Steam ghosted across the room, blurring the edges of everything — the mirror, the light, even him.
Toji stood by the dresser, towel around his neck, half-dressed, hair still damp. The air was warm enough to hum.
The door clicked Shut.
Wednesday didn't knock. She never did.
She stepped inside, closing it behind her with that quiet, deliberate finality that made the room seem smaller. The scent of cologne and rain clung to the air.
Her eyes trailed to the faint scar running from the edge of his lips, sharp and pale against his skin. It didn't ruin his face — it gave it context.
> "That scar," she said simply. "Where did you get it?"
Toji didn't turn. "You ask too many questions."
> "You dodge too many."
He finally looked over his shoulder, gaze calm, detached. "I got it from someone who thought pain could make a point."
> "Did it?"
He gave a short laugh — quiet, humorless. "It made a few."
Wednesday took a slow step forward, eyes narrowing as if reading him like a case file. "And what point was that?"
"That people break," he said, buttoning his shirt. "Even the ones who swear they don't."
Her head tilted. "You talk like you've tested that theory."
"Maybe I have."
There was a long pause — not awkward, but heavy. Her gaze stayed on the scar. It wasn't fascination anymore; it was recognition.
> "Does it still hurt?"
Toji's hands stopped for a fraction of a second before he shrugged. "Only when I talk too much."
She almost smiled at that. Almost.
> "I didn't think you capable of humor."
"I'm not. You just bring it out of me."
Wednesday's eyes flicked up, catching the faint curve of his lips — a ghost of amusement that shouldn't exist on a man like him.
> "You think that makes you interesting?" she asked.
"No," Toji said softly. "I think it makes you curious."
That silence again — sharp, alive. The steam thinned just enough for their reflections to meet in the mirror.
> "You always walk into men's rooms unannounced?" he asked.
"Only the suspicious ones."
"Then you'll be busy here."
Her eyes narrowed, and she scribbled something down in her notebook. "You're evasive."
"I'm private."
"You're hiding something."
"Everyone is."
She looked up, a faint smirk forming. "You'd hate it if I found out what it is."
He smiled, barely. "You'd hate it if you didn't."
That one made her pause. For once, her sharp reply didn't come right away. She just shut her notebook with a soft thud.
"I will figure you out, Toji."
He met her gaze. Calm, steady. "Good. I'd hate for you to get bored."
Her expression didn't shift. "You're insufferable."
> "And yet," he said, "you're still here."
Wednesday took a breath — not quite steady, not quite shaken. "You saved me from that gargoyle. Why?"
Toji's eyes softened, just a fraction. "Because you looked like someone who wouldn't appreciate the irony of dying early."
> "You think I needed saving?"
"I think," he said, voice dropping low, "you hate that someone did."
That stopped her. For once, she didn't have a comeback.
The air between them felt fragile — like glass stretched too thin.
Wednesday straightened, composing herself. "You presume too much."
> "You ask too much."
Their eyes locked in the mirror — her darkness meeting his emptiness, both pretending not to see what reflected back.
Then she turned, skirt brushing the floor, and left without a word.
Toji stared at the door for a while, then at his reflection — at the scar.
> "Yeah," he muttered, almost to himself. "Still hurts when I talk too much."
>"Besides, She's persistent as hell.
>It seems Morticia wasn't kidding after all
---
The door closed behind her with a sound that felt louder than it should have.
She walked fast, spine straight, every step measured. The corridor was empty except for the hum of rain sliding down the tall windows.
She should have felt triumphant.
She'd gotten what she came for—answers, or something like them.
But Toji's voice trailed after her, low and quiet, threading through her thoughts.
> "You hate that someone did."
It repeated until it was almost rhythmic, keeping time with the echo of her boots.
She tried to smother it with logic, to catalogue him the way she would a rare insect: species, defense mechanisms, notable features.
The list blurred before she could finish it.
Her reflection flashed in the window: pale face, dark eyes, the faintest tremor in her breath.
Unacceptable.
A candle on the wall guttered as she passed. Its light stuttered once, twice, then went out.
"Typical," she muttered. "Even fire lacks conviction."
By the time she reached her dorm, her composure had stitched itself back together.
She shut the door, sat at her desk, and opened her journal. The quill hovered above the page before words began to appear in the precise, deliberate script that matched her heartbeat.
> Observation: Toji Frump (new student). Exhibits unnerving calm, emotional restraint bordering on pathology. Possibly trauma-induced.
Unclear why I find this noteworthy.
She stopped, staring at the ink until it bled slightly into the paper. Then she wrote one more line beneath it, smaller than the rest.
> He hides pain well. I envy that.
The candle on her desk flared suddenly, bright enough to throw her shadow across the wall—long, thin, almost reaching the ceiling.
She watched it dance for a moment, then closed the journal with a quiet snap.
"Enough," she told the empty room.
But even as she blew out the light, the echo of his words still lingered, steady as a heartbeat she refused to admit was hers.