wednesday’s shoulders — feather-light —
barely grazing the thin fabric of her black T-shirt.

Wednesday shuddered, hands clutching the bedspread tighter.

"Poor thing," Enid cooed, voice dripping with sugar and knives.

"You're already shaking."

She dragged her nails — slow and scraping — down Wednesday’s arms, across her ribs, over the flat of her stomach.

No pressure.

No relief.

Just sensation.

Just maddening, unbearable sensation.

Wednesday let out a strangled noise low in her throat.

Enid straddled her lap — not grinding, not giving her anything — just sitting there, perched, like she had all the time in the world to watch Wednesday fall apart.

She pressed their foreheads together —
their noses brushing, their breath mixing —
and whispered:

"Touch me."

It was a dare.

A trap.

Wednesday lifted her hands — trembling slightly — and skimmed them up Enid’s sides, under her sweatshirt, fingertips grazing bare skin.

Enid moaned — a soft, helpless sound — and rocked forward once.

Just once.

Just enough to make Wednesday groan out loud —
hoarse and broken.

"You like that, baby?" Enid purred, nosing along her cheekbone, lips brushing but never settling.

"Want more?"

Wednesday dug her nails into Enid’s hips — desperate, clawing — but didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Enid smiled — a slow, merciless thing — and pulled away.

Completely.

Leaving Wednesday panting, furious, empty.

"No touching unless I say," she said sweetly.

"And definitely no coming until I say."

Wednesday whimpered.

Actually whimpered.

Enid almost laughed — but her chest was too tight, too wild with how much she wanted her.

Slowly, she pushed Wednesday back onto the mattress —
leaning over her like a stormcloud ready to break.

She kissed her — finally, finally —
but not soft.

Not gentle.

She kissed her like punishment.

Teeth, tongue, hot desperate slides of mouth over mouth.

Wednesday kissed back —
wild, brutal —
hips lifting instinctively, seeking friction.

Enid shoved them back down with a sharp, punishing palm.

"Uh uh," she breathed against her lips.
"Not yet."

She kissed a path down Wednesday’s throat —
slow, wet, marking her —
savoring every shudder, every broken breath.

She bit lightly at her collarbone —
just enough to leave a bruise blooming under Wednesday’s skin.

Wednesday arched helplessly off the bed — chasing, chasing, chasing — but Enid kept her pinned.

Kept her starving.

Kept her wrecked.

"You're going to beg for it," Enid whispered against her pounding pulse.

"You're going to lose this time."

And God help her —
Wednesday wanted to.

She wanted to lose.

She wanted to drown in it.

In Enid.

Wednesday writhed under her — not wildly, not out of panic — but in these tiny, helpless, involuntary shudders.
A puppet strung up on too-tight cords of want.

Every place Enid wasn't touching burned worse than the places she was.

And lower —
God.
Lower was a disaster.

Wednesday was soaked through.
Clinging wet.
She could feel it — obscene, humiliating — her underwear sticking to her in a hot, desperate mess.

And Enid hadn't even really touched her yet.

Her jeans felt unbearable against her skin — rough, confining, a cruel barrier trapping every slick, aching pulse of need.

Her thighs clenched again without meaning to — a desperate, automatic search for pressure, for friction, for anything — but Enid only laughed softly against her throat.

"Getting desperate already, Willa?" she purred, dragging her nails lightly up Wednesday’s ribs — just enough to make her jerk and whine low in her throat.
"Didn't even have to work for it."

Wednesday gasped, fists twisting into the blankets.
Her entire body was betraying her — trembling, soaked, starving — before a single serious touch.

And Enid knew it.

Of course she knew it.

Because she slid one hand lower — not into her jeans, not even touching properly —
just hovering over the low dip of Wednesday’s abdomen.

Wednesday almost sobbed.

Her hips bucked up instinctively, chasing it — desperate, shameless — but Enid pressed her down again, easy, firm.

"No," she whispered.
"You’re not allowed to want it that bad yet."

Wednesday let out a broken sound — small and furious and wrecked — and Enid beamed like she’d just won the most beautiful, brutal prize in the world.

She leaned in — her mouth brushing Wednesday’s ear so softly, so hot — and said, low and lethal:

"Beg me."

Wednesday whined —
a real, honest-to-God whimper — too wrecked to pretend anymore.

"Enid," she gasped, hands flying up again, grabbing at her hips like she could drag her down, like she could end the torture if she was just strong enough —
but Enid caught her wrists and pinned them above her head.
Easily.
Laughing low and dark against her jaw.

"Not good enough," Enid murmured, grinding their bodies together just barely —
enough to make Wednesday's back arch, her eyes fluttering shut, her whole body desperate for more.

"Say it, Willa," Enid whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth — not giving her what she needed, not yet.
"Say you need me."

Wednesday’s breath hitched.
Her whole chest ached with the pressure of holding it in, the stubbornness, the burning, violent need.

"I—"
She swallowed, humiliated, ruined.
But she couldn't stop.
She couldn’t fight anymore.

"I need you," she rasped, broken open.
"God, Enid, please—"

Enid growled low in her throat —
wrecked, starved, victorious —
and finally, finally, she kissed her again.

Full force.
Teeth, tongue, claiming her mouth like she was taking her, owning every desperate, gasping sound she tore out of her.

Their bodies crashed together — no space left between them, no air, nothing but heat and wetness and the unbearable friction of too many clothes still in the way.

And Wednesday —
Wednesday Addams —
moaned like she was dying.

Helpless.
Soaking wet.
Grinding up shamelessly for more.

And Enid —
God, Enid —
was going to make sure she earned every second of it.

Slow.
Wrecked.
Begging for more and more and more until there was no part of her left that wasn’t Enid’s.

*
Wednesday thought she'd known frustration.
She thought she'd known desperation.
She had no idea.

Enid took her apart in slow, deliberate pieces.

Not cruelly.
Not mockingly.
Lovingly.

Which made it so much worse.

She kissed her like she was worshiping her — mouth dragging down the delicate line of Wednesday's throat, the sharp angle of her collarbone —
hands sliding slow and ruthless under her T-shirt, under her bra, ghosting over her ribs and lower —
never quite where Wednesday needed.

Each kiss was an undoing.
Each graze of fingers was a match striking.
Each almost —
each not yet —
was a death sentence.

The first time it happened, Wednesday almost cried.
Enid’s thigh slotted between hers —
pressure, heat, heaven —
and Wednesday ground down once, twice, moaning into Enid’s mouth —
so close, God, so close—

And Enid pulled away.

Just enough.
Just barely.
Wednesday sobbed — an actual, raw sob — arching up, chasing, begging silently.

But Enid only kissed the corner of her mouth sweetly, soothing her without giving her anything.

"Not yet," she whispered.

The second time, Wednesday thought she might kill her.
Literally kill her.

Enid's hands had slipped under the waistband of her jeans —
but not under her panties.
No.
Just hovering, just pressing the heel of her palm right there —
so hot, so wet —
grinding her down in tiny, cruel circles.

Wednesday bucked up — losing her mind, losing her soul — her thighs trembling, her whole body poised on the knife's edge of disaster.

And right — right there, when she needed one more second —
Enid pulled away again.

Wednesday whined — high and sharp and broken —
and Enid cooed sweetly against her throat, kissing the wet skin there.

"Patience," she murmured.
"You made me wait. Remember?"

The third time —
Wednesday was already shaking.

Clothes still on —
jeans shoved low, sweatshirt pushed up —
but the air between them burned hotter than naked skin ever could.

Enid kissed her lower this time — mouth dragging down the valley of her breasts, biting gently just under the curve.
Wednesday clutched at her hair, her shirt, anything, her whole body surging helplessly toward it —
aching, dripping, starving.

When Enid's mouth hovered over her soaked panties —
close, so close —
just her breath against the thin wet cotton —
Wednesday screamed.

Not loudly.
Not violently.
A soft, wrecked, terrified little sound — like a prayer and a death rattle at the same time.

Enid didn’t touch her.
She just breathed.
One hot breath.

And Wednesday nearly came.

She twisted, grinding against nothing, against everything, her eyes squeezed shut, her chest heaving —
and Enid pulled back again.
Kissed her inner thigh like an apology.
Rested her forehead there for a second — like she needed a breath herself.

"I could make you come without even touching you," she whispered, voice cracked and wrecked and full of love and wickedness.

Wednesday sobbed —
beyond words, beyond sanity.

The fourth time —
there were tears in her eyes.

Hot, furious tears.
She wasn't weak.
She wasn't.

She was just...
ruined.

Drenched through.
Her panties soaked, clinging to her in a humiliating mess.
Her thighs sticky, her stomach spasming with the effort of holding on.

And Enid —
God, Enid —
still hadn’t let her go.

Still hadn’t let her fall.

She kissed her way up Wednesday’s trembling abdomen —
one hand stroking slow and gentle up her side, feather-light —
until Wednesday's fists curled so hard in the blankets she thought she might rip them apart.

"You want it, Willa?" Enid whispered against her skin —
smirking, wrecked herself but hiding it better.

Wednesday nodded frantically —
couldn’t speak —
just a broken, pleading noise spilling out of her mouth.

Enid smiled — a devastating, fond thing —
and kissed her again.

Higher.
Closer.
Until Wednesday thought she was dying.

But Enid never quite gave it to her.

The fifth time —
Wednesday begged.

Out loud.

Tears sliding from the corners of her eyes, her thighs trembling with how badly she needed it, how wrecked she was.

"Enid, please," she gasped, arching up desperately.
"Please, I can't— I need— I need you—"

Enid kissed her.
Slow and deep and full of promises she hadn’t made yet.

"I know, baby," she whispered against her lips.
"I know."

And still —
still —
she made her wait.

By the sixth time —
Wednesday was beyond words.

Her body was a live wire —
sparking, twitching, begging.

Her underwear was soaked — sticky against her, clinging between her thighs —
and her clit was so sensitive that even the slight friction of her ruined jeans made her sob aloud.

Enid looked down at her —
hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes dark with want —
and said, sweet as anything:

"You’re gonna come the second I touch you, aren’t you?"

Wednesday nodded — frantic, wrecked —
a ruined little whimper.

Enid kissed her.
Slow.
So slow.
Their mouths sliding together wetly, desperately.

And finally —
finally —
she slid one hand down.

One finger.
One slow, torturous stroke over her soaked panties.

Wednesday came undone —
wild and brutal —
but it wasn’t clean.
It wasn’t full.
It hit her sharp, too fast, too broken —
and instead of riding it out, it collapsed under her like a wave snapping too soon.
Not satisfying.
Not complete.
Just empty and shaking and ruined.

Her whole body locked up —
arching once, shuddering hard —
before slamming back down into the mattress, trembling, gasping, wrecked beyond reason.
A whimper clawed out of her throat — helpless, furious —
and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, unwanted and burning.

Enid watched it all.
Saw it.
Owned it.

And then —
smirking against Wednesday’s flushed, devastated skin —
she pressed one slow, vicious kiss to the corner of her mouth and whispered,
"Next time, you won't tease me right after you finish me... yeah?"

Wednesday tried —
God, she tried —
to say something sharp, to bite back, to win.

But her throat wouldn’t work.
Her body wouldn’t move.
She could only lie there, gasping, blinking up at her like she’d been struck by lightning and hadn’t come down yet.

Finally —
broken, small —
Wednesday croaked out:

"Fine."

And Enid laughed —
soft and victorious and sweet as sin —
before curling herself around her,
holding her,
ruining her all over again
just by being there.

Enid let her laugh fade into something softer —
something almost tender —
as she kissed her way down Wednesday’s flushed throat, her collarbone, the trembling edge of her jaw.

"You didn’t think I was gonna leave you like that, did you?"
she whispered, her breath warm against the shell of Wednesday’s ear.

Wednesday couldn’t speak.
Could barely breathe.
She could only shake her head once — small, broken — and cling harder to the rumpled bedsheets.

Enid smiled against her skin —
a different smile now.
Less wicked.
More reverent.

"Good," she breathed, dragging slow kisses down Wednesday’s heaving chest.
"Because I’m not that cruel.
And you deserve to feel everything."

Her hands moved with devastating patience —
pushing Wednesday’s T-shirt up, up —
peeling it away like she was unwrapping something sacred.

Wednesday lifted her arms without thinking —
pliant, obedient —
letting herself be undressed like she didn’t belong to herself anymore.

Enid kissed a trail lower —
across her stomach, the sharp jut of her hipbones, the trembling muscles of her thighs —
mouthing along every shiver, every helpless twitch.

When she reached the waistband of Wednesday’s pants, she paused —
looked up once, dark-eyed, wordless.

Wednesday met her gaze —
wrecked and shaking —
and nodded.

Enid peeled them down slow —
along with her underwear —
exposing her inch by inch, until Wednesday was naked before her, shaking, already soaking wet.

And Enid —
God, Enid —
groaned softly under her breath,
like the sight of her was too much,
like it wrecked her too.

"So beautiful," she whispered, almost to herself,
as she eased Wednesday’s thighs apart with reverent hands.

Wednesday whimpered —
small, raw, wrecked —
as the cold air kissed her soaked skin.

But the cold didn’t last.

Because Enid leaned in —
slow, sure, unstoppable —
and licked a long, slow stripe through the wetness pooling between Wednesday’s legs.

Wednesday nearly came apart on the spot —
hips jerking, hands flying to fist in the sheets again —
but Enid just pressed one steadying hand against her stomach and hummed low in her throat.

"Easy," she murmured,
voice full of dark promises.
"I’m not gonna ruin it this time."

And then —
then —
she buried her mouth between Wednesday’s thighs like she was starving.

Not cruel.
Not teasing.
Just endless.
Patient.
Hungry.

She licked deep and slow —
flattening her tongue, drinking her in like she couldn’t get enough.

She circled her clit with maddening precision —
over and over —
until Wednesday was sobbing broken sounds into the mattress, hips rolling helplessly up into her mouth.

Enid didn’t stop.
Didn’t tease.
Didn’t pull away.

She gave her everything.
Every lick.
Every breath.
Every piece of herself.

And when Wednesday finally came again —
this time truly, fully, violently —
it was with a shattered, gasping cry that shook the walls.

She came so hard she saw white.
Came so hard she forgot her name.
Came so hard her whole body locked up and then melted bonelessly into the bed.

Enid kissed her through it —
soft, steady, endless —
riding out every trembling aftershock until Wednesday slumped back, ruined and boneless and entirely hers.

Only then —
only when Wednesday was trembling and gasping and wrecked —
did Enid crawl up the bed and gather her into her arms.

She tucked Wednesday’s head against her chest —
stroking sweaty hair back from her face, whispering nothing words, kisses pressed to her forehead.

"Good girl," Enid murmured against her temple.
"So good for me."

And Wednesday —
who had never belonged to anything in her life —
curled into her without a single argument.

Without a single fear.

Without a single doubt.

She had survived the ruin.
She had survived the fire.

And she had come out the other side loved.

Finally.

Completely.

Hopelessly.

Hers.

Chapter Text

The water poured hot and steady over Enid’s head —
a rhythmic thrum against her scalp, against her bare shoulders, against the battered, aching places inside her she hadn’t even realized needed healing.

She stood under the spray with her eyes closed —
letting the warmth seep deep into her bones, the smell of shampoo and soap thick in the steamy air.

Her hands moved absently —
fingertips massaging her scalp, nails scraping lightly through tangled hair —
half-aware, half-asleep in the soft hum of it all.

The world beyond the shower door barely existed.
Just the hot rush of water.
Just the slick slide of foam between her fingers.
Just her own slow, steady breathing —
easy, full, unguarded in a way she almost never let herself be.

She tilted her head back —
rinsing, rinsing —
the water streaming down her face, her neck, the tender slope of her shoulders.
The ache in her body wasn’t painful.
It was something better.
Something earned.

She smiled to herself —
a small, private thing —
as she reached blindly for the conditioner, blinking water out of her eyes.

And that’s when it happened.

Fingertips — featherlight — skimming her waist.
The warm press of a body sliding into place behind hers.
The soft, wet brush of lips against the curve where her neck met her shoulder.

Enid froze —
startled, breath catching —
but only for a second.

Because even without looking —
even half-dazed and dream-drunk from the heat —
she knew.

Wednesday.

Wednesday, whose hands moved slow and sure over her sides —
not grabbing, not greedy —
just touching.
Mapping.
Claiming in the quietest, most devastating way.

Enid exhaled shakily —
tilted her head instinctively to the side, baring more skin —
an invitation.
A surrender.

Wednesday pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat —
then another —
then another —
each one slower, softer, more deliberate.

Her hands slid up —
following the slick curve of Enid’s ribs —
until they cupped her breasts with a reverence that nearly knocked the air out of Enid’s lungs.

Still no words.
No need.

Just water.
Just skin.
Just Wednesday’s mouth on her neck —
worshiping.
Branding.
Belonging.

And in the soft roar of the shower, Enid closed her eyes again —
leaned back against her —
and let herself be held.

Because here —
in this small, steaming world —
there was nothing left to fear.
Nothing left to fight.
Just hands.
Just lips.
Just the dizzy, impossible feeling of being wanted so completely she thought she might float away with it.

The water finally went cold.
Reluctantly, eventually, they turned it off — stepping out of the shower in a cloud of steam, bumping elbows and laughing under their breath.

Wednesday grabbed two towels — handing one to Enid with a dry, wry little look — and began blotting the water from her hair methodically.
Enid, meanwhile, stood there in the middle of the small bathroom — dripping, pink-cheeked, towel clutched tight to her chest like a shield.

For a minute, it was almost normal.
Almost easy.
Just two girls getting dry, getting dressed.

Until Enid — cheeks very pink now — cleared her throat.

"Um," she said, voice too loud in the tiny bathroom.
"Can you, uh… turn around?"

Wednesday paused — towel halfway through wringing out the ends of her braid — and turned slowly to look at her.
Blank. Deadpan.
One dark eyebrow lifted like a guillotine.

"You want me to turn around," Wednesday said, in the flattest voice known to man,
"after you had your tongue in my mouth, your hands down my pants, and I quite literally washed your—"

"WEDNESDAY!" Enid shrieked — face going nuclear red — clutching the towel tighter, like it might save her from death by embarrassment.

Wednesday smirked — slow, dangerous, delighted.
But —
to her eternal credit —
she did turn around.
Facing the foggy mirror, she resumed drying her hair like nothing was happening.

Behind her, she could hear it —
the soft rustle of Enid fumbling with her towel, the clumsy scramble into her clothes, the hissed curse when she nearly tripped over her own jeans.

Wednesday smiled — a real one, secret and sharp — where Enid couldn’t see it.
And she let her shoulders soften.
Let herself feel it:
this easy, chaotic, stupidly perfect intimacy.
This belonging.

Enid’s voice came again — small, sheepish:
"Okay... you can look now."

Wednesday turned — slow, deliberate —
and there she was.

Enid.
Pink-faced.
Hair damp and curling wildly around her face.
Wearing Wednesday’s old T-shirt — way too big, drowning her — and a pair of shorts that barely peeked out underneath.

She looked...
God.

She looked like home.

Wednesday’s throat tightened — almost painfully — but she didn’t say anything.
Didn’t move.

Just let herself look — really look — like she hadn’t gotten to breathe until this moment.

Enid fidgeted under the weight of it — shifting from foot to foot, fiddling with the hem of the shirt.
"What?" she mumbled, pretending not to glow under the attention.
"Is it that bad?"

Wednesday just shook her head —
very slow, very soft.

And then — very quietly, very seriously — she said:
"You’re beautiful."

Enid went so red she looked ready to combust.
She ducked her head — muttering something incomprehensible about "sappy goth girlfriends" — and practically tackled Wednesday into the dresser, wrapping her up in a full-body hug to hide her face.

Wednesday laughed —
soft and rare and real —
and hugged her back, sinking into her without hesitation.

Because some things —
some people —
you didn’t run from.

You ran toward.

*

The kitchen was quiet.
Soft.
Golden with morning light, the windows still fogged up from the shower and the cold pressing against the glass.

Wednesday sat at the table — hair damp, coffee mug in hand — watching Enid shuffle around in socks that were far too long, sliding a little with every step.

They didn’t talk much.
They didn’t have to.
The silence between them was good now —
soft, easy, full of all the things they didn’t need to say out loud.

Enid finally plopped down across from her — hands cradling her own mug, oversized T-shirt slipping off one bare shoulder — and tucked a messy strand of hair behind her ear.

She looked nervous.
Fidgety.
Like she was winding herself up for something.

Wednesday tilted her head —
curious, waiting, patient in a way she never used to be with anyone else.

Enid bit her lip — hesitated — and then blurted:
"Would you... want to stay? Through Christmas, I mean."

She winced — like she regretted it immediately — and rushed on:
"You don’t have to, obviously, I just— it’s dumb, I just thought maybe— if you wanted— we could—"

Wednesday set her mug down with slow, deliberate precision.
Met Enid’s frantic eyes across the table.

"I’m free until New Year’s," she said calmly.
"And I would love to."

Enid blinked.
Breathless.
Pink creeping up her cheeks again.

"You would?" she whispered, like she couldn’t quite believe it.

Wednesday allowed herself a small, real smile.
Tiny. Sharp.
Devastatingly soft.

"I would."

Enid let out a tiny, broken laugh —
the kind that sounded suspiciously close to a sob —
and ducked her head into her hands, shoulders shaking a little with relief.

Wednesday watched her for a moment —
heart stupid, too full —
then reached across the table and curled her fingers gently around Enid’s wrist.
Anchoring her.
Holding her still.

"I want to stay," Wednesday said quietly.
"For you."

Enid made another tiny, wrecked noise —
and flipped her hand over under Wednesday’s —
threading their fingers together without hesitation.
Without fear.

They sat like that for a long minute.
Breathing.
Drinking in the impossible, precious fact of each other.

And then —
softer, quieter —
Enid spoke again.

"Can I tell you something kinda... stupid?" she asked, voice wobbling slightly.

Wednesday squeezed her hand once.
Permission.
Invitation.
Always.

Enid stared down at their tangled fingers — thumb brushing nervously over Wednesday’s knuckles — and said:
"I don’t want to go to my ex’s wedding anymore."

Wednesday didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even blink.

She just... waited.
Steady as stone.
Steady as home.

Enid’s voice was small, but sure:
"At first, I wanted to. Like... like I had something to prove. Like if I showed up with you, I could shove it in her face — prove I was fine, prove I was better, prove I didn’t need her."

She laughed a little — dry and embarrassed.
"And I think... maybe part of me still wanted that even when I asked you to fake it with me."

Wednesday stayed silent.
Let her speak.
Let her dig the truth out of herself like gold from the dirt.

"But now?" Enid said — voice breaking open into something softer, freer.
"I don’t care about her. Or the wedding. Or proving anything."

She looked up finally —
eyes wide and wet and honest in a way that punched the air right out of Wednesday’s lungs.

"I don’t need to win anymore," she whispered.
"I just want... you."

The world stopped.
Tilted.
Rearranged itself around the shape of her words.

Wednesday’s fingers tightened around hers —
gentle but unyielding.

She stood —
slow and deliberate —
and tugged Enid up with her, pulling her into a long, breathless, forehead-pressed-to-forehead kind of hug.

The world outside the kitchen blurred —
the frost on the windows, the faint ticking of the clock, the low hum of life moving forward.
But inside the small circle of warmth between them, everything held still.
Sacred.
Fragile.

Enid looked up at her — wide-eyed, open, like she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming.
Like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to believe it yet.

And Wednesday —
for once —
didn’t run from the fear in her chest.
She leaned into it.
She chose it.
She chose her.

She tightened her grip on Enid’s hands — holding them between her own — and said, voice low, trembling, but sure:

"I know this started out... fake," she whispered.
"One week ago, all of this was pretend. Just a story we told other people."

Enid blinked at her — breathing shallow, heart hammering so loud Wednesday could almost hear it.

"But today," Wednesday said, her voice cracking softly,
"today, there is nothing pretend about this."

She brought one of Enid’s hands to her mouth —
pressed a kiss into her knuckles, slow and reverent —
and looked at her like she was the only thing left in the world.

"I want to be your girlfriend," Wednesday whispered.
"Really. Truly. Yours."

Another kiss —
softer this time —
against Enid’s fingertips.

"And I want you to be mine."
She swallowed, the words trembling out of her like a prayer:
"If you’ll have me."

Enid made a small, broken noise —
a sound full of all the hope and hurt and healing tangled up in her chest —
and squeezed Wednesday’s hand so tight it almost hurt.

But Wednesday wasn’t done.
She needed her to hear it all.

"I hurt you," she said, voice thick, fierce.
"I know I did. I let you down when you needed me most."

She cupped Enid’s cheek in her palm —
so tender, so careful —
like she couldn’t bear the thought of ever making her flinch again.

"And if you let me," she whispered, forehead pressing to Enid’s,
"I want to spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

Enid’s breath hitched —
shaky, wrecked —
and she nodded.
Once.
Hard.

And then — before Wednesday could even breathe again —
Enid surged forward and kissed her.

It wasn’t desperate.
It wasn’t frantic.
It was slow.
Soft.
Steady.
The kind of kiss you gave someone you were choosing.
Every day.
Forever.

When they broke apart — forehead to forehead, eyes closed, breathing each other in —
Wednesday whispered, barely a sound:
"Yours."

And Enid whispered back, voice wrecked and full of wonder:
"Yours, too.

Chapter Text

The morning of December 1st dawned gray and cold —

the kind of sharp, biting air that promised snow any minute now.

Inside the Sinclair house, however, it was **chaos.**

Wayne had already dragged the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers out of the fridge — mumbling about turkey poisoning and "never wanna see a damn cranberry again in my life."

Grandma was in the living room, wrestling with a tangle of Christmas lights and muttering a steady stream of profanity under her breath.

Lyla had disappeared into the attic to dig out the "official" Christmas bins, yelling down occasionally about finding old prom dresses and a terrifying Santa statue with a cracked eye.

And Enid?

Enid was in the kitchen —

wearing a ridiculous red sweater with a cartoon reindeer on it —

practically vibrating with excitement.

"It's officially Christmas now!" she declared, spinning in a circle and nearly knocking over a chair.

"No more turkey! No more sad beige food! It's time for magic and chaos and way too many cookies!"

Wednesday, sitting calmly at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee clutched in both hands, arched a slow eyebrow.

"You terrify me," she said, in the tone of someone stating a simple fact.

Enid beamed like it was the highest compliment she'd ever received.

---

By mid-morning, the transformation was fully underway.

Thanksgiving decorations had been **banished** — turkeys and pumpkins stuffed unceremoniously back into the attic.

Christmas had **invaded** — spilling glitter and garlands and twinkle lights across every available surface.

Enid hummed along to a playlist of aggressively cheerful Christmas music —

so loud, so relentless —

while she and Wednesday began unpacking ornaments.

The first box Wednesday opened contained approximately four hundred tiny, glitter-encrusted snowmen.

She stared down at them — blank-faced, betrayed.

"Why do they all look like they're plotting something?" she asked flatly.

Enid leaned over to peer into the box — eyes wide, mischievous.

"Because they are," she said solemnly.

"They're unionizing. Against you."

Wednesday blinked once.

Twice.

Then — very slowly — she closed the lid and shoved the box across the table without a word.

Enid nearly doubled over laughing.

---

They decorated the tree next.

Or — more accurately —

Enid decorated with the reckless enthusiasm of a toddler on a sugar high,

while Wednesday maintained a suspicious, wary perimeter around the tree — occasionally adjusting ornaments one-sixteenth of an inch when Enid wasn’t looking.

"You're micromanaging the Christmas tree," Enid accused, hands on her hips.

"I'm preserving structural integrity," Wednesday corrected without missing a beat.

Enid threw a handful of tinsel at her head.

Wednesday, to her eternal credit, did not flinch.

She simply blinked — very slowly — as a single strand of silver tinsel clung to her bangs like a glittering badge of war.

Enid laughed so hard she had to sit down on the floor.

---

Later, they untangled yards of fairy lights —

sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, knee to knee.

Enid kept accidentally brushing Wednesday's fingers —

reaching for the same tangled wires, tugging the same stubborn knots.

Each touch was small.

Innocent.

But every time —

Wednesday's breath caught in her throat.

Every time —

Enid smiled at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

They ended up draping themselves in lights by accident —

wrapping their shoulders, their arms —

until Enid giggled, glowing like a human Christmas tree.

"You look ridiculous," Wednesday said, deadpan.

"You love it," Enid shot back — grinning, bright and reckless.

Wednesday didn't answer.

She just leaned forward —

very slow, very deliberate —

and pressed a kiss to the tip of Enid's nose.

Enid turned so pink she practically lit up without the help of the fairy lights.

---

Around noon, they took a break —

sitting side by side on the couch with mugs of hot chocolate.

Enid's legs were tucked up under her.

Wednesday’s bare knee brushed against her calf every few minutes.

Neither of them moved away.

The house smelled like cinnamon and pine and burning ambition —

Wayne was outside wrestling a too-big Christmas tree through the front door.

Grandma was swearing a blue streak about "cheap knockoff bulbs."

But here —

here on the couch —

there was only warmth.

And laughter.

And the easy, impossible comfort of being *together.*

"This is my favorite day," Enid said suddenly —

voice soft, almost shy.

Wednesday looked over at her —

saw the way she was cradling her mug like it was something sacred.

"Not Christmas?" she asked.

Enid smiled — small, secret.

"No. This."

Wednesday’s chest ached.

She shifted —

set her mug aside —

and carefully, carefully tangled her fingers with Enid's.

Their hands fit together like they had been waiting their whole lives for this.

And when Enid leaned her head against Wednesday's shoulder —

soft and sure and safe —

Wednesday closed her eyes.

And let herself belong.

* * *

Chapter Text

The whole town had exploded overnight.

Christmas lights dripped from every awning, every lamppost, every fence. Enormous wreaths hung on shop doors. Paper snowflakes spun lazily in window displays. Even the big oak in the center of the square was strung from root to crown with twinkling white lights, like it had been caught mid-spell.

Enid practically vibrated beside Wednesday as they crossed the street — hands stuffed into her jacket pockets, scarf trailing behind her like a comet tail.

"It’s officially December first," she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Which means it’s officially Christmas Season in town. Full launch. Zero survivors."

Wednesday smirked sideways at her. "I see the war on subtlety has been lost."

Enid bumped her hip against Wednesday’s — hard enough to make her stumble a half-step, laughing.

"Grinch," she teased, grabbing her gloved hand and swinging it between them as they walked.

Wednesday let her do it. Didn’t even pretend to pull away. Not anymore.

The square was bustling — families hauling armfuls of greenery, kids dragging sleds even though there wasn’t enough snow yet, couples huddled close together under the excuse of cold weather.

And at the very center of it all — glittering under a thousand fairy lights — was the ice rink.

Enid stopped dead, gasping dramatically.

"Oh my God, Willa, look!"

Wednesday followed her gaze.

The rink was smaller than a professional one, but still impressive — ringed with wooden railings wrapped in garlands, rental booths set up along the sides. The ice shone under the lights like glass, a few early skaters already swooping and spinning in messy, clumsy loops.

Enid turned on her heel — beaming at her — and grabbed both of Wednesday’s hands.

"Please tell me you know how to skate," she begged. "Please tell me we don't have to be Bambi on ice together."

Wednesday arched a single, imperious eyebrow.

"I was landing axel jumps before I lost my first baby tooth," she said calmly.

Enid’s mouth dropped open.

"You were a figure skater?" she shrieked — loud enough that a few people turned.

Wednesday shrugged, deadpan. "I had to channel my aggression somehow. Organized violence wasn’t socially acceptable for children yet."

Enid let out a delighted cackle.

"Same!" she cried. "My mom put me in lessons when I was five! Said I had too much 'unfocused energy.'"

They stared at each other — matching grins stretching wider and wider — and then, without another word, sprinted for the rental booth.

The skates were dull. The laces were stubborn. The cold nipped viciously at their cheeks.

None of it mattered.

The second their blades hit the ice — smooth, slick, perfect underfoot — everything else disappeared.

They started slow at first — easy glides, cautious circles — watching each other out of the corners of their eyes.

Testing.

Measuring.

Enid pushed off first — graceful, effortless, picking up speed until her hair streamed behind her like a comet’s tail.

Wednesday followed — silent and lethal — catching up easily, skating backward in front of her with a smirk like a dare.

"Show-off," Enid laughed, bumping her shoulder.

"You love it," Wednesday said smoothly, twirling away on one foot like it was nothing.

Enid gasped — delighted — and chased after her.

They spent the next hour in a riot of competition and chaos.

Enid tried to pull a camel spin; Wednesday countered with a flawless sit spin.

Wednesday attempted a toe loop; Enid countered with a wobbly but determined Salchow jump.

They raced the length of the rink — Enid throwing her whole body into it, Wednesday slicing across the ice with terrifying efficiency — and collapsed against the railings, breathless and laughing, neither willing to admit who actually won.

Every time Enid stumbled — which was often, because she kept pushing harder, trying to impress her — Wednesday caught her.

Every time Wednesday's stoic mask cracked — just a little, just enough for real joy to slip out — Enid was there to see it.

Once, Wednesday tried a fancy footwork sequence — intricate crossovers, tight turns — and Enid came barreling out of nowhere, tackling her mid-spin.

They went down in a tangle of limbs and shrieks, sliding halfway across the rink like a pair of deranged penguins.

When they finally stopped moving — a heap of jackets and skates and helpless laughter — Enid rolled over onto her back, gasping up at the sky.

"I win," she declared, weakly punching the air.

Wednesday propped herself up on her elbows, eyes shining.

"You tackled me," she said flatly. "This is not victory. This is cowardice."

Enid grinned wickedly, reaching up to flick a snowflake off Wednesday’s hair.

"Still counts."

Wednesday just shook her head — fond and exasperated — and let herself fall back onto the ice beside her.

They lay there for a minute — breathing hard, arms sprawled, cheeks flushed.

Above them, the fairy lights blurred into stars.

"You’re ridiculous," Wednesday said finally, voice low and warm.

"You love it," Enid chirped.

And — terrifying, devastating — it was true.

Wednesday did love it.

She loved her.

Without a single word, she reached over — threading her fingers through Enid’s glove-clad hand — and squeezed.

Enid squeezed back.

And the world, cold and sharp and beautiful, spun on around them.

Chapter Text

December 16th — Wednesday Addams’ Birthday

The park was half-frozen and half-golden, winter sunlight glinting off the patches of stubborn snow still clinging to the grass.

It was a quiet birthday — the kind Wednesday would have chosen for herself even if no one had asked.

No chaos.
No noise.
Just crisp air, the bare stretch of trees, and Enid walking beside her — soft and warm and blindingly beautiful.

They didn’t talk much as they wandered the winding paths. The silence was comfortable now — easy, solid, real.

And then — under the old iron bridge dusted with frost — Enid stopped.

Turned to face her.

Face flushed pink from the cold — or maybe from nerves — Enid rocked on her heels a little, biting her lip.

"I, um," she started, pulling a small, clumsily wrapped package from the inside of her jacket. "I have something for you."

Wednesday blinked at her, slow and suspicious.

"You didn’t need to get me anything," she said, voice dry.

"I know," Enid rushed out. "I wanted to."

She shoved the package into Wednesday’s hands, cheeks glowing.

It was wrapped in brown paper, tied messily with a piece of gold string. Wednesday carefully pulled it apart — methodical as always.

Inside was a simple wooden frame.

Painted black, a little uneven around the edges, like it had been done by hand.

And inside, on thick white paper, written in Enid's looping, too-big handwriting:

THE RULES
(as dictated by W. Addams, December 1st)

1. No lying to each other. ❌ (Turns out, honesty's hotter.)
2. Physical boundaries enforced. ❌ (See: kissing, cuddling, mauling.)
3. Emotional distance maintained. ❌ (We're literally girlfriends now.)
4. No lingering communication after holidays. (Pending...)

Below that, two little stick figures were drawn.
One had a braid.
One had wolf ears.
They were holding hands.
And under that, in even bigger letters:

Happy Birthday, Girlfriend. I love breaking rules with you.

Wednesday just... stared at it.

Her hands — so steady in battle, so still in chaos — trembled slightly around the frame.

Enid was fidgeting again, biting her lip like she regretted all of it.

"I just thought," she said, voice small, "you should know... that the rules we made to keep safe, to not get hurt — we broke them.
And I'm so, so glad we did."

Wednesday looked up at her.

Something enormous, something terrifying and beautiful, cracked open in her chest.

Without a word, she tucked the frame carefully under her arm and reached out — fisting both hands in the front of Enid's jacket and pulling her in.

Enid gasped — a soft, laughing sound — as Wednesday kissed her.

Slow.

Sure.

Full of everything she couldn’t say, but could show.

When they broke apart, foreheads brushing, breath misting between them, Wednesday whispered:

"I'm not just breaking the last rule."

Enid blinked up at her, wide-eyed.

"I'm rewriting it," Wednesday said, voice low and certain.

Her hands tightened in Enid’s jacket, anchoring them together.

"No ending after the holidays," she whispered.
"No disappearing."

Another kiss — gentle, devastating — at the corner of Enid’s mouth.

"I want all of it," Wednesday said

Enid pulled back just enough to look at her —
eyes shining, cheeks flushed, breath clouding in the cold air.

"Oh!" she gasped suddenly, fumbling in her jacket pocket again.
"Wait — there's one more thing."

Wednesday tilted her head — curious, cautious — as Enid dug around, muttering under her breath.

Finally, triumphantly, Enid produced a small, lopsided cupcake.

It was squashed slightly from being carried around all morning — the frosting a little smudged, the candle bent at an awkward angle — but it was pink and white and ridiculous and perfect.

Enid held it out between them, beaming.

"I made it last night," she said breathlessly. "Kind of a backup plan. In case you hated the frame."

Wednesday stared at it —
this stupid, smushed, beautiful little cupcake —
and felt something ridiculous and dangerous swell in her chest.

She wanted to laugh.
She wanted to cry.
She wanted to kiss her until the world fell away.

Instead, she took the cupcake carefully — reverently — between her hands.

And Enid, grinning so hard her face hurt, fished a crumpled matchbook out of her other pocket.

"Let me—" she said, striking a match against the cover and shielding it carefully from the wind until the tiny candle flickered to life.

She tilted it forward between them.

"Make a wish," Enid whispered —
voice soft, giddy, unbearably sweet.

Wednesday didn’t look away from her.

Not for a second.

"I already have everything I want," she said, voice steady, sure.

Enid’s breath caught audibly.

And before she could start crying —
before she could do anything except melt completely —
Wednesday leaned forward and blew out the candle.

The tiny puff of smoke curled up into the frozen blue sky.

They stood there — just them, just the cupcake, just the world spinning quietly around them — until Enid started laughing.

Soft and wild and breaking open with joy.

They stayed there a long time —
until the cupcake was gone, until their fingers were cold, until the sky turned the soft, pale pink of a winter afternoon ready to give in to night.

Wednesday tucked Enid’s freezing hands into her coat pockets without a word, pressing close enough that their noses nearly brushed.

Enid bumped their foreheads together — a soft, silly little gesture — and grinned.

"Happy Birthday, Willa."

Wednesday just nodded —
unable to speak, unable to move, unable to believe she could ever be this lucky.

And if Enid saw the way her throat worked around the words she couldn’t say —
if she smiled even softer, even surer —
neither of them mentioned it.

They didn’t have to.

Some promises didn’t need to be spoken out loud.

Some promises were made in frosting and frozen fingers and a kiss that tasted like everything Wednesday had never let herself want.

And when they finally turned to walk back through the park —
shoulders bumping, hands tangling, hearts steady and stupidly full —
Wednesday thought:

Maybe rules were made to be broken after all.

Because she hadn’t just broken them.

She had rewritten them.

For her.

Only her.

Chapter Text

December 24th

The house was still and quiet in the early hours of Christmas Eve, wrapped in a heavy, soft silence only a winter morning could carry.
Outside, fresh snow dusted the world in white, the branches drooping low under its weight, the sky just starting to blush pale pink with sunrise.
Inside, tucked deep under the quilt of Enid’s tiny childhood bed, two girls slept tangled together like a secret.

Wednesday woke first.

She didn’t open her eyes at first.
She just... existed.
Floaty. Warm.
Weightless under the covers, cocooned in the kind of safety she had never dared imagine for herself.

Enid was plastered against her — a loose, boneless sprawl — all wild hair and sleepy breath and the impossible heat of her.
One arm was thrown across Wednesday’s ribs, hand curled loosely over her side like it had always belonged there.
Their legs were tangled together — Enid's bare calf hooked over Wednesday’s thigh — and every time she shifted, barely even awake, it made Wednesday’s heart stutter painfully in her chest.

Wednesday lay still, breathing slow, breathing her in.

Enid smelled like warm vanilla, like coconut shampoo, like hope.
It was infuriating.
It was terrifying.
It was perfect.

After a long, long moment, Enid stirred — letting out a tiny, broken sound, halfway between a sigh and a whimper — and burrowed even closer.
Her nose bumped clumsily under Wednesday’s chin, nuzzling into the hollow of her throat.
Wednesday’s arms, traitorous and unstoppable, slid around her without thinking — gathering her closer, shielding her, anchoring them both.

Enid made another soft, happy noise —
and, impossibly, smiled in her sleep.

Wednesday closed her eyes again, helpless.

God help her, she wanted to stay like this forever.
No blood.
No battles.
No bargains.
Just Enid.
Just breathing.
Just belonging.

She didn’t dare move — didn’t dare shatter the fragile, sacred thing they were wrapped in —
but after a few minutes, she felt it:

Enid’s breathing change.

She blinked open slowly, lazily, a soft hum of confusion vibrating in her chest.
She didn’t move at first — just pressed her face a little harder into Wednesday’s throat like she could hide from the morning.

Wednesday smirked — a small, secret thing no one else would ever be allowed to see.

"You’re awake," she said softly — voice rough with sleep, rough with something heavier.

Enid groaned — a sleepy, indignant sound — and shook her head against her collarbone.

"No," she mumbled. "Fake news. I’m dead."

Wednesday huffed a laugh against her hair.

"You are not dead," she said primly. "You are simply lazy."

Enid whimpered pathetically —
and tightened her arms around her waist like a very stubborn, very clingy koala.

Wednesday let herself be clung to.
Let herself be loved.
Let herself be held.

"Too early," Enid grumbled, voice muffled against her skin. "Christmas isn’t until tomorrow. Let me hibernate until then."

Wednesday snorted — a soft, almost fond sound — and carded her fingers absently through the mess of Enid’s hair.

"You are impossible," she murmured.

Enid smiled against her throat.

"You love it."

Wednesday didn’t answer.

She just closed her eyes again —
and pulled her closer.

For a long while, they just lay there — breathing, existing, wrapped around each other like something ancient and necessary.

The sun crept higher outside the window — casting gold across the faded posters still stuck to Enid’s childhood bedroom walls, the cluttered dresser, the tiny pile of Christmas presents stacked in the corner.

Wednesday didn’t care.

The whole world could have burned down and she wouldn’t have cared — not as long as Enid Sinclair was curled into her like she was the most natural thing in the world.

Finally, finally, Enid shifted — blinking blearily up at her.

Wednesday looked down —
and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Enid’s hair was a wild halo around her flushed cheeks.
Her eyes — heavy with sleep, shining soft and stupid with affection — blinked up at her like she was seeing the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

She smiled — small, crooked, devastating.

"Hi," she whispered.

Wednesday, ruthless and terrifying and undefeated, melted completely.

"Hi," she rasped back.

Enid wiggled — shifting up higher, pressing even closer — until they were nose to nose under the covers.

"You know," she said, still whispering, like the morning was too sacred to disturb,
"this is the best Christmas Eve I’ve ever had. And it’s not even lunchtime."

Wednesday tilted her head slightly —
let their noses brush.

"You’re easily impressed," she said dryly.

Enid giggled — soft, breathless — and kissed the corner of her mouth.

Wednesday stopped pretending she was unaffected.

She turned — just slightly — and caught her mouth properly.

It wasn’t desperate.

It wasn’t frantic.

It was slow.
Sweet.
Warm like the covers around them.
Certain like the beating of a heart.

When they pulled apart — breathing each other’s air, hearts slamming stupidly in their chests — Enid grinned.

"Good morning, Willa," she said, so bright it almost hurt.

Wednesday shook her head once, tiny and fond.

And for the first time in her life,
on Christmas Eve,
in a cluttered childhood bedroom,
wrapped around a girl who had ruined her and rebuilt her all at once,
Wednesday Addams thought:

Maybe mornings aren’t so terrible after all.

By the time Wednesday and Enid finally stumbled downstairs —
(mostly dressed, mostly composed, mostly hiding the fact that they had spent an hour doing absolutely nothing but kissing under the covers) —
the house was already alive with Christmas Eve chaos.

The smell of cinnamon and sugar practically knocked them over.

The kitchen looked like a Christmas bomb had detonated:
Flour dusted every surface.
Bowls overflowed with colorful icing.
Cut-out cookies — Santas, snowflakes, lopsided wolves — covered every spare inch of counter space.

Grandma was at the stove, brandishing a spatula like a weapon.
Wayne leaned against the fridge, sipping coffee and pretending not to fear for his life.
Lyla perched on a stool, "taste-testing" a suspicious number of cookies.

And at the center of it all — like a general leading her troops into delicious, frosted battle — was Enid’s mom, wielding a giant mixing bowl and a terrifyingly cheerful apron that said BAKING QUEEN in glittery pink letters.

"There you two are!" she crowed, spotting them in the doorway.
"Grab a spoon! Grab some icing! It’s Christmas Eve, kids, you know the rules!"

Wednesday opened her mouth —
probably to say something cutting about capitalism and sugar addictions —
but Enid bumped her hip lightly.

"C’mon," she whispered, grin wide and wicked.
"It’s Christmas. Resistance is futile."

Wednesday sighed —
theatrical, long-suffering —
but let herself be dragged forward.

She ended up at the counter, a piping bag full of violently red frosting shoved into her hand.

Enid bounced beside her — pulling her own bag of green icing, already giggling at something only she could find funny.

And just like that —
they were pulled into the fray.

It started innocently enough.

Wednesday carefully iced a tree-shaped cookie — methodical, precise — her brow furrowed in deep concentration.

Next to her, Enid slathered so much green frosting on a reindeer that it collapsed under the weight.

"It’s a modern art piece," she declared proudly. "Symbolizing the crushing weight of holiday expectations."

Wednesday smirked —
couldn’t help it —
and added a tiny, perfect skull to the top of her cookie tree.

Grandma cackled when she saw it.

"That one’s goin’ right on the top of the tree!" she barked.

Wednesday allowed herself a small, victorious nod.

Enid, meanwhile, was somehow managing to get more frosting on herself than on the cookies.

There was a smear of blue on her cheek.
A glob of white on her nose.
Her hands were a crime scene of sugar and color.

Wednesday stared at her — helpless —
and thought about kissing the frosting right off her skin.

(But not yet.
Not in front of Grandma.
Probably.)

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen had descended into full frosting warfare.

Enid "accidentally" swiped icing across Wednesday’s hand.
Wednesday retaliated by piping a perfect black heart onto Enid’s sleeve.
Wayne and Lyla started chanting "Fight! Fight! Fight!" from the sidelines like it was a pay-per-view event.

Grandma threw a handful of flour at them both and yelled,
"If you’re gonna make a mess, make it proper!"

Which, of course, escalated into an all-out cookie decorating brawl.

There was laughing.
There was shrieking.
There was Wayne slipping on a patch of rogue powdered sugar and landing in a chair with a loud oof.

Through it all —
through the chaos and the noise and the sugar —
Wednesday found herself smiling.

Really smiling.
Not sharp.
Not cruel.
Just… soft.

Happy.

She caught Enid looking at her —
frosting-smeared, hair a disaster, cheeks flushed from laughter —
and the whole world narrowed to just that.

Just her.

Enid beamed —
wild, blinding —
and mouthed across the chaos:

I love you.

Wednesday's chest cracked wide open.

She mouthed back —
because she couldn't help it, because she didn't want to:

I love you, too.

Eventually — somehow —
cookies were decorated.
Flour was swept up.
Chaos gave way to calm.

The kitchen smelled like heaven.

Enid flopped into a chair next to Wednesday, their knees bumping under the table.

Wayne passed out mugs of cocoa, and Grandma declared a mandatory "nap or quiet time" before the evening’s festivities.

Enid leaned her head against Wednesday’s shoulder —
smelling like sugar and cinnamon and something Wednesday would never, ever recover from —
and sighed contentedly.

"Best Christmas Eve morning ever," she mumbled.

Wednesday hummed low in her throat —
something that might have been agreement,
something that might have been a promise.

And as Enid’s fingers laced quietly through hers under the table —
hidden from the world but known, sure, theirs —
Wednesday thought:

This is what holidays should feel like.
This is what home feels like.

Chapter Text

Later that Evening — Sinclair Living Room

The house had gone soft around the edges.

The chaos of the morning was a memory now —
swept up with the spilled flour and smeared frosting —
leaving behind only the hum of Christmas lights and the low, lazy murmur of music from the old record player in the corner.

Wayne was snoring lightly in his armchair, a half-finished cup of cocoa balanced precariously on the armrest.

Grandma was knitting a truly hideous scarf, needles clicking rhythmically.

Lyla was sprawled across the floor, doodling reindeer in the corner of a crossword puzzle and humming along to the crackling carols.

And on the couch — tucked into the farthest corner, under a too-large, too-warm knitted blanket — were Wednesday and Enid.

Together.

Quiet.

Hidden from the world in a fortress of soft things.

Enid curled into Wednesday’s side —
head on her shoulder, legs tucked underneath her —
a sleepy, happy sigh escaping her mouth.

Wednesday had her arm slung over the back of the couch —
casual, careful —
but every time Enid shifted slightly, every time her thigh brushed against Wednesday’s, it was like being hit by lightning all over again.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

They didn’t need to.

Outside the windows, snow started to fall —
soft and slow, blanketing the dark streets in white.
Inside, the only light came from the blinking strands of red and green and gold wrapped around the staircase, casting everything in a warm, drowsy glow.

Enid stirred after a while — shifting just enough to tilt her head up, gazing at Wednesday from beneath her lashes.

"You’re warm," she murmured sleepily.

Wednesday tilted her head, pretending to consider this.

"It’s a defense mechanism," she deadpanned. "To survive in cold climates."

Enid giggled — soft, delighted — and poked her side under the blanket.

"Shut up," she whispered.

Wednesday smiled —
small, sharp, secret —
and let herself lean in just a little closer.

Enid wiggled deeper under the blanket, her nose brushing Wednesday’s jaw as she did.

"You smell good," she mumbled.

Wednesday’s heart tried — and failed — to stay calm.

"I was doused in cinnamon and vanilla earlier," she said dryly.

"No," Enid whispered, nuzzling closer. "You smell like... you."

Wednesday tightened her arm around her without thinking —
tugging her closer, anchoring her against her chest.

The room faded away.

The world narrowed to just the soft sounds of the record player, the gentle crackle of the fire, and the steady, perfect weight of Enid breathing against her.

For once, Wednesday didn’t fight the feeling trying to claw its way out of her chest.

She let herself fall into it.

Into her.

At some point — later, softer, sweeter —
Grandma bustled past with a plate of gingerbread men and dropped one pointedly into Wednesday’s lap.

"Tradition," she said gruffly.

Wednesday stared at it — at the crude little gingerbread figure, one arm slightly longer than the other, the icing smile lopsided — and blinked.

Enid reached up, plucking it from her lap with a giggle.

"Every Christmas Eve," she explained, biting off the head of the cookie cheerfully. "Gotta eat a gingerbread man for good luck."

Wednesday wrinkled her nose slightly but accepted the half-eaten offering without complaint, taking a small, precise bite.

Enid beamed at her like she’d just passed some kind of sacred test.

Then — without warning — she reached up and swiped a tiny bit of icing off Wednesday’s lip with her thumb.

"Got it," she whispered —
soft, fond, unbearably teasing.

Wednesday caught her hand before she could pull it back —
trapping it gently between her fingers.

Neither of them moved for a heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

And then —
very slowly —
Wednesday turned her head and pressed the lightest, softest kiss to the inside of Enid’s wrist.

Not hard.
Not desperate.

Just... a promise.

Enid’s breath hitched audibly —
and she leaned her forehead against Wednesday’s temple, laughing a little under her breath like she couldn’t hold it all inside.

"You’re gonna kill me one of these days," she whispered.

Wednesday smiled — slow, dangerous, devastating.

"That’s the plan," she whispered back.

Later — when the clock struck midnight, when the snow had blanketed the town thick and quiet, when everyone else had drifted off into sleep —
Wednesday and Enid stayed curled up together on the couch.

Breathing each other in.

Counting heartbeats.

Memorizing the way Christmas Eve tasted when it was filled with hope instead of hurt.

When it was theirs.

And somewhere deep in the perfect, peaceful silence,
Wednesday thought:

This is the kind of forever I want.

Chapter Text

Midnight. Outside. First Snow.

The house was finally quiet.

Not just sleepy — silent.

Soft snores drifted from Wayne’s room upstairs.
Grandma’s knitting lay abandoned in her chair.
The record player had long since clicked off, the last notes of Bing Crosby fading into memory.

It was just them now.

Wednesday and Enid.

Two shadows slipping through the front door in their boots and jackets, hands clasped tight between them, breath misting in the frozen air.

The world outside was a snow globe —
still and white and sparkling under the silver light of a perfect winter moon.

Enid laughed — a low, wild sound — and tugged Wednesday’s hand.

"C’mon," she whispered. "Race you."

And before Wednesday could snark, could plan, could brace herself —
Enid was sprinting across the blank expanse of the Sinclair yard, boots crunching, curls flying.

Wednesday huffed — long-suffering, exasperated — but the smile tugging at her mouth ruined the effect.

She gave chase.

Boots slipping slightly, breath catching in the cold, her hair whipping free from its braid as she ran after the ridiculous, beautiful girl who had somehow — impossibly — become her whole world.

Enid shrieked — delighted — when Wednesday caught up and tackled her gently into a snowbank, both of them collapsing in a tangle of limbs and laughter and flying powder.

For a second, they just laid there.

Breathless.

Laughing.

Alive.

Enid turned her head — cheek pressed into the cold — and grinned at her.

"You’re slow," she teased, nose crinkling adorably.

Wednesday pinned her with a look —
flat, unimpressed —
and scooped a handful of snow into her gloved palm.

"Say that again," she said calmly.

Enid shrieked, scrambling away as Wednesday launched a snowball straight at her back.

"Unfair!" she cried, laughing so hard she nearly tripped over her own boots. "I wasn’t ready—!"

Wednesday smirked — slow and lethal — and bent to scoop another snowball.

Enid yelped and ran.

It turned into a full-blown snow war.

Sneak attacks.

Ambushes.

Unholy alliances formed and broken in minutes.

At one point, Enid tried to tackle her again —
only to find herself flipped onto her back, pinned beneath Wednesday in the snow, their faces inches apart, both panting and grinning like idiots.

"You surrender?" Wednesday asked, voice low, smug, breath ghosting across Enid’s frozen lips.

Enid blinked up at her — cheeks flushed, hair wild, eyes sparkling — and said, very seriously:

"Never."

And then — because of course she did —
she reached up and yanked Wednesday down into a kiss.

It was freezing.

It was messy.

It was perfect.

They kissed there — ridiculous and soaked and breathless — until Wednesday's gloves slipped off so she could cup Enid’s face properly, her bare hands burning against the chill of her skin.

Enid made a tiny, broken sound —
something halfway between a laugh and a sob —
and kissed her harder.

When they finally broke apart — gasping, giddy —
Enid whispered:

"Merry Christmas, Willa."

Wednesday touched her forehead to hers.

"Merry Christmas, Enid Sinclair."

They stayed like that — pressed together in the snow, noses brushing, hearts beating so loud they drowned out the world —
until the cold finally caught up to them.

Until their fingers went numb and their teeth started chattering and Enid’s hair turned stiff with ice crystals.

Reluctantly — laughing under their breath — they helped each other up.

From her bedroom window upstairs, Lyla watched them.

Two tiny figures in the snow — laughing, chasing, falling into each other like magnets that had been fighting gravity their whole lives.

She smiled into her mug of cocoa — steam curling up against her freckled nose, glasses fogging a little.

Outside, Wednesday tackled Enid into a snowbank again, and Enid shrieked loud enough to rattle the old porch light.

Lyla chuckled — a low, warm sound — and leaned her forehead against the cold glass.

She hadn’t always been sure.

Hadn’t always believed someone could keep up with her hurricane of a sister.
Hadn’t always believed someone would choose all of Enid — the too-much, the too-bright, the too-everything.

But now —
watching Wednesday Addams brush the snow from Enid’s wild hair with all the care in the world —
Lyla didn’t have a single doubt left.

She sipped her cocoa — smiling so wide it almost hurt —
and whispered to the empty room:

"About damn time."

And downstairs, out in the freezing, moonlit yard —
Enid Sinclair laughed like the whole world had finally come home.

Chapter Text

The world was still dark when it happened.

Peaceful. Silent. Blissfully, beautifully quiet.

The house smelled like cinnamon and woodsmoke, the air warm from the fireplace still crackling downstairs. Somewhere outside, the wind howled low against the frosted windows, but inside — tucked under a ridiculously cozy mountain of blankets — Wednesday Addams slept.

In bright red Christmas pajamas.

Matching the entire Sinclair family.

It was — objectively — her worst nightmare.
And somehow, impossibly, it was perfect.

Until —

BANG.

The bedroom door slammed open so hard it rattled the frame.

"IT'S CHRISTMAS, BITCHES!" Lyla screamed, launching herself across the room like a missile.

Wednesday jerked awake with a strangled gasp —
arms flailing, heart pounding, braid sticking out sideways from where it had been flattened against the pillow.

Enid shrieked next to her — startled half to death — and grabbed Wednesday’s arm instinctively, dragging them both upright into a tangled heap.

Before either of them could react, Lyla leapt onto the bed — full tackle — sending all three of them sprawling sideways in a mess of limbs, blankets, and shrieking.

"Get up! Get up! Santa came, and so did Aunt Marge with that weird fruitcake nobody eats, and there’s a mountain of presents downstairs and—"

"Lyla Sinclair," Wednesday rasped, voice low and deadly, "you have approximately three seconds to vacate this bed before I perform an exorcism on you."

Lyla just grinned wider — evil, delighted — and rolled over to smoosh her face into Wednesday’s shoulder.

"You’re part of the family now, Willa," she sing-songed, kicking her socked feet against the mattress. "That means you get the full Christmas treatment!"

Enid, still half-asleep and laughing breathlessly, buried her face in Wednesday’s chest to muffle her giggles.
Wednesday, scowling fiercely but making no actual move to shove Lyla off, just muttered:

"I regret every life choice that led me here."

"You love it," Enid said — muffled, giddy — and squeezed her tighter.

Wednesday exhaled like a woman enduring a firing squad.
(But her arms curled automatically around Enid’s waist anyway, tugging her in closer.)

Lyla beamed.
"Coffee’s on. Cocoa’s brewing. Grandpa Wayne’s already got his ugly sweater on and Grandma’s threatening to spank anyone who’s late."

She flopped dramatically off the bed and struck a superhero pose by the door.

"LAST ONE DOWNSTAIRS DOESN’T GET A CINNAMON ROLL!"

And with that, she bolted.

Enid sat up — wild-haired, rumpled, wearing one of Wednesday’s old T-shirts and plaid pajama pants — and looked at Wednesday with wide, sparkling eyes.

"You heard her," she said, grinning mischievously.

Wednesday just stared at her, deadpan.

"It’s six-thirty in the morning."

Enid bounced to her feet anyway, dragging the blankets off Wednesday with a mischievous flourish.

"C'mon, Willa. Christmas waits for no one!"

Wednesday growled low in her throat — murderous — and rolled out of bed with the resigned air of a woman being marched to her execution.

She grabbed her robe (black, of course) and slung it dramatically over her bright red matching Sinclair family pajamas, because some standards must be maintained.

Enid grabbed her hand — grinning stupidly — and tugged her toward the door.

"You look so cute," she chirped, dragging her downstairs two steps at a time.

"I look like a bloodied elf," Wednesday grumbled.

"You look like my girlfriend," Enid corrected brightly, bumping their shoulders together as they hit the landing.

And — much to Wednesday's horror —
her cheeks actually flushed.

Downstairs, the chaos had already begun.

Grandma was bustling around the kitchen in her Christmas apron, wielding a spatula like a weapon. Wayne was in his armchair in a blinking Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer sweater, coffee already steaming in his hand.
Stockings bulged over the fireplace. The tree was lit up like a miniature sun, drowning the living room in a cozy, golden glow.

Lyla was shoving mugs into everyone’s hands — cocoa, coffee, tea — cackling like a gremlin as she sprinkled cinnamon on everything in sight.

Wednesday stood there — blinking at the absurdity, the warmth, the ridiculousness of it all — and felt her chest ache in a way that scared her more than any axe-wielding lunatic ever could.

"Here," Enid said softly, handing her a mug of black coffee so strong it might qualify as a chemical weapon.

Wednesday accepted it silently.

Their fingers brushed.

A spark. A tether.

Home.

Lyla flopped down on the floor by the tree, already tearing into the first presents, yelling over her shoulder:

"Slowpokes! Get over here!"

Wayne chuckled — low and fond — and Grandma shook her head, muttering something about "wild children and no manners these days" as she passed around cinnamon rolls the size of hubcaps.

Enid tugged Wednesday toward the couch —
smiling, glowing, alive in a way that made Wednesday’s chest crack open even wider.

She let herself be pulled.

Let herself sit there, squashed between Enid’s thigh and a mountain of presents, coffee warming her hands, heart shaking in her chest.

And for the first time in a long, long time —
maybe the first time ever —
Wednesday Addams thought:

Maybe magic was real after all.

*

The living room was a sea of crumpled wrapping paper, half-eaten cinnamon rolls, and lopsided bows.

Lyla had already ripped through most of her presents at an alarming speed — a whirlwind of shrieks and glitter and wildly flung socks — while Grandma steadily worked her way through hers with the patience of a seasoned general.

Wayne was half-asleep in his chair, a new set of flannel pajamas draped over his lap and a cup of cocoa balanced dangerously on the armrest.

In the middle of the chaos, Enid and Wednesday sat cross-legged on the floor — tucked close together, their shoulders brushing with every movement, pretending not to notice how ridiculously soft they were being.

Enid bounced slightly — practically vibrating with excitement — as she dug around under the tree.

"Aha!" she cried triumphantly, pulling out a small, carefully wrapped box. She shoved it into Wednesday's hands with a huge grin. "Yours first."

Wednesday arched an eyebrow at the enthusiastic delivery — but carefully, methodically, began peeling away the wrapping paper.

Inside was a slim black box.

Inside the box —
a bracelet.

Simple. Heavy. Beautiful.

Braided black leather, dark silver clasp — understated, elegant, something you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.

But Wednesday saw it immediately.

Engraved — so small and subtle it could have been a secret — were two tiny initials tucked into the clasp:

W & E.

Wednesday stared at it —
still, silent —
feeling something sharp lodge itself behind her ribs.

Enid, suddenly fidgety, blurted out:

"You don’t have to wear it or anything! I just— I thought— it’s dumb— I just wanted—"

Wednesday cut her off by holding out her wrist, wordless.

Waiting.

Enid’s mouth snapped shut.

Carefully — hands shaking a little — she fastened the bracelet around Wednesday’s wrist.

The leather was warm from her fingers.

When she finished, she looked up — wide-eyed, nervous.

Wednesday flexed her hand once, twice — feeling the weight of it — and then said, voice low and sure:

"I will never take it off."

Enid made a small, wrecked sound — half laugh, half sob — and flung herself at her, hugging her so tight they both toppled sideways onto the carpet, laughing breathlessly.

When they finally pulled apart — cheeks flushed, grinning like idiots — Wednesday sat up, cleared her throat, and reached behind her back.

"I have something for you, too," she said stiffly.

Enid's eyes lit up — pure, radiant joy — as Wednesday handed her a rectangular package, wrapped almost aggressively neatly in black paper.

"Of course you use black paper," Enid teased, eyes sparkling as she tore it open.

Inside —
a photo frame.

But not just any frame.

Inside was a pressed flower — perfectly preserved, delicate and haunting — surrounded by a stark white mat.

And written carefully under the flower, in Wednesday’s surprisingly graceful handwriting:

The Day Everything Changed.
December 1st.
Us.

Enid’s hands trembled slightly as she traced the glass with her fingertips.

"You... kept it?" she whispered, voice wrecked.

Wednesday nodded once — short, sharp, vulnerable.

"It fell out of your hair," she said, quieter now. "At the coffee shop. When you sat across from me."

Enid laughed — watery, broken — and launched herself at Wednesday again, knocking her backward into the mountain of discarded wrapping paper.

"You’re so stupid!" she choked, hugging her so tight it hurt. "You're so stupid and perfect and I love you so much."

"I know," Wednesday muttered against her hair, arms curling around her tightly.

They stayed tangled like that — soft, wrecked, holding the pieces together — until Grandma clapped her hands sharply and barked:

"Enough with the romance, lovebirds! There's one more present!"

Wednesday blinked.

Enid grinned wickedly.

Wayne hoisted something massive and lumpy off the couch — stumbling slightly under the weight — and dumped it dramatically into Wednesday's lap.

It was... a giant bundle of dark fabric?

Wednesday frowned — cautiously untangling it — and then froze.

It was a blanket.

Hand-knitted.

Heavy and warm and ridiculously soft.

And it wasn't bright, like Enid’s rainbow blanket.

No.

It was shades of deep, stormy gray. Ink black. Muted, midnight colors twisted together into something dark and rich and endlessly comforting.

Along the edge, stitched in careful, slightly wobbly letters:

Home is a person.

Wednesday’s throat closed up.

Hard.

Hard enough to hurt.

She blinked down at it —
this messy, perfect thing —
and for the first time all morning, she couldn’t find a single word.

Not one.

Enid leaned in, smiling so wide it hurt her cheeks.

"Grandma made it for you," she whispered. "She said every Sinclair gets one."

"And you’re one of us now," Lyla crowed from the couch, grinning into her cocoa.

Wednesday made a sound — small and broken — and folded the blanket against her chest.

She was crying.

Silently.

Helplessly.

Tears slipping down her cheeks faster than she could stop them, soaking into the soft, dark yarn.

Enid slid closer — wrapping her arms around her, tucking her in against her chest — and Wednesday let herself fall.

Fell into her.

Fell into it.

Into all of it.

The chaos.

The warmth.

The home.

Grandma bustled over — tutting fondly — and dropped another cinnamon roll onto Wednesday’s lap like it might help somehow.

Wayne just winked at her — slow and easy — like he’d known all along this would happen.

And Lyla, still curled up on the couch, grinned around the rim of her mug and said:

"Welcome to the family, Willa."

Wednesday just clung to Enid’s sweatshirt — face buried against her shoulder — and let the world tilt a little harder around her.

Because somehow —
impossibly —
she had survived it.

She had survived Christmas morning.

And she had never been happier in her life.

Chapter Text

The house felt different in the morning.

Not empty — not yet — but lighter somehow.
Like it already knew.

The lights were still twinkling. The kitchen still smelled like cinnamon and coffee and leftover pie. The living room was still buried under piles of half-folded blankets and forgotten cocoa mugs.

But it was quieter.

Like the house itself was holding its breath.

Wednesday stood by the door, her bag slung over one shoulder, wearing Enid’s scarf because it was still too cold to argue about it.

Wayne was fiddling with the zipper of her duffel bag — pretending to check it, pretending to be helpful — but really just trying to keep his hands busy.

Grandma was bustling around offering last-minute snacks ("You’ll get hungry on the road, trust me — teenagers are like wolves"), slipping bags of cookies and sandwiches into Enid’s backpack when she wasn’t looking.

Lyla stood by the stairs, arms folded, trying to look cool and unaffected and absolutely failing at both.

And Enid...

Enid was just standing there — hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket — looking at Wednesday like she was afraid to blink and miss her.

Wednesday shifted her weight.

Cleared her throat.

No one said anything.

Finally — because someone had to — Wayne grunted and pulled Wednesday into a rough, one-armed hug that nearly cracked her ribs.

"You come back, kid," he said — gruff and warm and unmovable.

"You hear me? You don’t make me come find you."

Wednesday, against all odds, found herself smiling — tiny and crooked and real.

"Understood, sir," she said dryly.

Grandma swooped in next, crushing her against a cloud of cinnamon and lavender perfume.

"You’re family now, girl," she said fiercely into Wednesday’s ear. "You don’t run from that. You don’t forget it."

Wednesday blinked hard, pulling in a shaky breath, and nodded.

Lyla was last.

She didn't hug.

Not exactly.

She just bumped their shoulders — casual, rough, sibling-coded — and said:

"Try not to kill anyone too important."

Wednesday raised an eyebrow. "No promises."

Lyla grinned — wide and wild — and whispered:

"Take care of my idiot sister."

Wednesday looked at Enid — who was still watching her like the whole world was leaving with her — and said, simply, quietly:

"Always."

They stepped out into the cold — boots crunching on the frosted porch, breath puffing out in little clouds.

The truck was already running — heater blasting, Enid’s favorite playlist humming low through the speakers.

They tossed their bags into the backseat.

And then they just... stood there.

Frozen.

Not from the cold — from the weight of it.

Of leaving.

Of going back to the world where they weren’t tucked safe inside four walls full of cinnamon and knitted blankets and loud laughter and terrible, beautiful love.

Enid’s nose was pink from the cold. Her eyes were shining.

Wednesday reached for her hand without thinking — lacing their fingers together, tugging her closer.

"You okay?" Enid whispered — voice wobbly.

Wednesday squeezed her hand — firm, steady.

"I will be," she said.
"Because you're coming with me."

Enid let out a tiny, broken laugh.

Then she surged forward — throwing her arms around Wednesday’s neck, burying her face against her scarf, breathing her in like she could store the smell of her forever.

Wednesday wrapped her arms around her — tight, unshakable — and held her there.

Held everything there.

All the stupid, messy, beautiful things that had happened in this house.

All the versions of herself she had left behind.

All the versions of Enid she had fallen harder for every day.

"I'm gonna miss this," Enid mumbled against her.

Wednesday closed her eyes.

"Me too."

They stood like that for a long, long moment — the truck rumbling behind them, the house glowing faintly under the pale winter sun — until finally, slowly, they pulled apart.

Wednesday cupped Enid’s cheeks in her gloved hands — staring at her like she was memorizing her all over again.

"You ready?" she whispered.

Enid nodded — tiny, fierce.

"Yeah," she said, smiling through the tears she wasn’t even trying to hide anymore.

"Let's go home."

Wednesday kissed her once — soft, sure, forever —
then opened the truck door for her like she was something precious.

And together, they drove away —
the little house shrinking in the rearview mirror, the snowy road stretching out ahead of them like a story just beginning.

The world was huge.

The world was terrifying.

The world was theirs.

And they weren’t running away this time.

They were running toward something.

Hand in hand.

Hearts wide open.

Home.

Chapter Text

The only open seat in the café was across from her.
Of course it was.

Wednesday Addams didn't even pretend not to watch Enid cross the room —
easy and light, winter sun catching the tiny diamond ring glittering on her hand.
Matching the one on Wednesday’s.

Enid caught her staring —
smirked like she knew every terrible thought in her head —
and dropped into the seat across from her with a grin bright enough to set the world on fire.

Her coffee was already waiting.
Wednesday always ordered it ahead.
Just the way she liked it.

"Hey, wife," Enid teased, kicking her boot lightly under the table.
Her ring flashed again — a glint of silver, a promise made a thousand quiet times over.

Wednesday arched one dark brow over the rim of her coffee.
"You’re late."

Enid snorted. "By two minutes. Blame the scarf. It tried to strangle me."

She tugged at the ridiculous rainbow monstrosity looped three times around her neck, and Wednesday’s mouth twitched —
barely —
into the ghost of a fond, feral smile.

"You’ve survived worse," Wednesday said dryly, closing her book with a soft snap.

Enid grinned wider —
wild and beautiful and stupidly hers.

"Oh, also," Enid said breezily, unlocking her phone. "I may have told my mom my wife is coming today."

Wednesday blinked once —
slow, catastrophic —
as Enid's phone immediately lit up with a barrage of frantic, glittery texts.

Mom 💖 (Pray 4 Me): can't wait to meet herrrrr!!!!! bring her fav cookies if she has any omg what's her favorite color!! what kind of tea does she like!! should i wear pink or more pink?? 💕💕

Mom 💖 (Pray 4 Me): YOU ARE BRINGING HER RIGHT?! your WIFE?!!?? 😭😭😭😭

Mom 💖 (Pray 4 Me): also i bought a JUST MARRIED ornament for the tree!!! hope that's ok love u baby!!!!

Enid groaned — bright pink all the way to her hairline — and slapped her phone face-down on the table.

Wednesday sipped her coffee with all the dignity of a queen witnessing a village on fire.

"You are chaos," she said calmly.

Enid slumped forward dramatically. "I am a victim of my own optimism."

"You’re an architect of your own demise," Wednesday corrected, voice so dry it could have started a wildfire.

Across the room, a few patrons tried (and failed) not to stare at them —
at the way their fingers brushed automatically across the table, at the way Enid laughed like she couldn’t help herself,
at the diamond rings catching the low café light with every careless movement.

Wednesday pretended not to notice.
(But her hand, naturally, curled tighter around Enid’s.)

Enid smiled so wide it nearly broke her face.
"My wife thinks she’s so scary," she stage-whispered into her coffee mug.

Wednesday smiled —
small, razor-edged, impossibly soft —
and said, low and lethal:

"Your wife is terrifying."

Enid kicked her shin lightly under the table, grinning like she was twelve and getting away with something.

And Wednesday —
smiling sharp and secret behind the rim of her coffee cup —
let her.

Because chaos or not —
terrifying or not —
they had built something here.

Something real.
Something bright.
Something worth every broken rule and every bad idea that led them here.

Home.