Archive of Our Own ^beta

Wednesday Addams ran her life like a controlled burn: contained, deliberate, and only as bright as necessary.

It was working—smooth, predictable, exactly as planned.

Her office sat on the forty-third floor of a glass-and-stone tower that most people in the city referred to as the Needle with a mix of envy and resentment. Inside, the air was cooled to an exact temperature that made everyone else reach for cardigans and made Wednesday feel normal. The lighting was low by design, not ambience—low light kept conversations short, and posture controlled. It also discouraged lingering.

Wednesday had encouraged a great many things in the building: efficiency, silence, and the healthy fear of wasting her time.

She sat at the head of a boardroom table that could have comfortably hosted a small war council. The meeting in front of her was important in the way that only adult problems could be—numbers, signatures, reputations, the invisible machinery that kept the world turning without ever rewarding the people doing the turning. A third-party vendor was attempting to renegotiate a contract mid-year. They’d arrived with confidence, a slide deck, and what they thought was leverage.

Wednesday watched them talk like she watched a spider build a web—fascinated by the instinct, unimpressed by the outcome.

She wore black, because of course she did—only this time it was all clean lines and authority. A sharply tailored pantsuit cut close through the waist and shoulders, the trousers pressed to a blade-edge crease. Under the jacket, a high-neck silk blouse the colour of bone softened nothing, just brightened the severity. Cuffs fastened, lapels flat, everything sitting exactly where it was meant to, like the outfit had been built to withstand interrogation. No jewellery besides her wedding band: dark, simple, matte—easy to miss unless you were close enough to matter. Her hair was pulled back and plaited with ruthless neatness, severe and controlled.

A pen rested between her fingers. She wasn’t writing. She was waiting.

Across from her, a man in a pale suit glanced at his own notes too often, like they might begin lying if he didn’t keep an eye on them. His voice rose slightly at the end of his sentences, unconsciously pleading for agreement.

Wednesday offered him none.

“—and as you can see,” he concluded, gesturing at a chart that looked like it had been designed by someone who feared colour, “this adjustment is both reasonable and in line with market movement.”

Wednesday tapped the pen once against the table.

In the silence that followed, you could hear the room exhale without meaning to.

Her gaze lifted—dark, level, unreadable. People second-guessed themselves on instinct when she looked at them.

“No,” she said.

A few of them blinked, as if waiting for the rest of the sentence.

Wednesday didn’t give it to them.

The vendor’s smile twitched. “Pardon?”

“No,” she repeated, and finally, she leaned back slightly in her chair, calm as a coffin. “You will not receive an adjustment. You will honour the contract you signed, or we will replace you with someone who can.”

A man to the vendor’s left opened his mouth. Wednesday’s eyes flicked to him.

He closed it again.

The meeting continued. It wasn’t dramatic. It was clinical. Wednesday was very good at turning people’s urgency into embarrassment.

That was why the interruption registered like a crack in glass.

The boardroom doors opened without a knock.

Not a slam. Not a rush. Just—opened, smooth and sure.

And her assistant stepped in.

Gina matched the building in its restraint—dark hair cut cleanly at the jaw, blouse pressed, tablet tucked against her side. She stepped inside without noise, movements economical and precise. She paused at the threshold, eyes sweeping the room once before settling on Wednesday, careful and exact.

Wednesday was selective about proximity. Competence mattered, but so did restraint—people who understood silence, who didn’t fill space for comfort or ego. Gina had proven herself early: observant without being invasive, decisive without theatrics, loyal without needing reassurance. She anticipated needs instead of reacting to them, and when she spoke, it was because something genuinely required her voice. Wednesday had chosen her for precisely that reason.

“Ms Addams,” she said. “Your wife is here.”

Wednesday did not move.

The only change was the smallest tightening at her jaw, the fractional lift of her eyes. Confusion, first. A rare guest.

Enid did not come here. Enid hated corporate buildings. Enid hated the smell of expensive carpet and the feeling that you were meant to behave in a very specific way to be allowed inside. Enid loved Wednesday’s ambition and power and sharp edges, but she preferred them at home, where she could soften them with kisses and noise and sunshine.

Enid did not come here.

Around the table, a few people shifted. A cough was swallowed. Someone straightened in their chair, sensing movement without yet understanding it. The vendor paused mid-breath, eyes flicking between Wednesday and the open door, unsure whether to speak or disappear.

Wednesday’s stomach—normally kept cool, disciplined—shifted.

Her gaze dropped to the phone beside her notepad.

Face down.

She turned it over.

The screen lit up like a confession: missed calls, stacked and impatient.

ENID (7)
SCHOOL OFFICE (3)
ENID (2)

Her fingers closed around the phone hard enough that the case creaked.

She had put it on silent because the meeting mattered. Because the contract mattered. Because someone was trying to move numbers and she needed to be fully present.

Because she had assumed everything else would remain contained.

A date surfaced first—sharp and brief. An appointment. A pickup time misjudged. A routine disrupted by her own rigidity.

Then—

The other possibility rose immediately, uninvited and unwelcome.

The children.

Vesper and Mateo existed inside a world she had designed with precision: security layered over routine, routine reinforced by attention. If that world had been breached—if something had slipped through while she was watching charts and listening to men explain money—

Her chest tightened.

“Pause,” Wednesday said, standing.

The chair barely made a sound.

“Five minutes.”

No one questioned it. No one attempted humour or protest. Five minutes, from Wednesday, was not a courtesy. It was a warning.

She was already moving, phone in hand, boots striking the floor with quiet intent.

Behind her, the meeting sat suspended—charts forgotten, leverage meaningless—as the doors closed and Wednesday Addams walked out.

The corridor outside the boardroom was quiet, cushioned by thick walls and flooring designed to swallow sound. Gina waited just beyond the doors, posture neutral, expression composed, though her eyes tracked Wednesday with deliberate care.

For a brief, unwanted moment, Wednesday wondered how the interaction had gone.

Enid had never met Gina. That alone made it notable—Gina occupied more of Wednesday’s working life than almost anyone else.

The unease wasn’t about people. It was about proximity.

Enid had stepped into a part of Wednesday’s life that was usually sealed off—glass and control and carefully measured distance. A place where Wednesday was precise, unreadable, and rarely required to explain herself. The thought of Enid seeing that version of her, unfiltered and out of context, stirred a low tension she didn’t bother to name.

Not concern. Not doubt.
Exposure.

Wednesday preferred her worlds kept separate unless she chose otherwise.

She kept walking.

“She’s in your office,” Gina said.

Wednesday’s stride sharpened. “How long?”

“Two minutes.”

Two minutes was enough time for Enid to apologise to three people and offer to reschedule a meeting she didn’t have.

Wednesday reached her office doors and pushed them open.

Her office was not large for the sake of vanity. It was large because space intimidated people. The windows ran floor to ceiling and looked out over the city—roads like veins, cars like blood cells, the river slicing the grid with indifferent grace. Behind her desk, shelves of dark wood held files, awards, books that had never been bought for decoration. Everything had a purpose.

In the corner, a drinks cabinet stood like a quiet threat. Inside, bottles of whiskey and bourbon were lined with obsessive neatness. Not flashy—no neon labels—just quality, the kind that tasted like fire and consequences. Two heavy tumblers sat beside them, polished so clean they looked unused.

Her desk was tidy. Almost sterile.

Except for the photographs.

They were subtle. They weren’t displayed like a normal person’s life. No big frames, no sentimental clutter. Just three small, matte black frames angled where she could see them when she sat down.

One was their wedding day. Enid in white, hair bright like a rebellion, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. Wednesday beside her in black, expression like she’d just won something dangerous, but her hand clenched around Enid’s as if the world might try to steal her away.

One was Mateo as a baby, asleep in Wednesday’s arms. He’d been so small, so unbelievably quiet, that Wednesday had stared at him for hours like she was trying to understand what she’d made.

The third was Vesper at five, standing in the backyard with mud on her knees and her hands held up like claws, grinning wide enough to show every tooth. Enid was behind her, half-crouched, ready to catch her if she fell. Wednesday had been the one taking the photo, and you could tell, because Vesper’s eyes were aimed directly at her, proud and defiant like she was performing for an audience of one.

Enid stood in front of the desk, not fidgeting, not pacing—just still in a way that meant she was holding herself together on purpose.

There was paint on her jeans, a faint smear along her wrist, a speck of dried colour near the hem of her sleeve. The quiet evidence of a day spent on scaffolds and drop cloths, on colour charts and half-finished walls—not pickups or schedules or lunches cut into neat shapes. She looked like she’d come straight from a job site, not stopped to change, not paused long enough to soften the transition.

She had only gone back to work once Mateo started school. Not all at once. Carefully. Taking small contracts at first, then larger ones, rebuilding a career she’d stepped away from without ever naming it a sacrifice. Murals. Community spaces. Commissioned interiors that wanted warmth without chaos. Work that left paint under her nails and colour in her hair and made her feel like herself again.

Wednesday noticed the rush in the details—the untied lace, the hurried ponytail, the way Enid stood still now, as if the day had only just caught up with her. Whatever the school had said, it had been enough to pull her away mid-task, enough to make her choose speed over polish.

That landed harder than it should have.

Enid lifted her gaze.

It was quiet. No rush. No apology yet. Just a look—steady, tired, fully present in a way that made the rest of the room fall away. The kind of look that carried the weight of a day already lived too fast.

“Wednesday,” she said.

Not a greeting. Not a question. Recognition.

Wednesday felt it immediately—the shift between the woman she’d left at home before dawn and the one standing in front of her now. She’d slipped out early that morning, careful not to wake anyone, suit already pressed, coffee already planned. She’d kissed Enid’s shoulder in the half-light, murmured a promise about dinner she fully intended to keep. The day had started clean. Controlled.

Enid’s had clearly not.

She drew a breath, about to speak, about to apologise for something she hadn’t done wrong.

Wednesday stepped in before the words could turn inward.

“Are you alright?”

It cut the moment clean in half.

Enid’s shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relief—recognition. She hadn’t been asked that yet. Not by the school. Not by herself. The question landed somewhere softer than panic, steadier than reassurance.

“I am,” Enid said after a beat. Honest. Then, quieter, “I think.”

Wednesday noticed the way Enid’s gaze wandered—and tightened immediately.

Not curiosity. Assessment. The room pressed in on people who weren’t used to being measured by it. Glass, height, restraint. Everything here existed to keep others slightly off balance, and Wednesday had no interest in letting that happen to her wife.

She moved first.

“Sit,” Wednesday said, already turning, already pulling one of the chairs out from the desk. Not a command—an offering. A small correction to the room itself.

Enid blinked, then nodded, perching on the edge of the chair as if unsure whether she was allowed to settle. Wednesday waited until she did. Only then did she take her own seat, angling it just enough to close the distance between them.

The glass door slid shut behind them with a muted click. Gina was gone.

Wednesday registered the faint hitch in Enid’s posture—the awareness of paint on denim, of being in a space that hadn’t been built for softness or colour or apology. Wednesday felt an unexpected flare of irritation at the room for causing it.

She leaned back slightly, grounding the moment.

“You want anything?” Wednesday asked quietly. “Water. Tea.”

Enid shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her mouth despite herself. Then it slipped away.

Her attention snapped back where it belonged.

“The school called,” Enid said. “They asked me to come in. They said they needed both of us.”

Wednesday felt the change immediately—the way the room seemed to lose weight, the meeting upstairs fading into irrelevance, the city beyond the glass blurring into noise.

“They wouldn’t tell me why,” Enid added, quieter now.

Wednesday leaned forward, forearms resting lightly on the desk, closing the space between them. The shift was subtle but complete—the executive dissolving, the mother stepping in without hesitation.

“Which child,” she asked, voice calm and steady.

And just like that, the office stopped mattering.

“It’s Vesper,” Enid said. She kept her voice steady, but the name carried its own gravity. “They wouldn’t explain. Just… today. Now.”

Wednesday felt the significance settle immediately.

This wasn’t routine. This wasn’t a grazed knee or a forgotten lunch or a quick check-in at pick-up. In eight years—through daycare, through prep, through Vesper’s first year and now well into her second—there had never been a call like this. Never a request that required both of them, immediately, in the middle of a school day.

The children were still young. Too young for escalation. Too young for secrecy.

Something had gone wrong.

She glanced down at her phone again, thumb hovering over the screen as the missed calls stared back. The timestamps clustered during the meeting—stacked, insistent.

Wednesday saw it then.

The silence Enid had walked into. The choice she’d made by default.

A thin, unwelcome line of guilt tightened in Wednesday’s chest.

Enid stayed where she was for a moment, letting the office assert itself around her. The height. The quiet. The way the city sat beyond the glass, distant and contained. She took in the dark shelves, the clean lines, the absence of anything unnecessary. Nothing here existed without intent.

It was all so unmistakably Wednesday it almost made her smile.

She looked down at her jeans, the faint smear of paint at the knee, then back up at her wife.

“Well,” she said lightly—not quite joking, not quite apologising, “I definitely don’t belong in here.”

Wednesday turned toward her fully. “You do.”

Enid huffed, unconvinced. “I smell like turps.”

“That is not disqualifying,” Wednesday replied. “Several people upstairs smell like panic.”

That earned a flicker of a smile.

Wednesday reached for her phone, already shifting gears, the transition immediate and complete.

Whatever had brought Enid here had recalibrated the day.

Wednesday tapped the desk once, sharp and economical, then reached for the intercom.

“Gina.”

It took less than a second.

“Yes, Ms Addams.”

“Clear my afternoon,” Wednesday said. No preamble. No justification. “Push the vendor meeting. Reschedule anything non-urgent. I’ll review documents tonight.”

There was the briefest pause on the other end—not hesitation, just calculation.

“Understood,” Gina replied. “I’ll update the board and legal.”

“Thank you.”

The line went dead.

Enid hadn’t spoken. She watched instead.

She watched the way Wednesday didn’t raise her voice, didn’t explain herself, didn’t soften the directive. The way the room seemed to rearrange itself around that certainty. This was authority without performance, power exercised quietly and without apology.

It still caught her off guard sometimes.

Enid stayed where she was, fingers loosely laced in her lap, but her eyes lifted—really lifted—to take Wednesday in. The suit. The posture. The way the room seemed calibrated around her presence.

“You’re… a lot,” Enid said quietly, not teasing. Just stating a fact. “In here.”

Wednesday tilted her head slightly. “Is that a complaint.”

“No,” Enid said, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “It’s intimidating. And—” She paused, then added honestly, “unfairly attractive.”

For the briefest moment, colour touched Wednesday’s cheekbones, faint enough to be missed by anyone who didn’t know where to look. She turned just slightly, as if to reorient herself, and cleared her throat. “It’s context,” she said.

“Still,” Enid went on, softer now, “maybe one day I’ll come visit this world again. Under better circumstances. Without paint on my jeans.”

“That can be arranged,” Wednesday replied. “You may keep the paint.”

Enid smiled, warmth blooming despite herself.

The glass door slid open again, smooth and controlled, and Gina stepped back inside. She moved to the side of the desk, tablet already in hand, eyes flicking briefly to Wednesday for confirmation before she spoke.

“I’ve moved the remaining meetings to later in the week,” she said. “I’ll flag anything that can’t wait.”

“Good,” Wednesday replied.

Gina nodded once, then let her gaze lift again—this time settling briefly on Enid before moving back to Wednesday with practiced ease.

Enid noticed things without meaning to. The way Gina held herself—straight-backed but relaxed. The efficiency in her movements, each step measured, purposeful. She was young, yes, but not in a way that read as inexperienced.

Enid found herself wondering, briefly, what Wednesday had shared of her outside this building. Whether Gina knew her name only because it appeared on a calendar, or because Wednesday had spoken it in passing. Whether she knew there were two children. Whether Wednesday talked about home at all—or kept that part of herself as sealed as everything else in this place.

Gina’s attention held to Wednesday, professional and focused. There was respect there. Clear, earned. Not awe. Not infatuation. Not anything that reached beyond its boundaries. Whatever admiration existed stayed firmly within the lines of work and trust.

It should have reassured Enid.

And it did—mostly.

Gina finished her update, efficient as ever. “I’ll handle the rest.”

“Thank you,” Wednesday said.

Gina inclined her head once and stepped back, the glass door sliding shut behind her.

Enid exhaled quietly.

Wednesday turned back to her, expression already softer, the edges filed down now that the room was no longer watching.

The quiet that followed carried more weight than the teasing had. It settled in, drawing Enid’s thoughts back to where they’d been circling all afternoon.

Her voice lowered. “What if we missed something,” she said. “What if she’s not okay and we didn’t notice because she’s… good at being bright.”

Wednesday didn’t answer immediately.

She reached for Enid’s bag, lifting it from the chair and setting it aside with care, then offered her hand. Not a question. An anchor.

Enid took it.

Wednesday drew her to her feet with calm certainty, keeping her close enough that the office lost its edges.

“If there was something to see,” Wednesday said quietly, “we will see it now.”

Enid searched her face. “And if there is?”

Wednesday’s grip tightened just slightly. “Then we address it.”

It wasn’t reassurance meant to soothe.

It was a promise.

Enid leaned forward without asking, resting her forehead against Wednesday’s shoulder. Just for a moment. Long enough to breathe. Wednesday shifted slightly to meet her, one hand coming up to rub slow, steady circles along Enid’s arm—anchoring rather than comforting, a reminder that she wasn’t carrying this alone.

Enid breathed out, the tension easing by degrees instead of all at once. When she lifted her head, her voice was quieter, steadier.

“Careful,” she said softly. “Your reputation might crumble. They’d all see you’re just… pathetically in love with your wife.”

Wednesday’s expression didn’t change. “They already know that.”

The words landed without softness or humour. Just certainty.

Something in Enid’s chest tightened—not panic this time, but feeling. She nodded once, accepting it, grounding herself in the solidity of Wednesday standing there, unmoved and unwavering.

Wednesday squeezed her hand once. Not encouragement. Direction. “Come.”

Enid nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

Wednesday reached for her coat. “You are my wife,” she said evenly. “They are our children. This is not a favour.”

Enid swallowed and inclined her head. “I know.”

They moved together then—no banter, no hesitation. Just alignment, immediate and unspoken.

They walked out together.

The lift doors slid open into the lobby and people moved around them like water around stone—parting without quite knowing why. Late-morning light spilled through the glass atrium, sharp and clean, catching on polished floors and suits in motion. A few heads turned. Wednesday Addams didn’t often move through public spaces with someone who looked like warmth and colour made human.

They stepped into the lift just as the doors began to close.

“Hold it.”

Wednesday reached out automatically, palm flattening against the sensor.

A man stepped in—mid-fifties, sharp suit, silver threaded through his hair. Senior enough that the building seemed to recognise him. His attention went to Wednesday first.

“Ma’am.”

Wednesday inclined her head. “Good morning.”

His gaze shifted then—brief, curious—taking in Enid: the paint on her jeans, the softness that didn’t belong in a space built from glass and hierarchy. Just a fraction longer than courtesy allowed.

Enid felt it and, without thinking, took a small step back—toward the corner, toward invisibility.

Wednesday noticed.

She moved with her instead—not to shield, not to hide—but to close the space. Her hand settled at the small of Enid’s back, light but decisive, keeping her exactly where she was. Not an announcement. A correction.

The man’s focus snapped neatly back to business.

“I reviewed the updated projections,” he said. “Legal’s pushing back on clause seventeen again.”

“They would,” Wednesday replied. “They’re assuming worst-case behaviour.”

He nodded. “I told them as much. Still, they’ll want your sign-off before end of week.”

“They’ll have it,” Wednesday said. “In writing.”

“Yes, ma’am.” A pause. “The board dinner’s been moved to Thursday.”

Wednesday’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Noted.”

Enid stood very still, aware of the hand at her back—steady, anchoring. Her own hands had gone quiet.

The lift slowed.

“I won’t keep you,” the man said, already pulling out his phone. “Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning,” Wednesday replied.

He stepped out. The doors slid shut.

The silence that followed was gentler than before.

Wednesday didn’t move her hand right away.

Enid let out a slow breath. “Wow,” she murmured. Then, softer, with the faintest curve to her mouth, “No wonder you iron your shirts.”

Wednesday’s gaze stayed forward. “He reports to me.”

Enid’s smile deepened, just a touch. “Mm. Bossy.”

Wednesday glanced at her from the corner of her eye. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little,” Enid admitted quietly. “Very… authoritative.”

The lift chimed and opened into the underground parking.

Wednesday stepped out first and held the door without thinking.

The corridor was cool and orderly—stone floors, glass walls, low voices, screens ticking quietly along the edges.

Enid followed, the sound of her shoes momentarily out of place among the quiet authority of heels and leather soles.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Enid said quietly, perfectly straight-faced.

Wednesday rolled her eyes and angled instinctively toward the staff elevators—keycard access, quieter, closer to the executive parking below. She laced their fingers together without thinking and kept walking.

Enid squeezed once, grounding herself in it.

They crossed the lobby together, past security and glass turnstiles, toward the main exit. The late-morning light beyond the doors was bright but distant, held back by glass.

Wednesday was already steering them toward the internal access corridor when Enid slowed.

“Hey,” Enid said gently, giving their joined hands a small tug. “I parked outside. On the street.”

Wednesday stopped.

Her gaze flicked once toward the staff entrance ahead—controlled, convenient—then back to Enid. Her expression didn’t change, but something recalibrated behind it.

Enid caught the pause and smiled, small and knowing. “Sorry.”

Then, more practically, “We’ll have to take two cars back.”

Wednesday considered that for half a second. “I’ll come with you.”

Enid laughed under her breath. “You say that now.” She tilted her head. “You won’t once you see the inside of the car.”

“I cleaned it,” Wednesday replied.

“Yes,” Enid agreed easily. “A week ago.” Her mouth curved. “We have children.”

Wednesday had no immediate rebuttal.

They stepped out onto the street together, the city louder here—traffic rolling past, footsteps overlapping, a delivery truck idling too close to the curb. Enid’s car sat where she’d left it, squeezed into a narrow space and immediately recognisable as theirs.

A pale SUV. Practical. Unassuming. Chosen for safety ratings and boot space rather than aesthetics. The back seats still held booster cushions, properly anchored, one decorated with a slightly crooked wolf sticker peeling at the edge. A canvas tote slumped on the floor with spare jumpers and a forgotten library book. Even with the doors closed, the faint smell of sunscreen and apples lingered.

Enid called it her soccer mum car.

Wednesday had never understood this, given neither of their children played soccer.

And unmistakably—

Ticketed.

Enid stopped short. “Oh—”

Wednesday’s gaze followed hers to the thin white slip tucked under the wiper, fluttering faintly in the breeze.

“I’m sorry,” Enid said immediately, already reaching for it. “I panicked. I didn’t even think.”

Wednesday looked at her. A steady glance that made it clear this did not require an apology.

Enid’s shoulders loosened as she peeled the ticket free and tucked it into the cup holder like it might misbehave if left unattended. She glanced over, sheepish. “I could drive you in tomorrow. Save you the train.”

Wednesday didn’t answer. She reached out instead, palm open.

Enid blinked, then placed the keys into her hand without comment.

Wednesday moved around the car and slid into the driver’s seat, adjusting it with habitual precision. Only once the door shut did she look back over.

“I’ll get an Uber,” Wednesday said.

Enid’s mouth curved. “Pity. The Uber won’t be as charming, or know exactly which turns you hate.”

“It will also not smell like socks,” Wednesday replied calmly.

Enid laughed, shaking her head. “Rude. For the record, the Uber also won’t bring snacks, emotional support, or impeccable playlists.”

Wednesday pulled the car smoothly out of the space. “It will bring silence.”

Enid settled back in her seat, smiling.

The drive out of the city took just under thirty minutes on a good day—long enough for the glass and steel to fall away, short enough that Wednesday never felt cut off from it. The skyline thinned, roads widening, traffic loosening its grip as the pace softened into something liveable.

It hadn’t been an accident.

When Wednesday was pregnant, Enid had researched neighbourhoods the way she researched everything—thoroughly, obsessively, with colour-coded notes and tabs open at three in the morning. She wanted somewhere that felt safe without feeling stifling, close enough to the city that Wednesday could still work late if she needed to, far enough out that children could exist loudly without consequence. Good schools. Green space. Streets where kids rode bikes and neighbours noticed if something felt off but didn’t feel entitled to your life.

Wednesday had listened. Quietly. Carefully.

They’d driven through more suburbs than Enid could remember—some too pristine, some too exposed, some too eager to know your name and your business. Eventually they’d found this one: older homes with bones worth keeping, trees that had grown without permission, footpaths cracked just enough to prove they’d been there a while. It was expensive, yes, but in a way that bought distance rather than attention.

Their street was calm. Watchful. People waved when you passed, not because they wanted conversation, but because acknowledging each other was part of the unspoken agreement. Privacy was respected. Curiosity was contained.

Wednesday liked it because no one tried to be her friend.

Enid liked it because the bakery two blocks away remembered her name, asked after the kids, and slipped an extra pastry into the bag when it was late in the day.

Their life fit here.

Routine settled over it like something carefully chosen rather than endured: school drop-offs in the morning, work that bent but didn’t break their days, after-school commitments that rotated without chaos. Dinner together more often than not. Bedtime stories that turned into quiet negotiations.

Mateo moved through it all with soft-spoken precision—button-up shirts, careful hands, hair that insisted on springing back into wild curls no matter how diligently he tried to train it into place. Vesper, by contrast, filled the house with motion and commentary, collecting odd facts like treasures and offering them freely, her energy bright and uncontained.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was intentional.

Enid grew quiet.

It wasn’t abrupt. Just a gradual stilling—the way her shoulders eased back into the seat, the way her gaze fixed on the passing streets without really seeing them. One hand rested in her lap, fingers absently tracing the seam of her jeans.

Wednesday noticed immediately.

She didn’t say anything at first. She let the silence sit, let it breathe. Her own thoughts had drifted inward too, turning over possibilities with the kind of cold, methodical focus she reserved for problems that mattered. Schools didn’t call both parents unless something had crossed a threshold. Injury. Escalation. Pattern.

Or fear.

Enid inhaled, like she was about to speak.

Then stopped.

Wednesday kept her eyes on the road and waited.

A full block passed. Then another.

Finally—

“What if…” Enid began, then trailed off, shaking her head slightly.

Wednesday’s voice stayed calm, patient. “What if.”

Enid swallowed. “What if she doesn’t have any friends.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

Enid turned her face toward the window again, voice quieter now. “I know she’s different. And I don’t just mean the werewolf stuff. That part—she’s grown up with that. It’s… everything else.”

Wednesday’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

“She’s eight,” Enid said again, like saying it enough times might make it safer. “And she talks like she’s fifty.”

She smiled a little, tired and fond. “She doesn’t just like facts. She sort of… lives in them. Trees, ants, space—whatever’s in front of her. She talks like everyone’s excited to listen too, and sometimes she doesn’t realise when they aren’t.”

Her hands twisted together. “She’s got so much energy. She really wants to connect. And sometimes I worry she’s trying a bit too hard—like she thinks she has to be everything at once so people won’t leave.”

Wednesday listened, jaw tight, chest aching in a way she didn’t have words for yet.

“She is not you,” Wednesday said. “And she is not me.”

Enid watched her.

“She recounts her days in detail,” Wednesday continued. “Names. Moments. Laughter. That is not the language of a child being overlooked.”

Enid nodded, but the worry didn’t fully lift. “I know. I know she sounds happy.”

A beat passed.

Then Enid’s voice dropped. “But… no one came to her party. Remember?”

Wednesday’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.

She remembered everything.

The invites. The silence. The way Enid had kept smiling while her heart cracked quietly. The way Wednesday had pivoted without hesitation—family called in, plans rewritten, the house filled until the absence was drowned out.

Vesper had been ecstatic. Overstimulated. Certain it had been perfect.

But Wednesday had seen the moment Enid turned away, had felt the sharp, helpless anger of knowing joy had been salvaged rather than shared.

“She was happy,” Wednesday said, steady but not dismissive. “She still is.”

Enid swallowed. “I just don’t want that happiness to be built on us fixing things behind the scenes forever.”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

She reached across the console, her hand closing over Enid’s.

Her gaze stayed on the road ahead, jaw set, eyes dark with something uncharacteristically unguarded. Not indifference. Not distance. A quiet, rising protectiveness—sharp and unfamiliar, edged with the fear she rarely allowed herself to name.

Her thumb brushed once over Enid’s knuckles. That was all.

It was enough.

The car continued on, the neighbourhood drawing closer, both of them carrying the same thought now—

Please let her be okay.

The school came into view at the end of a long, quiet street lined with jacaranda trees and tightly parked cars—most of them staff vehicles, judging by the lack of child seats and forgotten drink bottles. It was the middle of the day, well before lunch, and the place had a different energy than it did at drop-off or pick-up: contained, purposeful, humming beneath the surface.

It was private. Orderly. Well-funded in the way that showed itself in trimmed lawns, discreet signage, and buildings that looked designed to last rather than impress. Children crossed the oval in clusters instead of chaos, uniforms crisp in navy and white, polished shoes and wide-brimmed hats lending them a seriousness that felt premature.

The noise still hit hard.

Not the frantic edge of dismissal, but the constant background thrum of children existing together—voices rising and falling, a whistle somewhere in the distance, laughter spilling from one end of the grounds while a sharp call for attention cut through it from another.

Wednesday’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly.

The smell followed: cut grass, warm concrete, sunscreen lingering from the morning, something faintly sweet and sticky that suggested juice or fruit long since spilled.

She had only been here a handful of times—the first-day tour, an award night, a school play. Not for lack of care or effort, but because the environment was calibrated for a kind of social endurance she did not possess.

Enid did. She volunteered, chatted, remembered names, turned noise into connection. Wednesday let her lead there, confident in the balance they’d built.

Enid unbuckled before the car had fully stopped.

Wednesday cut the engine and stepped out, her movements calm and deliberate.

They walked toward the front office together—Enid quick and visibly wound tight, her worry spilling into her stride; Wednesday measured, composed, black against the pale buildings like a shadow that had learned to exist in daylight.

The front office was cool and quiet by comparison. A reception desk, a few chairs, walls crowded with student artwork arranged into forced cheerfulness. A woman behind the desk looked up with a polite smile that wavered as she took them in.

“Mrs Sinclair?” she said, then hesitated. “And… Mrs Addams.”

Enid nodded immediately. “Hi. We got a call.”

“Yes,” the receptionist said, already standing. “The principal is expecting you.”

They were led down a hallway lined with posters about kindness and resilience, every one of them rendered in overly friendly fonts that made Wednesday’s teeth itch. Children’s voices echoed from behind classroom doors. A bell rang somewhere deeper in the building. A teacher laughed, sharp and fleeting.

Wednesday’s gaze flicked from door to door as they passed—small desks, bright pencil cases, carefully arranged chaos.

She did not see Vesper.

Enid’s tension tightened with every step.

They stopped outside the principal’s office.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted immediately—cooler, quieter, deliberately adult. The principal’s office was designed to soothe: neutral tones, framed certificates, a window cracked just enough to let in air without sound. Mrs Hartley stood as they entered, composed and practiced, the sort of authority that came from years of managing other people’s children and their parents’ expectations.

“Mrs Sinclair. Mrs Addams,” she said, gesturing to the chairs opposite her desk. “Thank you for coming in so quickly.”

Enid sat like she was ready to spring back up at any moment. Wednesday sat as if she’d been invited to cross-examine.

Mrs Hartley folded her hands on the desk, posture open, deliberate.
“I want to start by saying we care very deeply about Vesper. She’s an extraordinary student—bright, engaged, curious.”

Enid didn’t even let her finish.

“Is she being bullied?” she blurted, anxiety cutting straight through politeness. “Because if she is, we can—whatever we need to do, meetings, changes, I just need to know—”

Mrs Hartley blinked, genuinely caught off guard, then softened immediately. “No. No, Mrs Sinclair.” She lifted a hand, calming, reassuring. “I promise you—that is not what this is.”

Enid froze. “It’s… not?”

“In fact,” Mrs Hartley said carefully, a small smile forming, “it’s almost the opposite.”

Enid glanced sideways at Wednesday, confusion replacing panic.

Wednesday’s voice was level. “Then why are we here.”

Mrs Hartley exhaled quietly, clearly choosing precision over comfort. “There was an incident early this morning. A situation that escalated… socially.”

Enid leaned forward, heart back in her throat. “Was someone hurt?”

“No,” Mrs Hartley said quickly. “Nothing physical. No injuries.”

Enid let out a breath.

“The concern,” Mrs Hartley continued, “is not that Vesper is isolated. It’s that she is influential.”

That stopped both of them.

“She has, over time, gathered a very close group of classmates around her,” Mrs Hartley explained. “Children who seek her out. Who listen to her. Who follow her lead. Vesper refers to them as her… ‘pack.’”

Enid’s mouth fell open, surprise overtaking her before she could rein it in.

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed slightly—not alarmed. Assessing.

Mrs Hartley met Enid’s gaze gently. “Mrs Sinclair… Vesper was the cause of the distress.”

The room went still.

Enid blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

Mrs Hartley’s tone remained calm, professional. “We’re aware Vesper comes from a unique background.”

Wednesday’s gaze sharpened, but Enid stayed still, attention locked forward, absorbing every word as if interrupting might make her miss something vital.

“We are fully committed to inclusion,” Mrs Hartley continued, carefully stepping through each word. “However, using fear to manage social situations—particularly to exclude other students—is not acceptable.”

Enid’s colour drained. “Fear?”

Wednesday’s mouth twitched.

Enid snapped her head toward her instantly, catching the almost-smile before it fully formed. Her eyes narrowed into a look that could have stopped traffic.

Do not.

Wednesday’s expression smoothed back into neutrality with infuriating ease.

Mrs Hartley’s voice firmed. “This morning, Vesper led her group in deliberately isolating another child. She positioned herself between the child and her classmates, bared her teeth, and showed her fangs.”

Enid’s hand flew to her mouth.

“She told the child,” Mrs Hartley continued, evenly, “‘Stop snivelling and acting like prey,’ and implied that continued behaviour would result in everyone knowing she was weak.”

Wednesday’s gaze dipped, briefly—just long enough to conceal the dangerous flicker of something that was not concern.

“She was,” Mrs Hartley said carefully, “remarkably persuasive. Intimidating. The other child felt cornered. Several students were visibly shaken.”

Enid stared at the desk, horrified. “Oh my God.”

Mrs Hartley softened her tone again. “Vesper is not lacking friends. If anything, she has many. What we need to address is how she’s choosing to lead them.”

Enid pressed her palms together, mortified, overwhelmed. “She’s eight.”

“Yes,” Mrs Hartley agreed. “And she carries authority well beyond her age.”

Enid closed her eyes. “That’s… not comforting.”

Mrs Hartley offered a small, sympathetic smile. “No. But it is something we can guide.”

Wednesday’s gaze remained steady. “What consequences.”

Mrs Hartley blinked, momentarily thrown by the precision of the question. “We’d like Vesper to apologise to the student involved,” she said carefully. “At the moment, she’s… resistant to the idea. And we’d like to work with you on strategies—ways to help her understand social boundaries and the impact of her behaviour.”

Enid nodded far too quickly, embarrassment colouring her cheeks. “Yes. Yes, absolutely. Whatever you need.”

“We’re not trying to shame her,” Mrs Hartley added gently. “She is remarkable. Truly. We just need to ensure she’s safe—and that the other children feel safe around her.”

Enid swallowed. “Would it be better if we took her home?” The question slipped out before she could temper it. Protective. Immediate. “Just for the rest of today.”

Mrs Hartley considered it for a moment. “That may be wise,” she said. “She’s asked to go home.”

Enid’s jaw tightened, something soft and aching passing through her eyes. “Okay.”

Mrs Hartley continued. “I’ll go and bring her to you.”

She stood and stepped out, closing the door quietly behind her.

The silence that followed was thick.

Enid turned to Wednesday, mortified, voice dropping into a loud whisper despite herself.
“She’s not being bullied,” she hissed. “She’s—she is the bully!”

Wednesday’s eyes shone with something dangerous—sharp, bright—but she was smart enough not to let it surface too much.

Enid ran a hand through her hair, flustered. “This is not—this is not what I thought we were walking into.”

“No,” Wednesday said quietly.

“We need to talk to her properly.” Enid continued, already shifting into damage control. “And honestly—we may as well get Mateo now too. There’s no point dragging coming back out.”

Wednesday nodded once.

They left the office together.

And there she was.

Vesper sat on one of the small chairs in reception, legs swinging because her feet didn’t reach the floor. Her uniform still looked a little too big on her—navy pinafore hanging just slightly loose, white shirt crisp but rumpled, socks pulled high, polished shoes that hadn’t quite scuffed yet. Her hair was tied into two low neat pigtails that made her look sweet enough to sell cookies at a school fete.

Her face, however, was pure Addams.

Wide, dark eyes. Light freckles. A stillness that didn’t belong in an eight-year-old.

Until she saw Enid.

Then the composure cracked.

Her mouth wobbled, guilt washing over her in a visible wave. She shrank back into the chair, suddenly small, hands clasped tight in her lap. Suddenly the picture of a child who knew she’d crossed a line.

Enid crossed the space and crouched in front of her, voice shifting into mum voice—low, calm, unmistakably serious.

“Vesper,” Enid said, voice low and steady. Not angry—but serious in a way that meant this wasn’t something they were fixing later. “We’re going home. And we are going to talk about what happened.”

Vesper’s lower lip caught between her teeth. She nodded once, small, shoulders drawing in.

Enid crouched slightly to her level, hands resting on her knees. “This isn’t a quick chat. This is a serious one. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Vesper said quietly.

Her eyes slid past Enid anyway.

To Wednesday.

She stood just behind Enid, posture composed, hands folded loosely in front of her. Her face gave nothing away—but her eyes did. There was a glint there. Brief. Sharp. Something like approval, or interest, or the faintest spark of well done that had no business being present.

Vesper saw it.

Her mouth twitched before she could stop it. A small, traitorous smirk tugged at one corner.

Wednesday caught herself immediately—jaw tightening, gaze going flat as she extinguished it before it could become anything more.

Enid felt the shift without seeing it.

She turned her head just enough. “No,” she said gently but firmly. “Eyes on me.”

Vesper swallowed and looked back, the smirk gone as fast as it had appeared.

Behind Enid, Wednesday exhaled through her nose, the smallest release. Pride curbed. Lesson pending.

Some instincts were inherited.

Others had to be unlearned.

And this one… would take work.

Enid straightened slightly. “Your mother is just going to get Mateo. You and I are going to talk.”

She looked over her shoulder.

Wednesday met Vesper’s eyes and gave her one look—quiet, firm, unyielding.

Listen to your mum.

Then she turned and walked down the corridor toward Mateo’s classroom, leaving Enid and Vesper facing each other in the bright, watchful quiet of the school reception.

Wednesday found Mateo’s classroom without hesitation.

His room was exactly where it had been since orientation, and nothing in her world stayed unknown if it involved her children.

She didn’t knock.

She opened the door and stepped inside, her presence cutting cleanly through the low classroom hum.

Mateo looked up immediately.

His face shifted in a way that most people never saw.

Just a small smile—careful, private—because it was rare for his mother to be the one standing there in the middle of the day.

His mismatched eyes caught the light as he stood: one bright blue like Enid’s, the other deep brown like Wednesday’s. His freckles stood out against warm tan skin, and his dark, stubborn curls had already escaped whatever careful effort he’d made that morning to tame them.

He pushed his chair in properly before collecting his bag, movements precise and habitual. When he reached Wednesday’s side, his hand slid into hers without hesitation.

The teacher—Miss Alvarez today—looked up, startled. “Mrs Addams? Is everything—”

“We’re leaving,” Wednesday said calmly.

Mateo glanced up at her, then back to his teacher. “Thank you for today, Miss.”

Miss Alvarez blinked, then smiled. “Of course, Mateo.”

They stepped back into the corridor together, the classroom door closing softly behind them.

Mateo walked beside Wednesday in silence, his small hand warm in hers. He didn’t ask questions—not yet. He knew the difference. Emergencies were explained. Everything else waited until there was space for it.

Wednesday felt the familiar, uneasy recognition settle in her chest.

He moved through the world the way she did—observant, contained, careful with words. It worried her sometimes. Not because it was wrong, but because she knew the cost of that kind of control. She had lived it. Built herself from it.

But Mateo was not only hers.

Where Wednesday held her thoughts tight and sharp, Mateo carried a softness she still struggled to understand. He noticed things she missed. He felt for people without needing to dissect why. He absorbed Enid’s warmth as naturally as he absorbed structure, empathy threading through his restraint like something intentional rather than fragile.

It was the difference that mattered.

After a few steps, he spoke anyway, voice low, precise. “Is Vesper in trouble.”

“She made a poor decision,” Wednesday replied.

Mateo nodded once, accepting this as fact. “She does that sometimes.”

There was no judgement in it. Just acknowledgment. An understanding that mistakes were part of people, not the sum of them.

Wednesday’s mouth twitched despite herself.

She squeezed his hand once—brief, grounding. Gratitude without ceremony.

And kept walking.

They crossed the car park into the glare of midday sun. Enid’s SUV waited near the edge, familiar and forgiving in its lived-in way.

Enid opened the rear door and guided Vesper inside, movements calm and practiced despite the tension still clinging to her shoulders. She helped her up into the booster seat, tugging the straps straight, checking the buckle twice—hands steady, voice low as she murmured reminders Vesper already knew.

Vesper went along with it quietly, chin tucked, posture small. The earlier bravado was gone, folded in on itself somewhere between the school doors and the car.

Mateo’s steps slowed just slightly.

When Enid looked up and saw him, her face softened immediately.

Mateo’s smile returned—small but unmistakable—as he slipped free of Wednesday’s hand and went to her. Enid cupped his cheek instinctively, thumb brushing over freckles she’d kissed a thousand times.

“Hey,” Enid murmured. “Did you have a good day?”

Enid helped him up into his seat, guiding his legs in and tugging the strap straight before clicking the buckle into place. She smoothed his curls out of his eyes without thinking, thumb brushing his cheek once before stepping back.

Wednesday was already in the driver’s seat, engine humming to life as she adjusted the mirrors with habitual precision.

Vesper watched from the other side of the back seat, arms folded, chin lifted, pretending very hard not to care.

“Can you put music on please?” she asked, casual in the way that wasn’t casual at all.

Wednesday glanced up at the rear-view mirror. Their eyes met.

The look said: Not today. Not after this. Nice try.

Vesper huffed and looked out the window.

Enid let out a slow breath and met Wednesday’s eyes. “Home?”

“Yes,” Wednesday said.

The car eased out onto the road, the school shrinking behind them in the mirrors.

Vesper leaned back against the seat, legs tucked up, one shoe hooked over the other. She wasn’t sulking exactly—more… simmering. Processing. Her eyes tracked everything outside the window, mouth opening and closing like she was deciding which thought to let out first.

Mateo sat beside her, posture neat, hands folded, curls already rebelling against the headrest. He watched the passing houses with quiet interest, expression calm.

Enid broke first, because she always did.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Talk to me.”

Vesper sighed back, louder and far more theatrical. “I am talking. You just haven’t asked the right question yet.”

She let out a quiet sigh—half patience, half here we go—and glanced at the rear-view mirror.

“What happened,” Enid said again. Not gentle. Not rushed. Solid.
“In your words.”

Vesper turned properly in her seat, one knee tucked up, chin lifted with the faint confidence of someone used to being listened to. “I already told you. There was crying. It was getting annoying.”

Enid met her gaze in the mirror. She didn’t react. Didn’t rush to correct. She just waited.

“And,” Enid said calmly, “what did you do about it.”

Vesper shrugged. “I fixed it.”

“How,” Enid asked.

“I told my friends to move,” Vesper said, like it was obvious. “They listen to me.”

That part wasn’t bragging. It was just true.

Enid nodded once. “Okay. And when the other kid didn’t move.”

Vesper hesitated. Not because she was unsure — because she was deciding how much to say.

“I told her she couldn’t sit with us.”

“How,” Enid said again.

Vesper rolled her eyes. “Mum.”

“That’s still not an answer.”

A beat passed. Then Vesper huffed.

“I said she wasn’t part of my pack.”

The word sat there between them.

Wednesday felt the recognition immediately. Not shock. Not anger. Understanding. Vesper wasn’t inventing dominance — she was using it. She had friends. Plenty of them. She was the centre of her year in the way bright, confident kids sometimes were without meaning to be cruel.

Enid took a slow breath. “And why wasn’t she part of it.”

Vesper frowned, like Enid was missing something simple. “Because she doesn’t know how to act.”

“Explain,” Enid said.

“She cries,” Vesper said. “And makes everything weird. And doesn’t listen when you tell her to stop.”

Enid’s jaw tightened slightly, but her voice stayed level. “And that means.”

“That means she’s not ready,” Vesper said. “Not everyone is.”

Ready for what.

Enid didn’t ask yet.

“You showed your teeth,” Enid said instead.

Vesper looked away. “I didn’t bite her.”

“That’s not the point,” Enid replied.

“It worked,” Vesper said again, quieter now. “She stopped.”

Wednesday’s hands tightened on the wheel.
Yes, she thought. It does.

“That doesn’t make it right,” Enid said. “It makes it easier. Those aren’t the same thing.”

Vesper crossed her arms. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me,” Enid said. “What does being in your pack mean.”

Vesper thought about it. Actually thought.

“It means you get invited places,” she said. “You get to come to my house. Not everyone does.”

The car went very still.

Wednesday’s eyes flicked to Enid in the mirror.

Enid felt it land all at once.

“And the party,” she said quietly. “Is that why no one came.”

Vesper shrugged, suddenly less certain. “They weren’t ready yet.”

“Ready for what,” Enid asked.

“So you scared them,” Enid said gently, now. “So they wouldn’t come.”

“I didn’t scare them,” Vesper said quickly. “I just… told them what would happen.”

Enid didn’t respond. She held Vesper’s eyes in the mirror and waited.

“What would happen,” Enid said.

Vesper shifted in her seat. “Don’t get mad.”

Enid kept waiting.

Vesper let out a long, theatrical sigh. “I said…” Her voice dropped, shrinking as the sentence went on. “That my mother would… turn them into ghosts.”

Mateo made a small, surprised giggle before he could stop himself.

“Oh my god,” Enid whispered, hand flying to her face. “Vesper.”

Wednesday’s eyebrow lifted. Just slightly. Her mouth twitched, betraying her for half a second before she smoothed it away. She said nothing.

“It worked,” Vesper muttered, curling inward now, voice defensive. “They didn’t come.”

Enid didn’t rush to fill the space. She lowered her hand, met her daughter’s eyes in the mirror, and held them there until Vesper couldn’t look away.

“Listen to me,” Enid said, calm and immovable. “Being close to you is not something people have to earn by being afraid. Friends don’t pass tests. They don’t prove loyalty by doing what you say. If someone stays because they’re scared of losing you”—her voice tightened just enough to matter—“then they’re not choosing you at all.”

Vesper swallowed.

“And you don’t use your mother like that,” Enid continued, firmer now. “She is not a threat. She is not a story. She is not something you wave around to make people behave. That stops now.”

Vesper sank lower in her seat, chastened, wrestling with it.

Mateo glanced between them, then offered quietly, sincere, “Mother wouldn’t turn anyone into a ghost.”

Wednesday flicked him a look.

A beat.

“Unless they deserve it,” Mateo added.

“Correct,” Wednesday said calmly.

“Enough,” Enid said—not loud, not sharp. Final. She met Vesper’s eyes again. “You don’t get to decide who feels safe. That’s not leadership. That’s control.”

Vesper’s voice came smaller this time, stubborn but cracked at the edges.
“You don’t understand packs.”

Wednesday’s hands stayed steady on the wheel. Her voice didn’t rise when she spoke—but it landed.

“Do not speak to your mum like that.”

Vesper went still.

“You do not get to question her understanding,” Wednesday continued, still facing forward. “And you do not get to redefine what a pack is in this family.”

She glanced up at the mirror—not sharp, not angry, but unmistakably firm.

“If you are confused about who leads this pack,” Wednesday said, “let me correct you now.”

Enid drew a breath to interrupt.

Wednesday didn’t let her.

“This pack exists because your mother holds it together,” she said. “She keeps it safe. She notices who is hurting. She makes room. She does not need to bare her teeth to be in charge.”

Vesper’s shoulders dropped a fraction.

“It would be both wrong and foolish,” Wednesday went on, “for you to suggest otherwise.”

Silence settled in the back seat.

Vesper stared down at her hands, chastened—not crushed, but very clearly checked.

The car hummed along, tyres whispering against the road.

After a moment, Mateo shifted beside her. He didn’t look at her when he spoke, just stared at the seat in front of him, voice quiet and thoughtful.

“You could make her a card,” he said.

Vesper scoffed under her breath and leaned closer to him, whispering, “You’re such a suck-up.”

Mateo shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Cards work.”

Vesper rolled her eyes and crossed her arms again, stubbornness flaring back up. “I’m not making a card.”

Enid glanced at them in the mirror. “Actually,” she said, calm but decisive, “that’s a really good idea.”

Vesper groaned. “Muuum.”

“It is,” Enid continued, unfazed. “It means you’ve thought about what you did. It means you’re not just saying the word sorry—you’re showing it.”

Vesper slumped against the seat, defeated. “That’s so much effort.”

“Yes,” Enid said evenly. “That’s why it matters.”

A long beat passed.

Vesper picked at the seam of her pinafore, then sighed, dramatic and reluctant. “Fine. I’ll make a card.”

Mateo’s mouth curved, just slightly.

Wednesday said nothing—but her eyes softened in the mirror, the lesson landing exactly where it needed to.

Home met them gently.

The front door clicked shut and the house seemed to exhale with them—warm, familiar, caught in the wrong part of the day. Sunlight spilled through the front windows at a low angle, catching on the timber floors and turning them honey-gold. Dust motes floated lazily in the air. This was the house at rest: not the rushed mornings of missing hats and burnt toast, not the loud evenings of homework sprawled across the table and bathwater sloshing onto tiles, but the quiet middle space where everything felt slowed and strangely intimate.

Enid dropped her bag onto the entry bench—a solid oak piece scarred with use, softened by a cushion and a basket full of scarves that never quite stayed folded—and kicked off her shoes. The hallway walls were crowded with frames in mismatched sizes and finishes: matte black beside pale wood, brass next to white. Family photos, mostly. None of them formal. A blurry beach day where Enid’s hair had gone feral in the wind. A crooked school portrait where Mateo’s curls refused to behave. A candid of Wednesday at the dining table, half-smiling without realising it, caught mid-conversation.

Plants lined the windowsills and corners trailing down shelves, a stubborn fiddle-leaf fig that Enid refused to give up on, herbs in mismatched pots by the kitchen window. The house wasn’t minimal. It wasn’t curated. It was layered and warm and undeniably lived in.

“Uniforms off,” Enid said, voice already steadier now that they were home. “Wash hands. No snacks until I say so.”

Vesper groaned like she’d been mortally wounded and stomped down the hallway, already tugging at the straps of her pinafore. Mateo followed more quietly, slipping his shoes off neatly and setting them side by side before moving on. He paused at the corner, glanced back at Wednesday—checking, as he always did—then disappeared toward his room.

The quiet that followed felt earned.

Wednesday stayed where she was for a moment, absorbing the familiar sounds: drawers opening, the soft thud of footsteps overhead, Vesper’s muffled commentary drifting down the hall. Her shoulders eased without her noticing. Home did that. It let her stand down.

Mateo reappeared briefly, padded back down the hall, and wrapped his arms around Enid’s waist without a word. His cheek pressed into her side, curls tickling her arm.

Enid’s hands came up automatically, one cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow circles between his shoulders. “Hey,” she murmured.

He stayed there for a long beat—silent, grounding—before pulling back. “I’m going to help Vesper,” he said, already turning away.

“Thank you,” Enid said softly.

Wednesday watched him go, chest tightening in a way she didn’t comment on.

The kitchen glowed in the afternoon light—white benchtops warmed gold, open shelves holding mismatched ceramics, a row of mugs that told the story of a dozen half-forgotten holidays. The sink was stacked with breakfast dishes Enid hadn’t quite gotten to, a tea towel draped over the edge like a concession. A half-finished puzzle covered the dining table, pieces grouped meticulously by colour and shape.

Wednesday clocked it immediately.

Mateo’s.

She set her keys down exactly where they belonged.

The kitchen had settled back into itself.

Late-morning light slanted through the window above the sink, catching on the deep green tiles and warming the pale timber bench until it looked almost honeyed. The room smelled faintly of coffee and citrus cleaner, the quiet hum of the fridge filling the spaces between thought. It was a room built to be used—solid cabinetry, open shelves stacked with mismatched bowls, a faint scatter of glitter still clinging to the grout no matter how many times Enid swore she’d cleaned it.

Wednesday stood at the counter, glass in hand, posture composed again—but looser than she’d been all day.

Enid came up behind her without announcing herself and slid her arms around Wednesday’s waist, resting her cheek between her shoulder blades. Not clinging. Claiming. Familiar in the way only long years allowed.

“So,” Enid murmured, voice low and dry. “Apparently you turn people into ghosts.”

Wednesday exhaled through her nose. “It appears my reputation has expanded.”

Enid smiled against her back. “Very impressive. Terrifying. Corporate boss. Schoolyard myth.”

She shifted, hands flattening over Wednesday’s stomach. “Though everyone knows that in this house—” a pause, deliberate, “—I’m the alpha.”

Wednesday’s mouth curved, just barely.

She didn’t disagree.

Enid smiled faintly. “Thank you. For backing me up.”

Wednesday didn’t look away from the glass as she set it down. “That was never in question.”

Enid stepped around into Wednesday’s space, close enough to crowd her just slightly, thumb brushing the edge of the counter as she leaned in. “You don’t mind right,” Enid said. “Me taking the lead.”

A flicker of heat crossed Wednesday’s eyes. Gone as quickly as it came.

Enid caught it anyway.

She tipped her head, winked—small, private, entirely for her.

Wednesday’s eyes darkened. Her gaze flicked to Enid’s mouth, then back up—one beat of restraint, like she was considering saying something sharp just to prove she could.

Enid didn’t give her the chance.

She kissed her, slow and deliberate—no rush, no apology, no asking for permission she already had. Warmth first, then pressure; the kind of kiss that didn’t take anything but still made it impossible to pretend you weren’t being handled. Enid’s mouth moved with easy certainty, patient in the way only confidence could be, her fingers curving around the back of Wednesday’s neck to keep her exactly where she wanted her.

Wednesday stayed still for half a second—pure stubborn principle—then her hand came up and fisted lightly in the fabric at Enid’s hip, pulling her in a fraction closer like she’d decided, fine, if we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.

She kissed back with quiet intensity, controlled but not distant—meeting Enid stroke for stroke, matching her pace without surrendering it, and still somehow letting Enid lead. Her mouth softened just enough to betray her. Her breath hitched once, small, and Enid felt it like a win.

Enid smiled into the kiss, barely there, like she’d heard the hitch and approved.

“Ew.”

They broke apart instantly.

Vesper stood at the kitchen entrance, arms crossed, face twisted in deep offence. “You are disgusting. I could literally sense it from my room.”

Mateo appeared beside her, holding a stack of coloured paper and glitter glue with impressive seriousness. “You were kissing. Again”

Enid laughed, breathless now, one hand still half-curled in Wednesday’s jacket. “We’re allowed to kiss.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Vesper said flatly. “You’re parents.”

Wednesday glanced at her. “You’ll survive.”

Vesper crossed her arms. “My eyes won’t.”

Mateo nodded once, solemn. “They might fall out.”

Enid laughed despite herself, the sound easing the last of the tightness from her shoulders. “Alright,” she said, wiping her hands on the tea towel. “Enough commentary.”

Vesper hesitated, then shifted her weight, suddenly shy. The bravado drained out of her like a switch had been flipped. She clutched the folded card to her chest, fingers smudged with marker and glitter.

“Mum?” she said.

Enid turned fully, giving her whole attention. “Yeah, baby.”

Vesper took two careful steps forward and held the card out with both hands, arms straight. “This is… for before.”

Enid didn’t rush. She knelt instead, lowering herself to Vesper’s height, and took the card gently, like it mattered—because it did.

When she opened it, the kitchen went quiet.

Inside was a drawing done with absolute commitment. Four figures stood together, unmistakable even in crayon: Enid in the middle, bright hair drawn bigger than life, arms stretched wide. Wednesday beside her—taller, darker, straight lines and stillness captured even in marker. Mateo stood neatly at one side, curls attempted with careful loops, freckles dotted with surprising precision. Vesper was all angles and energy, drawn a little larger than everyone else, because of course she was.

Above them, written in uneven block letters, surrounded by stars and an enthusiastic amount of glitter:

PACK LEADER

Enid’s breath caught.

“I’m sorry,” Vesper said quickly, the words tumbling out now that they’d started. “For being scary. And for making rules that weren’t fair. I didn’t mean to make anyone feel bad. I just thought… I was helping.”

Mateo stepped closer, voice quiet but clear. “I helped with the letters. And the straight lines. The glitter was her idea.”

“It was important glitter,” Vesper added.

Enid laughed—soft, watery, real—and pulled them both into her arms. She held them there, cheek pressed into Vesper’s hair, one hand resting on Mateo’s back where he fit so easily.

“This is perfect,” she said. “Thank you.”

Vesper relaxed into the hug immediately, pride creeping back in. “I’m still good at packs though.”

Wednesday, who had stayed quiet, watched from the counter. She took in the scene—the glitter on the floor, the way Mateo leaned in without being asked, the way Vesper glowed under approval, the way Enid held it all together without ever needing to bare her teeth.

The afternoon light stretched across the kitchen floor. The house hummed, warm and lived-in and whole.

And that was enough.