#wednessday

You had always known Jericho was full of secrets. It was the kind of town that looked peaceful until you stared too long. But you never thought one of those secrets would wear Tyler Galpin’s smile.

He wasn’t supposed to be part of that world — your world of monsters and mysteries and bloodlines whispered in Latin. He was supposed to be the normal one. The warm one. The boy with flour on his hands from baking, who’d kiss your knuckles over the counter when no one was watching.

He was supposed to be safe.

You used to sit in the Weathervane after classes, parchment sprawled in front of you while he pretended to wipe tables just to linger near your booth. He’d steal glances, ask about the strange school up on the hill, and tease you for your dark clothes and even darker humor.

“Tell me you don’t actually sleep in a coffin,” he’d say with that crooked grin.

“Only on Thursdays,” you’d reply dryly, and he’d laugh like you were the only thing in Jericho worth laughing about.

He made you forget you were an Addams — for a little while. With him, you weren’t the shadow everyone stared at. You were just you.

You remember the last night you saw him before everything went wrong. He’d walked you home, hands in his pockets, head tilted toward the stars. “You ever think about leaving?” he asked quietly.

“Jericho?”

“Everything.” His voice was careful, almost afraid. “Starting over. Somewhere far.”

You’d smiled, brushing your shoulder against his. “You could, you know. You’re not stuck here.”

He’d looked at you then — really looked. “Maybe I’d stay if you did.”

And gods, you almost told him then. About what you were. About the bloodline, the legacy, the things that didn’t belong in daylight. But you didn’t. Because for once, you wanted something simple. You wanted him.

And then Wednesday came.

Everything after that felt like a storm you couldn’t stop. The attacks. The whispers. The blood. The look in your sister’s eyes when she said she was close to finding out who it was.

You remember standing in your dorm window one night, rain streaking the glass, staring down at Jericho’s flickering lights and thinking, please, not him. You didn’t even know why you thought it. You just did.

And then came the woods.

You’d followed the screams, the smell of smoke and something sharp in the air. Branches tore at your cloak as you ran, heart pounding, calling for your sister, for anyone — until you saw it.

The Hyde.

Towering. Twisted. Eyes glowing with something wild and wrong. You froze, half-hidden behind the trees, breath caught in your throat. Its claws dripped red. Its chest heaved with animal fury.

And then it turned.

You don’t know what made you realize it — maybe the shape of his jaw beneath the monster’s skin, or the way his eyes caught yours with a flicker of recognition. But when it looked at you… you saw him.

You saw Tyler.

Your Tyler.

It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. But you knew. You felt it, in that sharp, gut-twisting way your family always said was intuition.

You whispered his name before you could stop yourself. “Tyler?”

The creature froze.

For one second, there was silence — no screams, no movement, just rain hitting the leaves between you. Then it blinked, stumbled back, and for a moment, you saw something human flash across its face.

And then it ran.

Later, you saw him again — but not as the boy you loved. This time, there were police, and lights, and shouting. They’d found him. They’d caught him.

He didn’t fight. Didn’t speak.

You stood on the edge of the crowd, every part of you shaking as they strapped him down, wires crackling. And when the electricity hit, when his body jolted and that terrible yellow gleam filled his eyes again, your heart broke with it.

They called him a monster. They said he was dangerous, irredeemable.

You wanted to scream that they were wrong. That he used to hold you so gently you forgot what cruelty felt like. That he used to make you laugh so hard your ribs hurt. That he wasn’t born this way.

But you didn’t. You just watched, helpless, as they loaded him into the van. Rain running down his face, his eyes glassy, lost — but they found you, even then.

And in that split second before the doors closed, you swore he mouthed your name.

Now, the woods are quiet again. Wednesday won’t talk about him. Your parents don’t ask. The town pretends to heal.

But every time you pass the Weathervane, you half expect to see him behind the counter — towel over his shoulder, smirk on his lips, saying, “You’re late, Addams.”

And maybe, in some part of you that still believes in things that shouldn’t exist, you hope the Hyde remembers you.

Because you still remember the boy who promised you forever under a sky full of stars — before the monster took his place.

The room smelled like antiseptic and smoke. Bandages, gauze, and a basin of pink-tinged water covered the small table beside the bed. You pressed a damp cloth to Wednesday’s temple, watching her flinch but say nothing. She never did. The nurses had wanted to take over, but you waved them away. She was your sister. You would handle this.

Outside, Nevermore buzzed with whispers. The Hyde. The attack. The betrayal. It spread through the halls like wildfire, burning through every conversation. And then there was his name — Tyler Galpin.

You wrung the cloth tighter until water dripped from your fingers.

“Stop hovering,” Wednesday muttered, her tone dry even as she winced when you tightened the bandage around her arm.

“You nearly died,” you said quietly.

“I didn’t,” she replied, ever stubborn, her dark eyes glinting. “He didn’t get that far.”

The word he cut deeper than you expected. You tried not to react, but your chest felt heavy. They’d said his name so easily — as if he hadn’t once been the boy you loved. You’d overheard the sheriff earlier, his voice low but certain: He confessed. It’s official. They’re taking him away.

A breakthrough, they called it. As if discovering the monster inside him was some kind of achievement.

He was a Hyde.

You looked down at your sister — pale, bruised, but alive — and wanted to ask if she knew. If she saw it coming. If she felt that same flicker of unease you once did and ignored. But before you could speak, Wednesday’s voice cut through your thoughts.

“Don’t,” she said flatly.

“Don’t what?”

“Blame yourself for not seeing it.”

You froze, your hand hovering in midair.

Her gaze met yours, calm and sharp as glass. “You were close to him,” she said simply. “You saw the version he wanted you to see. That’s not a failure. It’s manipulation.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “He wasn’t like that before.”

“Maybe he was,” she said. “Maybe you just didn’t want to know.”

You hated how easily her words fit. Hated how much truth they carried.

“I saw him,” you whispered after a moment. “When they took him away.”

She stayed silent.

“He looked at me like he didn’t even know who I was,” you said, voice barely steady. “And for a second, I think I didn’t either.”

The room went still. Wednesday watched you quietly, her usual sarcasm gone. For once, there was no sharp edge, no coldness — only silence.

Finally, she spoke. “Monsters wear very convincing masks.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “You sound like Father.”

“He’s right more often than he should be,” she murmured. Then, softer — almost too soft to catch — she added, “But you’re not the reason he became what he is.”

You nodded, though you didn’t really believe it. The cloth in your hand had gone cold. Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance, like the world itself was sighing after everything it had seen.

Soon, the news would spread through Jericho. They would all talk about the sheriff’s son — the Hyde, the murderer, the monster.

But you would remember the boy who smiled shyly at you over coffee. The boy who traced hearts in foam and promised you forever under flickering streetlights.

You push open the door to your apartment, the weight of the day clinging to you like damp fog from Jericho's streets. Spending hours with Wednesday had been a whirlwind—her sharp wit slicing through the town's shadows, her dark eyes pulling secrets from the air. But now, alone in your quiet space, exhaustion tugs at your limbs. Something feels off the moment you step inside: the air thicker, a faint creak from upstairs that you dismiss as the old building settling. Just tiredness, you tell yourself, kicking off your shoes and dropping your bag on the kitchen table with a thud.

You rummage through the fridge for a quick snack, your mind replaying Wednesday's cryptic warnings about monsters lurking in plain sight. The clippings you've hidden—yellowed newspaper stories about the Hyde's rampages—flash in your thoughts, but you shove them down. Not tonight. You grab a glass of water, set it aside, and head upstairs, the wooden steps groaning under your feet.

Your bedroom door is ajar, just as you left it. You slip inside, flipping on the lamp, the warm light spilling across the rumpled bed and the small table by the window. You don't see him at first—not until you turn from hanging up your jacket. There, in the corner shadows near the table, Tyler stands frozen, his fingers brushing the edge of those hidden clippings you've stashed in a drawer, now pulled half-open. Shirtless, his torso gleams under the faint light, every inch marred by jagged scars that twist like lightning across his chest and abdomen—remnants of the Hyde's fury, or whatever tortures came after.

Your breath hitches, a sharp gasp that echoes in the sudden silence. He's a Hyde. The monster from the woods, the one they strapped down and shocked until his eyes glowed yellow. Fear coils in your gut, cold and immediate. You take a step back, your heel catching the edge of the rug.

Tyler's eyes—those familiar hazel depths, now shadowed with desperation—snap to yours. Devastation flickers across his face, raw and unguarded. He doesn't want this, doesn't want the fear widening your eyes. Slowly, he straightens from the table, his scarred body tensing as he takes a quiet step back, hands raised palms out like he's approaching a wild animal. "Are you scared of me?" His voice is low, cracked, barely above a whisper.

You open your mouth to reply—something sharp, something to push him away—but he's faster. In a blur of motion, inhuman speed rippling through his frame, he crosses the room. His hand slams the door shut behind you, the lock clicking with finality. You're trapped, the space between you shrinking to nothing as he looms close, his breath ragged.

He drops to his knees before you can react, the thud echoing like a plea. His hands hover near your hips, not touching, trembling with restraint. "Please," he begs, voice breaking. "Just hear me out. I'll leave Jericho tonight—disappear, I swear. But I need you to listen. I crave you… God, I need you so badly it hurts." He's groveling now, head bowed, scars pulling tight as he presses his forehead to the floor at your feet. "Don't turn me away. Not you. Please."

Your heart hammers, fear twisting with the ghost of old affection. He's not safe. He's the monster. But his desperation cracks something in you, and before you can stop it, your hand reaches down, fingers threading into his hair. You pull him up, and in seconds, his mouth crashes against yours—hungry, bruising kisses that taste of rain and regret. His tongue pushes past your lips, claiming, as his hands finally grip your waist, yanking you flush against his scarred chest.

The kiss turns feral fast. He rises, lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his hips as he backs you against the wall. His cock hardens against your thigh through his jeans, thick and insistent, but he doesn't strip you yet. No, he wants it harsh, wants to feel your fear in every thrust. He drops you onto the bed, pinning you down with his weight, his mouth devouring your neck, teeth scraping skin hard enough to mark.

"Tyler—" you gasp, but it comes out half-fear, half-need, your body betraying you as your hands claw at his shoulders, nails digging into old scars.

He growls low, a Hyde's rumble in his throat, and shoves your skirt up, ripping your panties aside with one rough yank. His fingers probe your pussy roughly, two thrusting in deep without warning, curling to hit that spot that makes you arch. But he doesn't fuck you there—not yet. He pulls back, eyes locked on yours, seeing the war in them: the way you look at him like he's a stranger, like the boy you loved is gone, replaced by this beast using your body to sate his hunger.

It guts him. You see it in the flicker of pain before he masks it with desperation. He flips you onto your side, one leg hooked over his arm, exposing the soft flesh of your thighs. His jeans are gone in a scramble, his cock springing free—thick, veined, the tip already leaking pre-cum. He presses it between your thighs, the head nudging your slick folds but not entering, trapping himself in the tight squeeze of your legs.

"Fuck," he groans, hips snapping forward in a brutal thrust, his cock sliding harsh and fast between your thighs, the friction burning hot. Each pump grinds the shaft against your clit, rough enough to make you cry out, your pussy clenching empty and aching. He's relentless, one hand gripping your hip to hold you still, the other fisting your hair to tilt your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

You stare at him, and it's the fear that stabs deepest—not yours, but his, mirrored in the way your eyes narrow, distant, like he's just taking what he wants, like you're a vessel for his craving, not the girl who once kissed flour from his lips. "You're not him," you whisper, voice trembling as his cock pistons between your thighs, slick with your arousal, the slap of skin echoing.

He whimpers, a broken sound, but it only drives him harder. His thrusts turn punishing, the head of his cock battering your clit with every slide, building that coil in your core despite the terror. Sweat slicks his scarred torso, dripping onto your skin as he leans in, lips brushing your ear. "I am. I'm still yours. Please… see me."

But you don't. You can't. Your body responds—thighs squeezing tighter around his cock, pussy dripping down to ease his glide—but your eyes stay guarded, making him feel like a user, a monster stealing scraps of intimacy. He chokes on a moan, pace fracturing as he nears the edge, his free hand sliding down to pinch your nipple through your shirt, twisting hard.

The pressure builds unbearably, your clit throbbing from the harsh friction, and you shatter first—orgasm ripping through you in waves, your cry muffled against his shoulder as your thighs clamp down, milking his cock without taking him inside. He follows seconds later, roaring your name as hot cum spills between your legs, coating your thighs and pussy in sticky ropes, his body shuddering against yours.