The dorm was quiet — too quiet for Enid Sinclair's liking. The kind of silence that pressed against your skin, making even your own heartbeat sound like gossip. She lay sprawled on her bed, phone glowing in her hand, pretending to scroll while her thoughts kept looping back to him.
Toji Frump.
She didn't mean to think about him. Really, she didn't.
But every time she closed her eyes, she saw that brief tap on her forehead, that faint smile — the kind that said he knew something she didn't.
And that smell.
Her fingers curled slightly at the memory. It wasn't cologne — not really. It was clean, sharp, alive. Like rain on stone.
Her wolf instincts whispered mine before her mind even caught up, and the thought made her face burn.
> "Stop it," she muttered, grabbing a pillow and burying her face in it.
"You're not some… scent-addicted puppy."
It didn't help. The scent was already carved into her memory — rich with testosterone and something else, something primal that made her stomach twist and her pulse race. No human should smell like that. No normal person, anyway.
She sat up suddenly, ruffling her hair and shaking her head.
"Right. He's just… weird. Totally, completely, 'I-killed-a-werewolf-in-six-seconds' weird."
Her reflection in the mirror raised a skeptical brow.
Even she didn't believe her own words.
---
The door creaked open.
Wednesday stepped in, her expression unreadable — tighter than usual, eyes distant, stormier. She didn't even glance Enid's way as she went to her desk and dropped her notebook with a thud.
That alone was enough to set off Enid's alarm bells.
> "Sooo," Enid said, trying for casual, "someone's in a murdery mood today."
> "I'm always in a murdery mood," Wednesday replied flatly, sitting down.
> "Yeah, but this is… like, murdery-murdery. Did someone steal your typewriter or insult your cello again?"
Wednesday didn't answer. She just stared at the same blank page in her notebook, pen unmoving.
Enid sighed, propping her chin on her hands.
"You're thinking about him, aren't you?"
Wednesday's pen stopped mid-air. "Don't flatter yourself into thinking I think about anyone."
"Uh-huh. Totally. That's why you've been scowling at the wall for five straight minutes."
Wednesday's eyes flicked up. "You're insufferable."
"And you're deflecting."
That earned a glare — sharp enough to cut glass. But Enid didn't back off.
She knew Wednesday. Underneath all that darkness and disdain, the girl felt things — she just hated admitting it.
> "You're curious about him," Enid said softly. "Toji. The duel, the way he looked at you after—"
> "Enough." Wednesday's tone dropped a degree colder. "Curiosity is not infatuation."
Enid smirked. "Didn't say it was. But you can't stop thinking about him either, huh?"
Silence. Then Wednesday's voice, quiet but laced with irritation:
> "He called me a stain that won't wash off."
Enid blinked. "Ouch. That's… kinda poetic though? In a really mean way."
Wednesday didn't reply — but her grip on the pen tightened.
Enid leaned back, pretending to stretch. "Well, if it makes you feel better, I think he's kind of scary. And weirdly—"
She stopped herself before the word hot slipped out.
Too late — Wednesday's gaze narrowed.
> "Weirdly what?"
> "Uh, mysterious! Yeah. Totally. Not my type."
Wednesday's expression didn't change, but Enid could feel the suspicion radiating off her.
She looked away quickly, grabbing her phone again, cheeks warming.
---
When Wednesday finally turned back to her notes, Enid let herself breathe. Her wolf side was still humming, restless, unsatisfied.
She tried to reason with herself — He's human. You just like the smell. That's it. It's biology, hormones, whatever.
But her stomach disagreed.
Every time she remembered that scent, that moment he looked her in the eye — calm, quiet, dangerous — something inside her thrilled instead of recoiled.she loved that feeling
And she hated that.
Because the last thing Enid Sinclair needed…
was to start craving the one person her bestie was married to... apparently.
---
Few hours later
The door clicked shut behind Enid, leaving Wednesday alone with her thoughts — and the quiet.
She preferred quiet.
But tonight, it felt wrong.
The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle, tracing faint, crooked lines down the windowpane. A candle flickered beside her typewriter, its flame trembling with every draft, casting shadows that bent across the walls like restless spirits.
Toji Frump.
Even thinking the name irritated her.
He wasn't supposed to matter. He wasn't interesting — not in the way her experiments were, not in the way a crime scene or a riddle could be.
And yet every time she closed her eyes, she saw him standing in that dueling hall — motionless, confident, his expression carved from calm disdain.
No arrogance.
No rage.
Just… stillness.
The kind that unsettled her precisely because she couldn't read it.
Wednesday placed her pen down and flexed her fingers. Her pulse betrayed her — it beat faster when she remembered the duel's end, when his blade stopped an inch from Valmont's throat.
Six seconds. That's all it had taken.
No wasted movement. No hesitation.
> "Humans shouldn't move like that," she murmured to herself. "Not without… training. Or something else entirely."
Her words disappeared into the room's emptiness.
On her desk, a new notebook sat open — not her usual journal of the macabre, but something different.
She hadn't meant to start it. Yet here it was: a page titled Subject: Toji Frump.
Below it, written in her precise, spidery handwriting:
Arrived mid-term, by exception.(Grandmama doing no doubt)
Aura of composure bordering on predatory.
Displays no overt emotion; does not hide it —simply lacks it.
{Author note: that what she thinks}
Possibly dangerous. Definitely fascinating.
She stopped there.
Her pen hovered above the page. She wanted to write more, but every time she tried to dissect him, the logic fell apart. The facts didn't fit the feeling — and Wednesday Addams loathed things she couldn't neatly file away.
He'd saved her.
That was the problem.
She didn't ask for it. Didn't need it.
And yet, when she'd seen the gargoyle plummeting toward her, she hadn't seen her life flash before her eyes — she'd seen his, stepping into its shadow, unflinching.
> "Can't let my wife die on me," he'd said.
The words echoed, quiet but cutting, lodging somewhere beneath her ribs.
She picked up her pen again, pressing harder this time.
Unprovoked act of heroism? Mockery?
Why me?
The candle sputtered, as if the flame itself disapproved of her curiosity.
She closed the notebook, sliding it beneath a stack of papers.
This wasn't infatuation — she told herself that firmly. It was observation. The same way one dissects a specimen to understand what makes it tick.
Toji was an anomaly — a puzzle of contradictions.
And she was not in the habit of leaving puzzles unsolved.
A faint scent lingered in the room, one she couldn't name — faintly metallic, faintly clean. It had clung to her sleeve after he brushed past her during the duel.
She told herself she only noticed because her senses were sharp. Not because it lingered too long in her thoughts.
---
From outside, the rain picked up again. The thunder cracked, soft but persistent.
Wednesday turned toward the window. For the briefest moment, in the reflection of the glass, she thought she saw him — a dark figure passing through the courtyard below, head tilted slightly as if sensing her gaze.
Her fingers twitched.
She reached for her pen again, then stopped.
Instead, she whispered under her breath, to the flickering candlelight —
> "I don't know what you are, Toji Frump… but I will."
And the candle went out.