Morning light struggled through Nevermore's stained-glass windows, washing the halls in muted colors. Students rushed between classes, chatter filling the air, but in the courtyard—Wednesday waited.
She stood near the old fountain, notebook in hand, eyes fixed on a blank page. But she wasn't writing. She was watching.
Dirk Sanchez moved through the crowd like a storm disguised in flesh. Tall, calm, unreadable. Every student gave him space without realizing it, as though instinctively avoiding something primal.
Her lips pressed into a line. No one should command that kind of presence without doing anything.
She snapped her notebook shut. Today, she would find out.
---
The Invitation
As Dirk passed, Wednesday stepped directly into his path.
"We need to talk," she said, her voice low, commanding.
Dirk stopped, his shadow falling over her. His expression was unreadable, but the faint curve of his lips betrayed amusement.
"Most people say 'good morning' first."
"I'm not most people."
"I've noticed."
Students slowed, curious, sensing something in the air. Wednesday ignored them, tilting her chin upward to meet his gaze.
"Follow me."
And without waiting for an answer, she turned sharply on her heel, heading toward the edge of the woods behind the academy.
Dirk followed.
---
The Trap
The clearing was quiet, tucked away beneath twisting branches. Wednesday stopped, setting her notebook on a tree stump.
"You're hiding something," she said flatly. "I intend to uncover it."
Dirk leaned against a tree, arms crossed, calm as ever. "And how do you plan to do that?"
Wednesday's eyes gleamed. "By testing you."
From beneath her coat, she drew a slender blade—polished, sharp, balanced perfectly for her grip. The steel caught the sunlight, gleaming like ice.
Dirk raised a brow. "You brought a knife to school?"
"I bring it everywhere," she replied, stepping forward. "People reveal themselves under pressure. Let's see what comes out when I push."
---
The Duel
She lunged without hesitation, blade aimed for his chest—not to kill, but to strike true.
Dirk didn't move until the last possible moment. His hand shot up, catching her wrist mid-strike, holding it effortlessly in place.
Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn't stop. She twisted, sharp and practiced, moving with the precision of a predator. Slash after slash came fast, calculated.
Dirk avoided each with minimal motion—sidestepping, leaning, redirecting. Calm. Silent. Almost lazy.
Finally, he caught her wrist again, twisting gently but firmly until the knife clattered to the ground.
The fight was over.
---
The Aftermath
They stood close, her pulse quickened though her face betrayed nothing. His hand lingered around her wrist, firm but not painful.
"Is this how you make friends?" Dirk asked quietly.
Wednesday's gaze was sharp as glass. "Friends are irrelevant. This is about truth."
"And what did you learn?"
She paused, studying him. His grip was unbreakable, his movements impossibly precise. Yet he hadn't counterattacked. He hadn't tried to dominate her—only to neutralize.
"That you're dangerous," she said finally.
Dirk smirked faintly, releasing her wrist. "That's the second time I've heard that this week."
She retrieved her knife, sliding it back into her coat. "You intrigue me, Sanchez. I don't like it."
Dirk stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Good. Then we're even."
---
The Understanding
Wednesday turned sharply, heading back toward the academy.
Dirk lingered in the clearing, watching her disappear into the shadows.
She hadn't won. She hadn't lost. But something between them had shifted—an unspoken acknowledgment that neither could ignore.
For the first time in a long while, Wednesday Addams felt her curiosity piqued.
And Dirk? He welcomed the challenge.