Wednesday Addams x Reader

A/N: Howdy folks! This one leans more toward intellectual/psychological horror, a slow-burning unraveling for Wednesday. ALSO! There’s a minor spoiler (name mentioned and ability drop!) from Season 2, so please be wary before you continue.

Summary: When Wednesday’s typewriter begins producing words on its own, she’s convinced it’s a malfunction until the ink starts responding to her honesty. Each lie makes the words vanish; each truth cuts deeper. As Y/N stays by her side, the line between author and confession blurs, and something inside the machine begins to write what Wednesday refuses to say aloud.

Word Count: 5.2k

Rain tapped the window like an impatient visitor, the kind that wouldn’t take a hint. Enid hummed over the sound, sprawled across her bed with one leg in the air, painting her nails an unholy shade of pumpkin orange.

I was sitting at the end of her bed, flipping idly through a book, though I wasn’t really reading. Across the room, Wednesday Addams sat at her desk — perfectly still, perfectly silent — staring at her typewriter.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed anything unusual. She was always quiet, always composed. But Enid and I knew her well enough to read the subtle fractures: the tighter fold of her arms, the set of her jaw, the faintest exhale that didn’t quite qualify as a sigh.

She was frustrated. Which, for Wednesday, was the emotional equivalent of a full-scale tantrum.

Enid leaned toward me, voice a stage whisper. “She’s grumbling again.”

I glanced up from my book. “She hasn’t moved in twenty minutes.”

“Exactly,” Enid said. “That’s how she grumbles.”

Without turning around, Wednesday spoke calmly and precisely. “If you intend to narrate me, at least be accurate. I’m contemplating the futility of language.”

Enid grinned. “So… writer’s block?”

“I don’t experience blockages,” she said flatly. “I experience temporary disgust with my surroundings.”

I bit back a smile. “So yes. Writer’s block.”

Her head turned slightly, eyes landing on me like a scalpel finding skin. “Your commentary is noted.”

Lightning flashed, bleaching the room white for a heartbeat. When the afterimage faded, the air seemed heavier.

Then came the sound: click.

All three of us looked toward the desk.

Arms folded, Wednesday watched as the typewriter pressed a single key on its own. One letter. Then another.

The carriage shifted with mechanical precision, and a complete sentence took shape across the page.

The first body was found beneath the gargoyle spire.

Enid blinked. “Okay. Creepy. But also… kind of on-brand?”

“I didn’t type that,” Wednesday said. Her voice didn’t change, but something in the air around her did.

The smell reached us a moment later — faint, chemical, almost sweet. Formaldehyde.

Enid wrinkled her nose. “Gross. Please tell me that’s not a new candle.”

Wednesday rose from her chair, stepping closer to the page. Her expression didn’t shift, but her tone sharpened like the edge of a blade.

“It appears my story has acquired initiative.”

“Is that bad?” I asked.

She glanced at me, eyes dark and unreadable. “I’ll decide once it stops writing.”

The typewriter stayed still.

For the moment.

The typewriter clicked again before either of us spoke.

Another line formed beneath the first, the metal arms moving slowly and certainly.

The author denies her creation. The creation disagrees.

Enid’s nervous laugh faltered halfway through. “Okay… that’s unsettling. Maybe we—uh—open a window?”

Wednesday stared at the sentence, unblinking. Her fingers brushed the edge of the page, stopping just before the ink.

“The grammar is impeccable,” she said finally. “A relief. I despise being haunted by incompetence.”

Enid edged toward the door. “And that’s my cue to find snacks. Possibly a priest.” She shot me a grin that carried more nerve than comfort. “Don’t let her elope with it while I’m gone.”

Then she was gone, her perfume trailing out the door.

The silence she left behind felt almost deliberate.

Wednesday didn’t move for a long time. Then, quietly:

“It writes when unprovoked.”

I stepped closer. “Do you think it’s cursed?”

“Curses are theatrical,” she said. “This is… precise.”

Another heartbeat.

Then, almost to herself:

“If it is sentient, it chose poorly.”

The lightning outside flashed again, pale light sliding over her face. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes were alive, sharp, focused, dangerous in their calm.

That was the moment I realized she wasn’t afraid of the typewriter at all.

She was interested.

When the door closed behind Enid, the room felt like a lung that had stopped exhaling. The only sounds left were the soft tick of the radiator and the steady hum of the rain.

Wednesday stood over the desk, eyes on the typewriter as if it were breathing. Then, without a word, she crossed to her dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out—a taser.

I straightened on instinct. “Um. Why did you pull that out?”

She flicked the switch; a thin blue arc snapped between the prongs, lighting her face for half a second.

“To ensure there isn’t a stalking nuisance lurking unseen,” she said. Her tone was perfectly calm, as though this were a routine housekeeping task.

It took me a moment to realize what she meant.

“Agnes,” I blurted, turning toward the empty corners of the room. “If you’re here, you might wanna speak up before she—”

Wednesday squeezed the trigger. The spark hissed through the air near the desk; the smell of ozone bloomed instantly. Nothing. No movement. No startled, invisible girl shouting back.

She lowered the taser. “Not Agnes,” she said, her voice level but unmistakably disappointed. “Unfortunate. I was curious how invisible flesh would conduct electricity.”

I tried to steady my voice. “You could’ve just… asked?”

“I did,” she replied. “The air failed to answer.”

She turned back to the typewriter, every motion deliberate. She adjusted the carriage, tapped a key, then another, listening to the hollow clicks like a doctor checking a pulse.

“The ribbon is inert,” she murmured. “Yet it produces script. Either we are witnessing a new form of kinetic resonance, or—”

“Or it’s haunted,” I said.

She glanced at me briefly. “How refreshingly unimaginative.”

There was no smile, no reaction at all—only a stillness that meant she’d found something worth dissecting, her thoughts closing in with the patience of a vulture waiting for decay.

I took a small step closer. “How’s the book going?” I asked, hoping to draw her back for just a second.

She didn’t look up. “It was going well until my prose began exhibiting autonomy.” Her fingers brushed the keys again, precise, reverent. “Now it’s infinitely more interesting.”

I watched her work, the tiny crackle of static still hanging in the air between us. The smell of ozone mixed with that faint chemical tang from before—formaldehyde and thunder.

She leaned closer to the page. “If it intends communication, it will respond to stimulus.”

“And if it doesn’t?” I asked.

“Then I’ll give it one.”

She lifted the taser again, expression unreadable, and pressed the crackling light to the edge of the typewriter.

The machine jerked once, then erupted in a frenzy of clacks before dying back into stillness.

The ink on the page rippled—dark, wet, and pulsing, as if it were breathing. It quivered once more, then slowly settled into a single new word.

LISTEN

The word LISTEN shone wet under the lamp.

Wednesday studied it for a long moment before speaking. “It’s concise,” she said at last. “Too direct to be random.”

I nodded. “It’s… you. Short sentences. Ominous. A little rude.”

Her eyebrow twitched—approval or irritation, I couldn’t tell. “Then perhaps it’s a mirror. My prose reflected through mechanical decay.”

That sounded like her, so I nodded again, mostly to fill the quiet.

She turned the carriage back and pressed a key. Nothing. Another. Still nothing. Her movements were precise and analytical, as if she were performing surgery instead of typing.

“The ribbon is dry,” she murmured. “Yet ink continues to manifest. A paradox.”

She adjusted the arm with practiced precision, the faint smell of oil and ozone mingling in the air. I stepped closer, curiosity winning over good sense. The scent of formaldehyde still lingered faintly beneath the rain-soaked air.

I bent to read the line more closely.

The machine clicked.

A fresh word appeared beneath my breath on the page.

STAY.

I stepped back immediately. “Uh—Wednesday?”

She didn’t look up. “Observation?”

“It—It wrote something new. When I got close.”

That made her pause. She inspected the page again, expression flat but eyes brightening the way they did when she smelled a mystery. “Repeat the movement.”

I hesitated, then leaned in again. Nothing.

She frowned slightly. “Proximity alone isn’t sufficient.”

“Maybe it’s the vibration from our voices,” I offered.

She considered that. “Possible. Though I prefer a more elegant explanation.”

At the word elegant, the typewriter jerked once—keys rattling in place.

We both froze.

A new phrase etched itself slowly across the page.

SHE AGREES.

A chill ran through me. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.” Her tone was measured, almost soft. “It is responsive. Perhaps reactive to shared cognition.”

“In English?”

“It echoes consensus,” she said. “Like an extension of collective thought.”

“So it’s reading us?”

“Or reflecting us.”

She looked almost pleased. Then, with a kind of deliberate grace, she extended one pale hand toward the shadows. “Thing.”

From under her desk, a familiar shape skittered out—the disembodied hand snapping once in greeting before perching beside the typewriter.

Wednesday didn’t blink. “You will assist with documentation.”

Thing flexed his fingers in a silent thumbs-up.

She turned to me next, and this time her tone was unmistakably firm. “I require absolute focus. Any variables—particularly emotional ones—will corrupt the data.”

“Emotional ones?” I repeated.

Her eyes met mine, steady as ever. “Yes. You’re unpredictable.”

That one stung more than I wanted it to. “So… you’re kicking me out.”

“Temporarily,” she said. “If it does anything irrational, I prefer it to do so in my presence alone.”

I stared at her, at the page, at the faint curl of smoke rising where the last line of ink was drying.

“Just—don’t obsess too long,” I said. “Whatever this is, it’s already listening.”

“I’m counting on that,” she replied.

The sound of the typewriter followed me to the door—crisp, deliberate—as if it were answering her back.

By the third day, Enid had given up trying to save her.

Wednesday hadn’t left her desk once except to refill her tea. The curtains stayed half-drawn, and the air smelled faintly of metal and ozone. Every hour or so, the typewriter would stutter—one key striking, pausing, then nothing like it was mocking her.

Enid slumped against the doorway when I walked in. “Thank God. Maybe you can talk her out of this. She hasn’t blinked since Tuesday.”

“She blinks,” I said.

“Not that I’ve seen.” Enid rolled her eyes. “Look, we’ve got Professor Orloff’s science and herbology exam tomorrow. I was hoping we could study here so she’s forced to exist in human company for once.”

“Sure,” I said, and followed her in.

Wednesday didn’t acknowledge me at first. The desk lamp threw her face into half shadow, half pale intensity. 

Her hands hovered above the keys, deliberate and still.

“You’re back,” she said finally, as if she’d been expecting me.

“I live dangerously,” I answered, setting my notes on Enid’s bed.

Enid pulled her study binder open with a dramatic sigh. “She’s been at this for three days. Thing tried helping, and she scared him off with a taser.”

Wednesday didn’t look up. “He was uncooperative.”

“You tried to shock him,” Enid said.

Wednesday’s tone was almost bored. “Science requires replication.”

Enid turned to me, mouthing the word ‘help’.

I crossed the room slowly. “Any progress?”

Her eyes flicked to me, cold glass catching light. “It produces text only under specific conditions. I haven’t isolated them yet.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve tried temperature, vibration, and static interference. None yields consistent results.”

“Maybe it’s just tired,” I said.

She didn’t blink. Machines don’t tire. People do.”

Enid muttered, “Yeah, and you’re next.” She scooped up her books, huffing. “I’m going to the common room before she starts talking to it again. You two… bond. Or whatever this is.”

The door clicked behind her.

“Enid’s capacity for patience is microscopic,” Wednesday said.

“Most people’s is,” I replied.

She ignored that, already turning back to the machine. Her fingertips brushed the keys like she was coaxing a heartbeat. “It responds sporadically. As though testing its own limits.”

I moved closer despite myself, drawn in by the same curiosity that had trapped her. The last sheet of paper was filled with disconnected fragments—half sentences, stray words: truth, listen, mirror.

“You’re still using the same ink?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said. “Changing variables mid-experiment is sloppy.”

The carriage twitched at the sound of her voice, then stilled again.

I swallowed. “Maybe it likes attention.”

She didn’t answer. Her hands rested lightly on the keys, motionless. For a moment, the only faint tick of the lamp’s filament cooling, and then—soft, deliberate—the typewriter pressed a single key.

WELCOME BACK.

My breath caught. “You didn’t—”

“No.” She leaned closer. “It recognizes stimuli. Perhaps conversational cues.”

“Or people,” I said quietly.

That earned me a look. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

The lamp hummed faintly. I could feel the static in the air, a pressure just under my skin. She reached for her notebook, scribbling notes in her exacting script.

“Environmental conditions: unchanged. Variables: presence of others. Result: active response,” she murmured.

She didn’t glance up when she added, “You may stay, if you can remain silent.”

I nodded, pretending to focus on Orloff’s study guide while my eyes kept drifting back to her—the way the light gilded the curve of her jaw, the faint smear of ink on her fingers.

The machine didn’t move again, but I could have sworn it was waiting.

Wednesday reached for a fresh sheet of paper, sliding it in with that small, precise motion of hers. “If it insists on communication,” she said, “then we’ll establish the parameters.”

“Parameters,” I repeated. “For what—ghost etiquette?”

“For dialogue.”

Her tone was clinical, but her hands trembled once as she positioned the page. She placed her fingertips on the keys. Nothing happened.

“Perhaps it requires stimulus,” she murmured.

“Like what?”

Her eyes flicked toward me. “Conversation. Energy. Something volatile.”

“Great,” I said. “That’s comforting.”

She ignored me, typing a line herself.

I am Wednesday Addams. State your purpose.

The machine hesitated, then answered with its own metallic clack.

TO RECORD.

Wednesday leaned back slightly. “Predictable.”

“Predictable?” I said. “It’s talking to you.”

“Which means it’s measurable.”

She typed again. Record what?

The response came faster this time.

TRUTH.

Something cold threaded through my chest. I glanced at her, waiting for a reaction.

None. Just that, still, unbothered calm. “Define ‘truth,’” she said aloud, half to herself. “Objective? Emotional?”

She tried another sentence: Define truth.

Nothing.

Then she wrote, “I despise Orloff’s tests.”

The typewriter hummed softly—an almost mechanical purr—and words spilled clean across the page, sharp and wet.

TRUE.

She stared at it for a long moment. “So it differentiates accuracy from falsehood.”

I took a step closer before realizing it, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched. “That’s… a weird thing to be proud of.”

She didn’t move away. “Observation is never pride. It’s clarity.”

Then she wrote another line. I detest company.

The machine paused.

The ink spread too wide this time, bleeding at the edges, the word FALSE blotting across the line like a bruise.

She went very still.

I swallowed. “Okay, that’s—”

“It’s malfunctioning,” she said, too quickly. “Human sentimentality has no bearing on data.”

But the word FALSE stayed there, glistening.

And when I leaned a little closer, the machine gave a soft click, as if in acknowledgment. The smell of formaldehyde rose again—stronger now, sweet and wrong.

Wednesday’s hand hovered just above the keys. “Curious,” she murmured. “It only reacts when you’re near.”

I took a step back. “That can’t mean anything.”

Her gaze shifted, cool and sharp. “Everything means something.”

She didn’t say it, but I could see the thought forming behind her eyes—the idea that this wasn’t just a mystery anymore. It was a challenge.

And Wednesday Addams never left a challenge unsolved. 

By the following evening, even the air in the dorm seemed to know better than to breathe too loudly around her.

Wednesday had been writing for hours—small, methodical bursts of sentences that would appear, vanish, then return in new formations like the typewriter itself was grading her honesty. I’d lost track of how many pages she’d ruined. Each failure was folded, labeled, and filed in a growing pile marked ‘Data Unreliable’.

She typed again: I enjoy group activities.

The ink appeared, glistened, and then… vanished.

Gone. Erased as if the machine had refused to dignify the sentence.

Her jaw tightened. “It rejects falsehoods,” she said. “Insubordination from an object. How novel.”

I leaned against Enid’s desk, pretending not to stare. “You sound offended.”

“I am,” she said, voice even. “Apparently, my own creation considers itself the arbiter of truth.”

She turned back to the typewriter, fingertips hovering above the keys without pressing. “And now,” she added, almost to herself, “it’s decided to alter its data again. Every line, every word—shifting as though rewriting its own conclusions. It seems my control was a brief illusion.”

“Meaning?” I asked quietly.

“Meaning,” she said, “I’m going nowhere until I understand it. The results have become... inclusive. Variables no longer isolate, and every outcome contradicts the last.” Her tone didn’t rise, but the words had an edge—an irritation that felt like fear wearing a lab coat.

I swallowed, unsure if she was talking to me or to the machine. “So, it’s winning.”

“For now,” she murmured. “But I’ve never been fond of losing.”

She tried again: I dislike control.

The keys struck, then the word dissolved before the second syllable was complete.

Wednesday’s pulse fluttered visibly at her throat, quick and uneven. She said nothing—just reached for her pen as if writing could force her body back into order.

“You’re shaking,” I said quietly.

“Psychosomatic inconvenience,” she corrected, never looking up.

“Or you’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“That’s an opinion. I deal only in results.”

She wrote again, faster now, her irritation disguised as composure:

I find failure stimulating.

Nothing.

I am unaffected by Y/N’s presence.

The letters appeared—and then melted away like frost under sunlight.

I didn’t breathe.

Her hand lingered above the keys, trembling just once. “Fascinating,” she murmured, voice too calm. “It appears to be malfunctioning.”

“Or it’s calling you out,” I said before I could stop myself.

Her eyes lifted to me, sharp as the edge of a scalpel. “It’s a machine, not a confessional.”

“Then why does it care when you lie?”

She didn’t answer. For a long moment, she just stared at the blank sheet, the faint sheen of ink that wasn’t there anymore.

Finally, she sat back, expression unreadable. “The ink favors truth,” she said. “And I, unfortunately, have very little of it to spare.”

I tried not to smile. “That’s the most honest thing you’ve said all night.”

Wednesday’s gaze returned to the typewriter. “Then perhaps it will reward me for it.”

The carriage clicked once. A new word appeared, crisp and dark.

ALWAYS.

And this time, the ink didn’t fade.

By midnight, the dorm was silent except for the brittle clack of keys.

No ink. No words. Just that hollow rhythm—plastic and metal grinding against air.

Wednesday didn’t look away from the page. She hadn’t slept. Her tea had gone cold hours ago.

I watched her hands move, each motion smaller, tighter, until even her breathing seemed to follow the pattern of the useless typing.

“The mechanism has failed,” she said at last. “Or it’s punishing negligence.”

I took a step closer. “Maybe it’s finished.”

She shook her head once. “Truth doesn’t finish. It withdraws.”

She pressed another key. The sound was dry, brittle. I could feel it in my teeth.

Then—silence.

I reached out before I could stop myself, resting my hand over hers. Her fingers were cold, stiff from hours of tension. That’s enough, Wednesday.”

She didn’t pull away, but her voice was low and steady. “It isn’t. It refuses to speak until I—”

The typewriter cut her off with a sudden shudder. The carriage twitched, then the keys struck on their own, faster than they ever had before. Black liquid bled from the ribbon well, spilling over her hands, staining both of us.

The words formed slowly, deliberate as a heartbeat:

You are my ending.

Wednesday froze. The room seemed to shrink around us. I could hear my own pulse over the rain outside.

She stared at the page for a long, unbearable moment—then ripped it in half, black drops spattering the desk.

“It’s manipulation,” she whispered. “Emotional suggestion. Nothing more.”

But the ink didn’t vanish. It slid down the torn edge, dripping onto the floor, thick and slow as blood.

She was trembling when she said, almost to herself, “This is absurd. Machines don’t confess.”

I swallowed hard. “Maybe they only finish the sentences we’re too afraid to start.”

Her eyes met mine then, all the cold precision gone—only the raw ache left behind.

For once, she didn’t argue.

The sound of tearing paper still echoed when the last piece of it fell from her hand. The halves lay across the desk like a broken pulse—black ink pooling along the fibers, refusing to dry.

She didn’t move for a long time. Her breathing was sharp but shallow, the way it gets when she’s trying to calculate her next words carefully.

I reached for a towel. “Wednesday—”

“Don’t,” she said, her voice steady but thin. “It’s reacting to contact. Every movement distorts the data.”

“You’re data is all over the floor,” I muttered.

She ignored me. She was watching the keys, eyes dark and heavy with sleepless calculation. “It wanted truth,” she said, almost to herself. “It demanded it. Yet when I comply, it consumes me instead.”

“That’s not compliance,” I said quietly. “That’s exhaustion.”

Her fingers flexed, blackened by ink that looked too much like bruises. She pressed one hand to the keys, testing the metal as if feeling for a pulse.

“It doesn’t respond anymore,” she said.

“Maybe it’s waiting.”

“For what?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

The silence between us felt like a confession that neither of us had earned the right to speak.

Then—click.

Both of us froze. The typewriter shifted, its carriage sliding slowly to the right, the sound deliberate, almost hesitant.

Wednesday’s hand stayed on the keys, unmoving. The words appeared beneath her fingers:

THEY KNOW.

My chest tightened.

“I didn’t type that.” Her tone was flat, but there was something under it now.

The ink bled more. Another word began to form beneath it, each stroke jagged and uneven:

TELL THEM.

Wednesday’s breath hitched — just barely. She stared at the page like it had committed treason.

“Tell me what?” I asked, too softly.

She didn’t look up. “It’s imitating. Repetition of phrases overheard. That’s all.”

But she was lying, and we both knew it.

The typewriter did too.

The following line stamped itself violently across the page, nearly tearing through the paper:

LIAR.

Wednesday’s composure cracked for a single second — just long enough for me to see it. Her hand hovered over the line, trembling faintly, her pulse erratic in her throat.

“Your heart,” I said. “It’s racing again.”

“Psychosomatic inconvenience,” she murmured, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

I wanted to reach for her, but she drew herself up like a blade, armor snapping back into place. “It’s attempting emotional manipulation,” she said. “It wants me to confess.”

“To what?”

She finally looked at me then, and the air between us shifted — charged, close, dangerous.

“Something it believes is true.”

Her voice was calm, but her eyes said something else entirely. Something raw.

The typewriter hummed, faint and alive, as though listening.

The typewriter sat between us like a living thing. The air was dense—metal, rain, and something faintly sweet, like decay pretending to be perfume.

Then, without a sound from Wednesday, the keys began to move.

Slow at first. Then steady.

Each strike deliberate, measured—her rhythm, her cadence, her exact punctuation.

I find their presence intolerably distracting.

Their laughter interferes with my concentration.

Their absence is worse.

The room held its breath.

Wednesday didn’t move. Her hands hovered uselessly at her sides, the ink still drying on her fingers.

“Wednesday,” I whispered, “that’s—”

“Coincidence,” she cut in. “It’s pattern recognition. Language models imitate.”

The machine disagreed. Another line appeared, faster now:

They disrupt my order, yet I am drawn to the chaos.

I detest it.

I crave it.

She finally reached for the paper, but the typewriter struck again before she could touch it—metal clacking like a heartbeat against the wood.

I love them.

Silence.

The words sat there, stark and perfect, her phrasing to the letter. Not a whisper too sentimental, not a breath out of character. It sounded exactly like her—precise, reluctant, damningly sincere.

I swallowed hard. “Is it true?”

She didn’t answer. Her jaw worked once, a tremor of conflict barely visible.

“Wednesday,” I said again, stepping closer. “Look at me.”

Her eyes lifted—dark, furious, frightened.

“It’s a fabrication,” she said. “An algorithmic coincidence.”

“Say it’s not true,” I pressed.

Her silence was louder than any confession.

I stepped closer, slow enough for her to notice but not retreat. The space between us thinned, and for once, she didn’t fill it with words.

Her ink-stained hand stayed clenched at her side, knuckles white against the dark smear of her skin. I reached for it—carefully, like testing static—and the moment my fingers brushed hers, she flinched.

Just a flicker. A tremor that shouldn’t have been there.

Her pulse gave her away before she could still it.

“You can’t hide behind data anymore,” I said softly. “The machine doesn’t lie. It’s only saying what you won’t.”

Her breath hitched, sharp and shallow. “You presume much.”

“I’m just reading what it wrote.”

The typewriter clattered once more, one final line etching itself in thick, wet black:

Why fight what they already know?

Her gaze flicked to the words, then to me. The fight in her face faltered—just for a second, but it was enough.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than I’d ever heard it. “Yes,” she said. “It’s true.”

The typewriter went still.

The ink didn’t fade this time. It sank into the page like a seal.

For a long time, neither of us moved.

The air was thick with ink, the bite of formaldehyde softening until it was only memory. The quiet that followed didn’t feel empty—just waiting.

Wednesday stood at the desk, posture rigid, composure fraying at the edges. Torn paper and ink pooled across the floor like something that refused to dry.

I reached for her wrist, the one still dark with ink. She didn’t move, didn’t resist. Instead, she turned her palm over and pressed her cold, ink-slick fingers into mine.

The stain bled across my skin, smudging the difference between us.

She didn’t try to take the words back. She didn’t apologize. She simply… stopped.

“You should go,” she said at last, voice low, deliberate.

“No,” I said.

That single word pulled her gaze to me.

“I’m not leaving you to dissect it alone,” I added. “You’d just turn it into another experiment.”

Her mouth twitched—an aborted retort, or maybe a thank you she’d never learned how to say.

I shifted toward the bed, guiding her with me. Her hand was still in mine, our fingers loosely interlaced—ink staining the creases between them.

We stopped at the edge of the mattress, neither speaking. The room felt suspended, waiting.

When I sat, she followed, slow and deliberate. Our hands stayed joined, knuckles brushing as if to confirm we were both still there. The ink was cold against my skin, but her grip was

The typewriter had gone still, but the words remained—stark, unyielding in the lamplight: Why fight what they already know?

For the first time in days, she didn’t pay it any mind.

Hours passed that way—no questions, no notes, no theories. Just silence thick enough to breathe in.

In time, even her precision unraveled; the perfect angles of her posture gave way to something gentler. When I looked again, her eyes were closed.

The machine stayed quiet.

That was the night she finally let it rest.

Three days passed before Enid coaxed us both back into the room under the pretense of “closure.”

“Think of it like exposure therapy,” she’d said, balancing a cup of cocoa in one hand and a phone in the other. “You can’t keep avoiding it forever.”

When we stepped inside, the typewriter was exactly where we’d left it. The page is still in place. But the ink—every word that had once burned across the paper—was gone.

Wednesday examined it silently, running one finger across the clean sheet. “Erased,” she murmured. “No residue. No moisture. Nothing.”

Enid exhaled. “Guess it’s really over.”

Wednesday’s brow furrowed, as though that idea offended her. “Endings are rarely so considerate.”

I smiled faintly. “Maybe it just got what it wanted.”

She looked at me then, a faint light flickering in her eyes—something that might have been a smile, if it had belonged to anyone else.

“Doubtful,” she said.

Still, she closed the case over the typewriter, a soft click sealing the quiet. For once, she didn’t open her notebook, didn’t reach for analysis or cause. 

And for the first time since it all began, the room felt… human again.

Three weeks later, Nevermore was unusually still that evening. The air carried the faint scent of rain and old stone from the courtyard—unwelcome softness, but tolerable.

Wednesday entered the dorm, the quiet echo of her boots cutting through the still air. Her coat—long, black, and neatly fastened—moved like a shadow at her heels.

She crossed to the corner of her bed where Y/N’s scarf hung over the metal frame, draped with theatrical carelessness. The faint trace of their perfume lingered, clinging to the wool like intent.

“Subtle as ever,” she murmured, folding it with clinical precision.

The idea of a date was still absurd to her. And yet, she was going.

She picked up the scarf, brushed away an invisible speck of dust, and checked her pocket watch. Y/N would be waiting—impatiently, no doubt, despite having insisted she “take her time.”

Wednesday slipped the watch back into her coat, the chain glinting once in the lamplight. She turned toward the door, scarf folded neatly in her hand.

But before her fingers reached the knob, she stopped.

Something tugged at her attention—the faintest sound from her desk.

A whisper of movement.

Her eyes narrowed. “Impossible,” she muttered, stepping closer.

The typewriter sat exactly where she’d left it. The cover closed, dustless, harmless.

Still, the air around it felt heavier, the way a room feels after someone’s spoken your name and vanished.

She hesitated, then lifted the cover.

A sheet of paper waited inside. Clean. Untouched. Except for the single line typed across its center—black, fresh, glistening faintly under the lamplight.

Her hand hovered above it, careful not to touch the ink.

No sound came from the keys. No tremor. No hum.

Just the faint ticking of the clock behind her.

Wednesday, read the words once. Then again.

Her expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes—a recognition she didn’t care to name.

The paper stayed in the typewriter. She turned off the lamp. She adjusted the scarf in her hands, folding it neatly once more before heading out the door, shutting softly behind her.

The typewriter waited a moment, still as bone.

Then, in the dark, one key pressed down.

Jenna Ortega x Female Jock Reader

Summary: With their anniversary right around the corner, Y/N finally puts together the perfect day—until fate decides to have other plans.

Word Count: 6.9k

The air at Ravenwood State still smelled like wet grass and victory sweat. Afternoon sun cut low across the field, gilding the turf in streaks of amber, while whistles and shouts carried off with the breeze. You shoved your mouthguard into your bag and slung it over your shoulder, cleats still crunching on gravel as you bolted toward the academic quad. Your shirt was streaked with dirt, your pants scuffed from tackles, but your varsity jacket? Spotless. Always spotless.

“Nice game last night, Harper!” someone hollered from the bleachers.

“Go Ravens!” another shouted, followed by a whistle sharp enough to make you roll your eyes.

You threw a lazy salute without slowing, the weight of your duffel banging against your side. By now, it was routine. Being “Y/N Crash Harper” meant applause when you actually pulled something graceful on the field—and jokes when you tripped over your own bag strap two seconds later.

Ravenwood was a Division 1 campus where athletics were woven into the very fabric of the campus. Football ruled Saturdays, basketball owned the winter, but rugby? Rugby was the cult favorite, the blood-and-bone game where you’dcarved out your name. Three years in, a junior and a kinesiology major, you knew two things for sure: you’d die for your team, and you’d never be on time to class after practice.

“Crash!”

You skid half a step when a familiar bulk fell into stride beside you. Marcus Jameson, star linebacker, still in his Ravens hoodie. He was grinning like a kid in trouble.

“Hey, don’t hate me, but… can you explain the homework from Patrick’s class?”

“Marcus.” You didn’t even break stride. “We have four minutes. Four. Until the door locks. You want a lecture right now?”

He gave you those wide, pleading eyes. “Please, man. I don’t get derivatives. They’re like witchcraft. You’re the only one who can make sense of it.”

You groaned loud enough to startle a flock of birds. “Fine. But if you don't get it, you're a lost cause.” You jabbed at the air as you ran, explaining limits and slopes in the simplest terms possible. By the time you wrapped up, Marcus clapped you on the back so hard you almost face-planted.

“Legend!” he yelled, veering off toward the science building.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, sprinting the last stretch. Your lungs burned. Your jacket stayed spotless.

You hit the math building door with seconds to spare—only to realize your professor wasn’t there yet. You staggered inside, chest heaving, sweat dripping, and the room erupted.

“Harper made it!” someone teased.

“Good game the other night, Crash,” another called from the back.

You fist-bumped Devon from football and Khalil from basketball as you made your way down the row. And then your eyes found her.

There she was. Jenna Ortega.

Gorgeous. Unshakable. Film Studies major with eyes sharp enough to cut through your entire act. Your girlfriend of two years—and this Friday, three.

You still remembered freshman year, catching sight of her across the quad, too nervous to even say hi. Sophomore year, it had all changed. Your teammates had hoisted you after a home game, carried like some dirt-streaked MVP trophy toward a team picture. Jenna had been there with friends, watching. Your eyes met.

When your team set you down, you spotted her leaving. You jogged over, still sweaty, adrenaline buzzing, words tripping out of your mouth like a car with no brakes.

“Uh—hey—I think we—we have Ms. Warren together?”

Jenna had smirked. “You mean Chemistry class, Harper? Yes. I’ve noticed you.”

Your chest nearly split with relief—until she tilted her head, voice dry and amused.

“Wow. You have no idea how to talk to girls, do you?”

Defeat sank into your shoulders. “Y-yeah… um, sorry for wasting your time. I sh-should go—”

But then her hand closed around your wrist. Firm. Certain.

“I said you don’t know how to talk to girls. I didn’t say I wouldn’t listen. Take your time, Crash Dummy. I’m listening.”

The memory hit you as hard as the first time she said it. And now here she was, sitting where she always did, right next to your usual seat. You dropped into the chair beside her, chest still heaving, grin crooked.

You leaned in, aiming for a kiss.

Her pointer finger pressed gently against your lips, stopping you cold. She arched one dark brow, eyes flicking over your mud-streaked shirt, your wild hair.

“Did you wrestle someone in the dirt again, or is this a new look?”

You pouted, lips still pressed against her finger. “Babe. I missed you.”

Jenna’s laugh was low, soft enough that it only belonged to you. Her hand slid from your lips to your chin, tilting your face toward her as she kissed you—smooth, certain, and devastating in its ease. You melted instantly. She pulled back with that proud little smirk, watching your stupid grin spread.

The classroom door banged open. Dr. Patrick rushed in, juggling papers and apologizing for being late. The room erupted in giggles and chatter, but all you felt was Jenna’s hand still resting against your jaw.

And just like that, practice, dirt, chaos, and all—everything had been worth it.

By the time class let out, you were already reaching for Jenna’s bag. She rolled her eyes the second your fingers closed around the strap, but you slung it over your shoulder anyway, satisfied as it settled against your side next to your own.

“You know I can carry my own stuff,” Jenna said, falling into step beside you.

“Uh-uh.” You puffed out your chest as the two of you cut through Ravenwood’s crowded main hall, banners from last night’s basketball win still drooping from the rafters. “You’re dating a jock, babe. That means I carry the heavy things, look intimidating in your peripherals, and make sure people know you’re taken.”

Jenna shot you a sidelong look, all cool dark eyes and raised brows. “You’re carrying a bookbag, Crash. Congratulations—you’re a pack mule.”

You grinned, adjusting the strap higher on your shoulder. “Wrong. I’m excited as hell. I’m a textbook jock. One day, you’re gonna wanna do a film study on the greatest rugby player there ever was. That’s me. Big star. Drenched in glory. Probably nominated for an Oscar in the sports category.”

That earned you a soft laugh, the kind that cracked through her deadpan. She shook her head, shoulders brushing yours as you walked. “If you really want to be a textbook jock, Harper, then you’re as dumb as one.”

You gasped, clutching at your chest with mock hurt, nearly dropping both bags. “Excuse me?”

Her smirk curved slowly and sharply. “What? Don’t pout. Crash Dummy.”

The name hit like it always did, landing warm even when she wielded it like a knife. No one else could get away with calling you that—not teammates, not friends, not even family. Jenna had birthed it, carved it out of that first clumsy conversation sophomore year, and when it came from her mouth, it felt like affection dressed up as an insult.

You nudged her gently with your elbow, feigning offense but already smiling. “One day, you’re gonna regret underestimating me.”

Jenna slipped her hand into yours, casual, unshakable. “One day, you’re gonna trip on your own shoelaces in front of the dining hall. And I’ll still be here.”

Your ears burned. The hall buzzed with teammates and classmates calling out greetings; the Ravenwood dining hall was always alive. But in that moment, it was just her hand in yours, her voice echoing like it was the only one that mattered.

Your dorm, your room, looked like the inside of your brain: messy, scattered, and borderline tragic. Papers were spread across the desk, the door abandoned your cleats, and a half-empty protein shake sat sweating on the windowsill. You were on your bed, flat on your back, varsity jacket still resting on you like armor. One arm covered your face as your phone screen lit up on the blanket beside you, full of unanswered messages from teammates about Practice times, study sessions. You ignored all of it. Your brain was locked on one problem: the anniversary.

It was your year.

And it had to be perfect.

Because last year? Jenna had nailed it.

She’d known exactly where to take you: a drive out to the lake an hour past Ravenwood, where the trees opened up and stars bled across the sky. Blankets in the backseat. Lanterns on the dock. Takeout from your favorite burger joint balanced on her lap. You, in sweatpants, and completely disarmed by how beautiful she made simple things feel.

You remembered leaning against her shoulder, laughing too loud when the dock creaked, swearing the whole thing would give way. Jenna just smiled, steady and unafraid, telling you, “If it breaks, at least we go down together.”

You’d cried that night. Not ugly, not loud—just soft, messy tears you tried to swallow, pressing your sleeve against your eyes. She pretended not to notice until you hiccupped, and then she kissed the corner of your wet cheek, smirking like she’d won.

You’d never live that down. To the world, you were “Crash Harper,” rugby’s tank, Ravenwood’s unstoppable forward. But Jenna knew the truth: beneath the bruises and bravado, you were just a teddy bear—a teddy bear who cried at starry skies and thoughtful dates.

Which meant now… You were doomed.

You groaned, dragging your hand down your face. How the hell were you supposed to top that? 

You scribbled half-baked ideas on a notepad:

Fancy dinner (too cliché)

Drive-in movie (film studies major… too obvious)

Concert (tickets sold out)

Just wing it? (She’d kill me)

You growled at yourself and rolled onto your stomach, face buried in your pillow. For once, rugby was easier than love. On the field, you knew what to do: hit hard, keep moving, take the tackle. Off it? With Jenna? Everything felt like fumbling the ball right at the goal line.

You clenched your fists against the pillow. “Get it together, Harper. Don’t cry.”

Your voice cracked anyway.

And somewhere down the hall, you knew if Jenna saw you right now, she’d just shake her head, kiss your cheek, and tell you you’re an idiot for thinking you had to outdo her.

But you were stubborn. This was your year. And you were going to prove that Crash Dummy could get it right.

A knock rattled your door. You groaned into the pillow, hoping the sound alone would send whoever it was packing—no such luck.

“Harper?” Your roommate’s voice muffled through the wood. “You alive in there? Because it smells like protein powder and despair.”

You didn’t move. Just pulled the collar of your varsity jacket to cover your face.

The door creaked open anyway, and there she was—Lily, your freshman-year friend turned long-suffering roommate. She wasn’t an athlete. Not even close. Theater kid through and through. Her idea of a workout was stage combat class. Which meant she had zero patience for your brand of sweaty, self-pitying chaos.

She stepped inside, arms crossed. “It’s been two days. You only leave for class, food, and practice. This is not a healthy ecosystem, Harper. You’re like… a sad zoo exhibit.”

Before you could even lift your head to argue, another voice boomed down the hall:

“Yo, Y/N!”

And then Marcus filled the doorway, broad as a linebacker should be, grinning like he’d caught you doing something scandalous. He took one look at you—curled on the bed, arm over your face like the world’s most dramatic faint—and whistled.

“Damn. You’re still alive. Good. Thought I was gonna have to call in a wellness check. What’s this, Crash? Midseason breakdown?”

You groaned louder, rolling onto your back but refusing to uncover your face. “Go away.”

Marcus strode in anyway, dropping his backpack with a thud that made Lily flinch. “Two days of radio silence? Nah, not you. You’re usually bouncing off walls, dragging people to late-night pizza runs. So what gives? Rugby pressure? Professor Patrick finally break your brain with derivatives?”

Lily sat on your desk, eyes narrowing. “It’s not rugby.”

Marcus raised a brow. “Then what?”

You dragged your hand down your face, exposing tired eyes and the faintest scowl. “Anniversary.”

Marcus blinked. Then barked out a laugh so loud that Lily threw a pen at him.

“Bro, you’ve taken hits from girls twice your size and you’re crying over candlelight dinners?” He leaned against the dresser, grinning ear to ear. “That’s rich. Tell me you’re not trying to outdo Ortega. Because you’re gonna lose. That girl’s clutch.”

You flopped back onto the bed with a groan, arm covering your face again. “That’s the problem! She is clutch! She’s… she’s Jenna. And I’m just—Crash Dummy. I can’t compete with lakeside burgers and starlight!”

Lily softened, her smirk fading into something closer to pity. “You know she doesn’t care about outdoing, right? She cares it’s you.”

You huffed into your sleeve, muffled but stubborn. “Easy for you to say. You’re not dating a genius film major who makes every date feel like the end of a Sundance winner.”

Marcus snorted. “Crash, you’re hopeless.”

“Crash Dummy,” Lily corrected with a grin.

You groaned so hard it rattled the bedsprings.

You sat up finally, hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped, glaring between Marcus and Lily like they’d dragged you into an intervention. Which, to be fair, they had.

“Okay,” Lily said, steepling her fingers like some evil mastermind. “Rule one: stop trying to reinvent romance. Jenna doesn’t want fireworks or skywriting. She wants you. So keep it thoughtful, but simple.”

Marcus flopped into your desk chair, spinning once before it groaned under his weight. “Yeah, Crash. You’re not out here trying to win a Heisman. You gotta show up. With, you know, a plan.”

You groaned, dragging your hands through your hair. “That’s the problem! I don’t have one. Nothing tops lakeside burgers and the Milky Way, Marcus. Nothing.”

Lily leaned forward, dark eyes sparking. “Wrong. Jenna’s been raving about that new movie all week. The one by her favorite director, George Alvarez. That’s your opening play. Movie first.”

You blinked. “Okay… movie. Sure. That buys me two hours of not screwing up.”

Marcus pointed a finger at you, deadly serious. “Then food. Not fast food. Not chain pizza. Actual nice spot. But not so nice you look like you stole your mom’s credit card. Something in the middle.”

Lily’s grin widened. “The bistro off campus. They serve her favorite gnocchi, and the wine doesn’t cost your soul.”

You felt your shoulders sag. For the first time in days, a flicker of hope lit up. “Movie. Dinner. Wine. That’s… actually not terrible.”

Marcus smirked. “You’re welcome.”

“And then,” Lily said, like she was tying a bow on the whole thing, “you drive her out to the ridge. Stars if you’re late. Sunset if you’re early. Either way—sky, quiet, you two. Simple. Romantic. Done.”

Your throat tightened, but you coughed to cover it. “You guys are—this is—okay, yeah. That’s… perfect.”

“Crash is gonna cry again,” Marcus teased, throwing a wadded-up paper ball at you.

You caught it, scowled, and tossed it back twice as hard. “Shut up.”

But when you leaned back against the headboard, grinning despite yourself, you realized maybe you weren’t doomed after all.

Jenna’s apartment was warm, with a cozy atmosphere that came from mismatched throw blankets and half-burnt candles. The TV hummed low in the background, some old movie rolling while your textbooks lay forgotten on the coffee table. You’d been oddly calm all evening—too calm, apparently.

Jenna shifted against you on the couch, side-eyeing your stillness. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”

You smirked without looking away from the screen. “Studying took it out of me.”

“Mhm.” She let the silence stretch a beat before tilting her head, a sly little smile tugging at her lips. “Babe, did you forget what’s tomorrow?”

You turned your head slowly, feigning confusion. “Tomorrow?”

Her brows rose. “Tomorrow.”

You leaned back, lips twitching. “No clue.”

Jenna narrowed her eyes, but before she could say more, you lunged, arms slipping around her waist. She squeaked as you tugged her into your lap, lifting her easily until she was straddling you.

“Y/N—”

But you were already peppering her in kisses, quick little pecks across her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her lips. She laughed, squirming, trying to push you away, but you only held her tighter, relentless.

“Stop—Y/N—stop!” she gasped between laughs, but her hands only ended up tangled in your hoodie, holding on.

“I have no idea what’s tomorrow~,” you teased against her skin, dropping another kiss to her temple, then another to the tip of her nose.

She shook her head, breathless, eyes shining. “You’re insufferable.”

You pulled back just enough to look at her, still smiling, your chest rising and falling beneath her weight. For a second, the playfulness softened.

“Tomorrow’s going to be perfect,” you said, voice low, steady. Your hands flexed gently at her waist as you met her gaze. “I promise.”

Jenna studied you for a moment, her smirk easing into something fonder, softer. And though she didn’t say it out loud, the way she leaned in and kissed you slowly told you she believed you.

The sun had barely cleared the Ravenwood quad when your dorm room came alive with music. Not the usual pump-up playlist for practice, but Jenna’s favorite album, blasting through your tiny speaker. The room, for once, was spotless. No socks in the corner, no muddy cleats by the bed. Just you, fresh out of the shower, hair damp, a collared shirt tugged over your shoulders, jeans pressed, loafers polished.

You sang into the hairbrush like it was a mic, spinning around in time with the beat. The scent Jenna liked best clung to your wrists and collar, sharp and warm, and you danced with the effortless swagger of someone who had it all under control.

Halfway through brushing your hair, you grabbed your phone, tucking it between your ear and your shoulder while you called the restaurant. “Yeah—reservation for Harper, 7:30. Two. Got it. Thank you.” You hung up, tossed the phone onto the bed, and went right back to singing off-key.

By the time the bassline cut, a text flashed across your screen: Outside.

Your heart jumped. You snatched your jacket and bolted.

Down in the parking lot, Jenna’s car gleamed under the late afternoon light. You walked straight to her side, tugging the door open with a flourish. “After you~.” You bowed low, grinning like an idiot.

Jenna slid out, an unimpressed smile tugging at her lips, but she didn’t hide the way her eyes softened as you straightened. She stepped into view—and you stopped cold.

Jeans. Dark, fitted. A crisp blouse tucked neatly, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Simple, understated, yet devastating. She didn’t need a skirt or a dress. She looked like she’d stepped out of her own film reel—poised, sharp, beautiful in that way that knocked the air right out of you.

You let out a low whistle. “Damn. You sure you don’t want me to keep you in the dorm? Hate to show you off like this. Dangerous.”

Jenna laughed, slipping her arms around your neck before you could say more. “Shut up.” Her lips brushed yours, soft at first, then deeper as you wrapped your arms around her waist, holding her close like you’d never let go.

And then—because you couldn’t resist—you bent your knees, slid an arm under her legs, and lifted. Bridal style. Jenna squealed, swatting at your shoulder even as she clung tighter.

“Crash! Put me down!”

“Not until you’re properly chauffeured, ma’am.” You smirked, carrying her toward the passenger side. Somehow, with one arm, you managed to open the car door, lowering her gently into the seat like she was made of glass.

She sat back, shaking her head, a laugh caught between disbelief and fondness. “You’re absolutely textbook, you know that? Textbook lover. And a doofus.”

You leaned against the doorframe, smug grin tugging at your mouth. “But I’m your doofus.”

Her eyes flicked up, warm and unguarded, before she reached out and tugged your collar just enough to steal one last kiss.

You shut the door, heart thudding, and jogged around to the driver’s side. Hands steady on the wheel, you pulled out of the lot, the music from the speakers humming low as the Ravenwood gates blurred behind you. Headed straight for the cinema.

The drive was smooth, laughter filling the car between stolen kisses at red lights. Jenna leaned back in her seat, one ankle crossed over the other, eyes flicking to you with suspicion.

“So,” she asked casually, “what’s on the agenda?”

You kept your eyes on the road, lips twitching at the corners. “You’ll see.”

She studied you a second longer, but you didn’t crack. Instead, you pulled into the cinema lot, heart thrumming with pride. You’d nailed this. The surprise, the timing, the one thing you knew would make her lose that unflappable cool.

You cut the engine, hopped out, and went around to her side. Hand out, bow exaggerated. “After you~.”

But Jenna only smirked, swatting your hand away as she slid out herself. “Cute,” she said, brushing her blouse smooth. Then, with a laugh, she hooked her arm through yours, tugging you closer as you walked toward the glowing marquee.

Halfway there, the pieces clicked. Her steps quickened, eyes widening.

“Wait,” she breathed, tilting her head up at you. “We’re going to see Alvarez’s new film? The Eternal Frame?”

Her voice pitched higher than usual, a tremor of excitement breaking through. Jenna Ortega—calm, sharp, composed—was grinning like a kid at Christmas.

You bent to press a kiss to the top of her head, smug. “Yeah, babe.”

She buried her face against your arm, her grip tightening. You could feel the heat in her cheeks even as she tried to hide it.

“You know how cute you are when you get flustered?” you teased, chest puffing up. “I’m usually the one at a loss for words. So, when I get you to blush like that? I wear it like a badge of honor.”

Jenna let out a tiny, uncharacteristic giggle. Then she pulled you down into a soft kiss right there in line. When she pulled away, her eyes were softer, molten. “Thank you. I’ve wanted to see this so badly.”

Your heart nearly burst. Foreheads pressed together, you savored the moment, the warmth of her hand clutching your sleeve, the glow of neon flickering above.

By the time you reached the ticket counter, you were floating. You slid the confirmation across with all the pride of someone showing off a trophy. “Two for The Eternal Frame. Already bought online.”

The teenage boy behind the glass glanced at the tickets, then at you. His expression didn’t change. “Sorry, ma’am. Theater’s full.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“Yeah. Online oversold.” He shrugged, chewing gum like he was narrating your doom. “Would’ve been better to just buy at the counter like everyone else did. We sold out a minute ago.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor. “But—I paid. I bought these days ago—”

“Can’t do anything about it.” He tapped at the screen without looking up. “The only thing I can offer is a coupon.”

You leaned forward, desperate. “A refund?”

He slid a slip of paper across the counter. “Fifty cents off a large popcorn.”

You stared at it. An actual tear of humiliation threatened to sting the corner of your eye. Fifty cents. Against everything you’d planned, everything you’d promised Jenna. Your whole chest squeezed, the walls of the lobby spinning with chatter and neon.

Behind you, Jenna’s arm slid around your waist. She didn’t laugh, didn’t sigh—just leaned in, calm as ever, grounding you.

But in your head, the words were already screaming:

I promised her perfection. And I blew it before dinner even started.

The coupon sat between your fingers like a personal insult. Fifty cents off popcorn. That was it. That was your compensation for the days of spiraling, the hours of cleaning your room, the cologne/perfume, the shirt, the sheer pride you’d walked in here with. Your chest clenched, jaw tight, the neon lights of the lobby blurring around you.

“I—” you started, voice sharp, ready to argue your way into the theater.

But then Jenna’s hand slid against your back, steady and sure, tugging you just enough that you had to look at her. Calm eyes, steady smile. She was soft where you were fire.

“Baby,” she murmured, thumb brushing over the edge of your jacket. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” you hissed, glaring at the useless slip of paper.

“Yes, it is.” She tilted her head, a smirk tugging faintly at her mouth. “Alvarez is a good storyteller. His movies will outlive us both. So what if this showing sold out? We’ll catch it another time.”

You blew out a shaky breath, fists tight at your sides. She leaned in closer, dropping her voice like she was narrating.

“Every story has conflict, Crash. Otherwise, it’s boring. This?” Her smirk curved into something fonder. “This is just a plot twist.”

Something in you cracked, the spiral loosening. You let out a long sigh, shoulders slumping. “You’re right… yeah. It’sall good.”

Jenna smiled like she’d just won a bet.

But the stubborn fire in your chest still burned. You weren’t about to let your perfect night tank on a coupon. You turned to her, jaw set. “Or—we drive. There’s another theater in Westbrook. Maybe Larchmont, too. I’ll get us in even if I have to bribe the projector guy.”

Jenna blinked. “Crash—”

“No. No giving up.” You grinned, the edge of manic creeping in. “You said yes to dating me; you knew what you signed up for. If Ravenwood Cinema can’t handle us, then fine. We take our love story on the road.”

Jenna’s laugh bubbled out, warm and real, breaking through her usual composure. She looped her arm through yours, resting her cheek against your sleeve, hiding the grin tugging at her mouth.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said softly. Then, even quieter: “And I love you.”

That was enough to melt the last of the panic in your chest. You kissed the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo as you pressed her closer.

“Buckle up, Ortega,” you murmured, steering her toward the car again. “We’re making this night happen—even if it means sitting through that dumb movie about the dog who inherits a bakery.”

She pulled back just enough to kiss you, quick and soft, before smirking against your lips. “Pick your chaos, Crash Dummy. I’m along for the ride.”

And with that, you tightened your hand around hers, the glow of the theater fading behind you as the car keys jingled in your pocket.

Westbrook was a bust. The box office kid there had laughed, actually laughed, when you asked about tickets.

“Sold out months ago,” he said, like it was obvious.

Which was how you ended up an hour and forty minutes down the interstate, headlights tracing the dark road to Larchmont, traffic snarled at every merge.

Your forehead pressed against the steering wheel as brake lights stretched endlessly in front of you. Knuckles white, jaw locked.

“Crash,” Jenna’s voice came soft from the passenger seat.

You grunted, eyes glued forward.

“Babe, relax. You’re going to bend the wheel.”

“I promised you perfect,” you muttered. “And so far, we’ve got: oversold, sold out, and traffic that makes me want to eat glass.”

A pause. Then warmth. Her hand sliding over yours on the gearshift, steady and calm.

“You promised me a night with you. That’s already perfect.”

You exhaled, chest loosening despite yourself. She always knew where to press.

By the time you rolled into Larchmont, the traffic had cleared. The neon marquee hummed, a small victory. And inside, miracle of miracles—the woman at the counter smiled.

“Yes, we’ve got two tickets left.”

You nearly cried as you handed her your card. “See, babe? Told you tonight would be perfect.”

Jenna smirked, leaning into your side as you left the counter, arms brushing. “Mm. We’ll see.”

Concessions in hand, you slid into the seats of the dim theater. And to your amazement, it was empty—just the two of you.

Jenna tucked herself against you, voice bubbling as the previews rolled. “Okay, so remember in The Silent Corridor—the way Alvarez used negative space to show absence? I swear this is going to connect thematically. Look, see? Even the title card—”

You half-listened, half-daydreamed, watching her talk with that rare spark in her eyes. Nothing made her lose composure like Alvarez. Nothing made your chest ache like watching her in her element.

The screen went black.

At first, you thought it was part of the opening. But the seconds stretched. A cough echoed somewhere in the back. Then footsteps.

The manager appeared at the front of the room, looking harried. “We apologize, ladies. The projector just broke.”

Silence. A long, merciless beat.

You stared ahead, numb. The universe had it out for you.

Then Jenna’s hand slid over yours again. She nodded once, lips curving into the faintest smile. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

The manager shuffled closer, holding out a slip of paper. “As compensation, here’s a coupon—three percent off the candy of your choice.”

You stared at it. Three. Percent. Your whole body went still, every cell vibrating with disbelief.

Jenna took it delicately, like it wasn’t the single most insulting coupon ever printed, and tucked it into her pocket.“Thank you.”

Her composure didn’t crack. Yours nearly did.

You stalked back and forth across the carpet of the Larchmont cinema lobby, hands shoved in your hair, words spilling out faster than your brain could keep up.

“I did everything right, Jenna! I checked times, bought tickets early, mapped the route, wore the scent you like—” You spun on your heel, throwing your arms wide. “And what do we get? Oversold. Sold out. Traffic. A busted projector and a coupon for three percent off candy! Three percent! Do you know how much that even saves? Like—thirty cents on a ten-dollar box of Milk Duds!”

Jenna leaned against the concession counter, watching you pace like she was at a private screening. Calm, and utterly unbothered.

“Crash—”

“No! Don’t you ‘Crash’ me. I promised you perfect, and instead, this night’s turning into one of those bad student films where everything that can go wrong does!”

Finally, your voice cracked. You froze mid-stride, chest heaving, the weight of the evening pressing down. You rubbed your palms over your face, swallowing hard.

Jenna pushed off the counter, walking toward you with that steady gait. She caught your wrists, lowering them gently.“Hey. Look at me.”

Your eyes met hers, wild, burning.

“This is fine,” she said softly. “Because you’re here. That’s what I wanted. Not a film, not a theater, not a ticket stub. Just you.”

Something loosened inside your ribs. Breath left you in a ragged rush, the tension finally slipping out of your shoulders.

And then—the sky cracked. Thunder roared, lightning streaking across the horizon. A second later, rain came down in sheets.

You both bolted for the car, laughing breathlessly. Jenna darted inside first, pulling the door shut just as you hit the curb. Except your foot didn’t hit pavement—it plunged straight into a pothole hidden under the rushing water.

You staggered, soaked head to toe, then dragged yourself upright, grimacing as you trudged the last few steps. Sliding into the driver’s seat, you rested your head against the wheel with a groan.

Jenna blinked, rainwater dripping down her temple. “…You good?”

You lifted your head just enough to glance at the clock. Your stomach dropped. “Holy shit. Dinner. We’ve got two hours—and we’re two hours away.”

The drive blurred. Wipers squealed, headlights cut through rain, your grip tight on the wheel. Jenna sat beside you, humming low, steady, a hand resting on your thigh as if to tether you.

By the time you pulled into the lot of the bistro, you were drenched, hair plastered to your forehead, clothes sticking to your skin. And the clock on the dash mocked you: 7:33. Three minutes late.

The maître d’ shook his head at the counter, lips pursed. “I’m sorry. The reservation was for 7:30. We’ve given your table away. Serious customers were waiting.”

You opened your mouth, ready to beg, but Jenna’s hand on your arm stopped you. The words stuck in your throat.

Outside, you stood beneath the awning, water dripping off the fabric in steady rivulets. The street hummed with traffic, rain pounding the pavement, the smell of wet asphalt heavy in the air.

You said nothing. Neither did Jenna. You just stood side by side, soaked, three minutes too late for everything.

Rain poured like the sky itself had given up. It drummed against the awning above you, ran down your jacket, soaked your shoes. You stood there stiff, staring at the street as if you focused hard enough, you could stop everything from unraveling. But your chest heaved. Your throat tightened. And then—quiet, almost shameful—your breath hitched.

The first tear slipped. Then another. You pressed your palm to your face, shaking your head as if you could will it all back into place.

Jenna’s voice cut through, low and steady. “Y/N Harper.”

You froze. Nobody used your full name like that. Only her. Only when she meant it.

“Look at me.”

You did, reluctantly. She was standing inches away, drenched hair sticking to her cheeks, mascara smudged just slightly under her dark eyes. Still beautiful. Still unshaken.

“What’s this about?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t sharp. It was honest. A scalpel, not a hammer. “Why are you tearing yourself apart over tonight?”

You swallowed hard, words scraping out raw. “Because it was supposed to be perfect.”

“Perfect,” she echoed.

“Yeah.” Your laugh cracked, bitter. “Not just better than last year. Not a competition. Just… perfect. For once. Because how the hell does a perfect girl like you end up with a screw-up like me?”

Her eyes softened, but you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t hold it back anymore.

“I mean—I’m not dumb, I know that. But I’m Crash. The clumsy one. The idiot who can’t book tickets right, who trips over her own feet, who… who promised you a night worth remembering and gave you coupons instead.” Your voice broke, thick with tears. “I’m not comparing myself to you, Jenna. You’re… you’re brilliant. You’re calm and composed, and so damn beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes. And me? I’m just grateful. Grateful I even got to know you, that I even got to love you.”

The words poured, heavy, unstoppable. “This was supposed to be the night I showed you that. That I’m not just some dumb jock. That I see you. That I know how lucky I am. And instead—”

Your voice cracked completely. You turned your head, ashamed.

Jenna didn’t let you hide. She reached up, both hands cupping your face, rain-slick fingers sliding over your cheeks. She tilted you toward her, grounding you in the weight of her gaze.

“Crash Dummy,” she whispered. It wasn’t a jab. It was reverent. A secret. A vow.

You blinked, trembling under her touch.

“Don’t you get it?” she murmured, leaning closer until her forehead rested against yours, rain dripping from her lashes.“You’re the reason I said yes. The reason I keep saying yes. Not perfect plans. Not perfect nights. You. Messy, clumsy, stubborn, loud, too-big-hearted, you. You’re what I fell for.”

A sob tore out of you before you could stop it. She held you steady.

“And if you think I’m perfect, Harper…” She shook her head, a tear mixing with the rain. “…then you haven’t been watching closely enough. I’m not perfect. But you—you love me like I am. And that’s worth more than any reservation or movie ticket.”

Her lips brushed yours—soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that stitched you back together even as you broke. You melted into her, trembling, her hands firm at your jaw as if she could keep you from slipping away.

When she finally pulled back, her voice was low, steady. “Tonight’s perfect because it’s ours. Because it’s you. Don’tyou dare forget that.”

The rain hammered on, drowning the world around you, but under the awning, it was only her breath against yours, her heartbeat steady against your chest, her love wrapping around you like armor you never thought you deserved.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself believe her.

You clung to each other under the dripping awning, the storm folding the world into a blur of gray and neon. Your breathing was uneven, but Jenna’s was steady, anchoring you. Her hands slid from your cheeks to the back of your neck, pulling you close enough that your foreheads touched.

She brushed the water off your cheek with her thumb, eyes sharp and soft all at once. “If this were a movie,” she said, voice low, teasing but true, “this would be the part where the audience is rooting for you to stop spiraling and just kiss the girl.”

You opened your mouth—an apology on your lips—but she pressed her palm over it gently.

“This is perfect, Crash,” she murmured, inches away. “If our anniversary went smoothly, it wouldn’t be us. Nothing comes easy to you, and I fell in love with that. You make every moment feel real. Messy, but real. I don’t want polished. I want you.”

Your throat burned, tears slipping fresh as you laughed, shaky and wet. She laughed too, the sound breaking through the storm like a hymn. Your noses brushed, foreheads pressed, the most minor rub of affection sparking a warmth that had nothing to do with the rain.

For a moment, the world was just that: two idiots drenched and clinging to each other under the hum of the storm.

Then, over Jenna’s shoulder, you spotted it. A flickering neon sign, half the letters burnt out. The Red Lantern Diner.Ugly brick, rusted awning, rain pooling in potholes out front.

“Come on,” you murmured, tugging Jenna’s hand.

Inside, warmth hit like a balm. The place was worn—linoleum floors scuffed, booths patched with duct tape—but it glowed with a golden light, the hum of old heaters, and a jukebox in the corner playing something low and sweet.

The waitress, gray hair pulled into a bun, paused when she saw you two dripping on her tile. Then her face softened, and her voice took on a warm tone. “Oh, sweethearts. Get over here, by the heater.”

You blinked, stunned, but she was already ushering you toward a booth by the window where the rain slid down the glass in streaks, catching the glow of passing headlights. She pressed two clean hand towels into your hands, patting Jenna’s shoulder. “Dry off. You’ll catch a cold.”

You sat across from Jenna, steam from the heater curling against your damp skin. She tucked one towel into her lap, dabbing her sleeves, shaking her head in disbelief.

“I judged it,” she admitted quietly, glancing around the cozy little space. “Didn’t think a place that looked like that on the outside could feel like this on the inside.”

You grinned, heart swelling. “Kind of like me, huh?”

Jenna smirked, leaning across the table to brush her nose against yours again. “Exactly like you.”

And for the first time that night, you felt the weight lift. Maybe messy really was perfect.

The waitress brought plates steaming with comfort food—pasta in chipped bowls, grilled cheese oozing at the edges, fries piled high, still glistening with oil. It wasn’t five-star cuisine. It wasn’t even what you’d planned. But under the hum of the heater, with rain dripping down the wide front window, it felt perfect.

You leaned back in the booth, damp sleeves rolled up, laughing as you recounted it all—the oversold tickets, the busted projector, the pothole. Jenna shook her head, grinning, her laugh soft and melodic.

“Adventure, intrigue, suspense,” she said, tapping her fork against her plate. “Honestly, this might be my favorite anniversary yet. It had the bones of a great Alvarez film.”

You snorted, cheeks pink. “At least technically… we saw one of his movies. Lived one, really.”

“Exactly.” She smirked, raising her glass of soda like a toast. “Two things on the checklist. Film and food.”

The warmth bubbled in your chest, but a shadow tugged at your smile. You toyed with your napkin, frowning. “We were supposed to end with the stars. Or the sunset.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, the rain’s steady drumming filling the gap. Jenna’s gaze shifted to the window.

Then she stood, smooth and certain, sliding out of her side of the booth. You blinked as she circled around and dropped onto the seat beside you, still semi-damp, sliding in close until your shoulders touched. Her warmth pressed against you, grounding.

She tilted her chin toward the window, eyes gleaming with a quiet smile. Outside, rain streaked the glass, catching the glow of streetlamps and headlights. Blurred red, gold, and silver lights shimmered across the pavement like scattered constellations.

“Check,” she murmured, her voice soft against your ear. “The city’s version of stars. Right here.”

You turned, and she was already watching you, rainlight reflecting in her eyes. She nestled closer, head against your shoulder, her hand finding yours under the table.

As they sit beside the rain-streaked glass, Jenna turns her head, brushes her nose against yours again, and whispers:

“Perfect.”

Howdy All! I am here to inform you that I have replied to a reader of Stirring the Quiet, and I wanted to copy my repsonse to the question:

Question: "Chapter 10 title has been posted, but there is no link? When is it being released?"

Tara Carpenter x Reader

Summary: A housing mix-up forces you to room with Tara Carpenter—cold, guarded, and impossible to read. Tension simmers until a rain-soaked night and a nightmare peel back her armor for just a moment. Now, you’re left questioning if her sharp edges are meant to protect her… or to keep you from getting too close.

Word Count: 1.6k

Blackmore University wasn’t what you expected. The campus was bigger, louder, and more suffocating than it had any right to be. But the worst part?

Tara Carpenter.

The girl you were forced to live with, thanks to some last-minute housing mix-up.

She wasn’t just distant—she was sharp. Blunt. Difficult. Like every word you said to her was a personal offense. You tried to be civil at first, conversing and offering small talk that she barely acknowledged. But every interaction felt like running your hand over broken glass—fine at first until you realized you were bleeding.

She didn’t trust you. You weren’t sure you liked her, either.

And yet, you couldn’t stop noticing her.

The way her fingers tapped anxiously against her thigh when she thought no one was looking. She lingered near the door when she thought you were asleep, as if debating whether to leave. The way her jaw clenched when certain people passed by, as if she was bracing herself for something.

Tara Carpenter wasn’t mean, not really. She was guarded. Dangerous in a way that wasn’t physical—but something else. Something heavy, something worn.

The first time you actually fought, it wasn’t over anything serious. Just space, boundaries—how neither of you could seem to breathe without getting under each other’s skin.

“If you don’t like it, move out,” she snapped, eyes dark and voice cold.

“If I could, I would,” you shot back. “Trust me, you’re not that special.”

A muscle in her jaw twitched, something flickering behind her eyes for just a moment—something unreadable.

And then, the words that stuck with you for days after:

“You don’t know me. And you don’t want to.”

She left the room before you could respond.

And for the first time since moving in, you believed her.

“Wait. Hold on. Back up,” Marcus said, fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

You sighed, stirring your drink with unnecessary force. “I said what I said. She basically told me to move out and implied I might not make it through the semester.”

Across the table, Laila’s mouth was hanging open like she was trying to catch flies. “Tara Carpenter? As in... the survivor?”

You nodded, eyebrows raised. “The very one.”

Marcus and Laila exchanged a look, blinking at you like you’d just admitted to rooming with a ghost or a celebrity.

“Dude,” Marcus said slowly, setting his fork down. “You’re living with her? Like, her-her? The Ghostface girl?”

“She hates when people call her that,” you muttered, though you weren’t sure if it was true or just something you assumed.

Laila leaned forward, voice low. “And she just walked out after saying that?”

“Like she dropped a smoke bomb and vanished,” you said, mimicking the motion with your fingers.

There was a beat of silence before Marcus sat back with a whistle. “Okay, that’s intense.”

Laila was still staring. “And she lives with you.”

“Yeah,” you said, rubbing your temples. “Lucky me.”

You weren’t sure what you expected when you returned to the dorm that evening. Maybe more silence. Maybe the tension from earlier still lingers like smoke. What you didn’t expect was Tara sitting at her desk, a book open in front of her, headphones in, like nothing had happened.

She didn’t look up when you walked in.

You crossed the room, trying not to let your frustration rise again. It wasn’t worth it. You dropped your bag by your bed, tugged off your hoodie, and sat down at your desk.

You should’ve just let it go.

“You know,” you said, pulling out your laptop, “we don’t have to be friends, but you could at least act like I exist.”

No response.

You glanced over.

She hadn’t moved.

“Seriously?”

Still nothing. You stood up, walked around the room, and lightly tapped her shoulder.

Tara flinched.

Hard.

Her eyes snapped up to yours, wide and filled with a flash of something that looked an awful lot like fear before it vanished behind practiced indifference. She yanked out one of her earbuds.

“Don’t do that,” she said sharply.

You took a half step back. “Sorry. I didn’t know you—”

“Just… don’t.”

She looked down again, her fingers gripping the edges of the book a little too tightly.

You stared at her for a moment longer, unsure if you should apologize again or just shut up.

You chose silence.

For the next hour, neither of you said a word. The quiet in the room was thick, full of everything you weren’t saying. Tara didn’t look at you. She didn’t speak.

But once, you caught her watching you out of the corner of her eye.

Just for a second.

And that second was enough to change something.

The next day, she was gone before you woke up. Her bed was made, but her books were missing. Like she had vanished.

You didn’t see her again until late that night.

You were brushing your teeth when the door creaked open. Tara stepped in quietly, hoodie pulled tight around her, strands of damp hair sticking to her cheeks from the rain.

You watched her in the mirror, spitting out the last bit of toothpaste.

“You’re soaked.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just moved to the closet and pulled out a dry sweatshirt, tossing the wet hoodie into the corner.

You turned to face her fully. “You okay?”

Tara looked at you then—really looked at you. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but she didn’t.

Instead, she nodded. Just once. “Yeah.”

And for the first time since you met her, it didn’t sound like a lie.

That night, the room was still. You had been reading, the soft glow of your desk lamp the only thing holding back the dark. You weren’t sure when you fell asleep.

But it was the sound that woke you.

Not a scream. Not exactly. But something is broken. Something muffled. A whimper that barely made it across the room.

You sat up slowly, blinking into the dark.

Tara.

She was thrashing lightly in her bed, tangled in the sheets, her face tight with fear. Her lips moved, barely audible, like she was whispering something through clenched teeth.

"No… don’t—please…"

You hesitated. You could have pretended not to hear. Could have laid back down and let her fight through whatever nightmare she was caught in.

But you didn’t.

You crossed the room slowly, cautiously, and knelt beside her bed.

“Tara,” you said, voice low. Gentle. “Hey. Wake up. It’s just a dream.”

She jerked suddenly, hand snapping up and grabbing your wrist before her eyes even opened. Her grip was like iron. Her breath came in fast, ragged gasps.

“Tara,” you repeated, softer. “It’s me. You’re safe. You’re in the dorm.”

Her eyes flew open. Wild. Disoriented.

But then she saw you.

And something in her gaze shifted.

The fear cracked. Just slightly.

She let go of your wrist like it burned her, sitting up and dragging the heel of her hand over her face. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly. “You were having a nightmare.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared at her lap, shoulders tense.

You stood, unsure what else to say. “Do you want… water? Or maybe I can—”

“No. I’m fine.”

The tone was final. But the way she curled slightly into herself, pulling the blanket up over her legs like armor, betrayed something else.

You hesitated, then walked back to your side of the room.

But you didn’t turn off the lamp.

And neither did she.

The sun rose like it didn’t care what kind of night had come before it.

You woke up first.

Not because of an alarm or some internal body clock, but because the silence felt different. Thicker. Like the air was still holding its breath from the night before.

Tara was already up. She was seated at her desk, back to you, hair still damp from a shower. A cup of coffee sat untouched beside her elbow. The hoodie she had tossed aside the night before was draped over her chair like she hadn’t spent the night clawing her way through a nightmare.

You stretched, not saying anything at first, testing the air.

“Morning,” you offered eventually, softly.

Tara paused for only a breath before replying. “Morning.”

It was casual. Too casual. Her voice was even, but her posture said otherwise. Her shoulders were tight. Spine too straight. Like she was pretending last night didn’t happen.

You swung your legs out of bed, padding barefoot to the mini-fridge. “I made coffee. You didn’t have to beat me to it.”

She glanced over her shoulder, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of her profile. “I was already up.”

Right.

You poured yourself a cup, leaning against the counter. “You sleep okay?”

Tara didn’t answer at first. Then: “Fine.”

Liar.

But you didn’t push. Not directly. “That’s good.”

She turned the page in her notebook, pen tapping once against the edge. “You don’t have to keep checking on me. I’m not fragile.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

She didn’t look up. “Didn’t have to.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, staring down into your coffee like it might have answers. “I just… I get it, okay? I know what nightmares are like.”

Tara laughed under her breath, but she wasn’t amused. It was bitter. Hollow. “You don’t get mine.”

There it was. The wall. Slammed back into place with all the grace of a steel door.

But instead of walking away, you sat at your desk, facing her.

“You’re right,” you said carefully. “I don’t. But I was there. Last night. And I’m not gonna pretend I wasn’t.”

Tara finally turned toward you, her expression unreadable. “So what? You want a thank you?”

“No,” you said, holding her gaze. “I want you to stop pretending you’re made of stone.”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. It sat between you like another person.

She looked away first, back to her notebook.

“Don’t get used to it,” she murmured. “Whatever that was. Last night. It doesn’t mean anything.”

You watched her fingers curl tighter around her pen.

“Doesn’t mean nothing, either,” you replied.

Just wanted to know if you were gonna continue writing or if you’ve put a pause onto your different stories.

Genuinely love them and just wanted to know before I get my hopes too high ahha

In any case, have a fantastic and sunny summer 🌈 ☀️