Morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and unforgiving. Wednesday awoke to find the sheets clinging to her skin, cold and damp. For a moment she lay still, watching the ceiling, her mind tracing the edges of a dream she couldn't quite recall — only the weight it left behind.
She sat up slowly, expression unreadable, then looked down at the soaked fabric. The sight irritated her more than it surprised her. "Pathetic," she whispered to herself, though she wasn't sure whether she meant the dream, the feeling, or the loss of control,or herself
She rose, stripped the bed without ceremony, and opened the window. Cold air poured in, washing over her face like judgment. Beneath it all, she felt the faintest pulse of something she hated most — vulnerability.
---
Morning light crept through the blinds, thin and sharp as a blade's edge. The room was still, except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan slicing through silence. Toji opened his eyes exactly at six. No alarm. His body had become one with routine.
He sat up, the white sheet falling from his chest, the air biting against the faint scars that mapped his skin. He stretched once, vertebrae cracking in sequence, and exhaled. His mind was already cataloging the day: breakfast, maintenance, a run around the grounds, maybe a trip to Jericho for supplies.
The floor was cold, grounding. He moved to the sink, splashing his face with water that could have woken the dead.
He brushed his teeth, combed his hair back with his fingers, then stepped into the small training area beside his bed. The mat was worn thin. He stood in silence, then began—push-ups, squats, shadow strikes, each motion clean and measured. Sweat formed quick, rolling down his temple, tracing the curve of his neck. The rhythm steadied him; the world outside ceased to exist.
By the time he finished, sunlight had turned gold, spilling like warm metal across the room. He wiped his face, threw on a towel, and stepped into the shower. The water thundered down, steam filling the room. For a few quiet minutes, he allowed himself stillness—no noise, no ghosts. Just heat and breath.
When he stepped out, the mirror was fogged. He cleared a space with his palm, stared again at himself, and smirked faintly.
He pulled on a pair of black joggers, nothing else. His torso was still damp, a faint sheen of water glinting against muscle as he moved. The sound of the dorm ticking awake outside—the shuffling of feet, faint chatter, a door slamming shut down the hall—reached him. Normalcy. Almost peaceful.
He poured himself coffee, black, bitter, alive. Took a sip. Stared out the window toward the woods that bordered Nevermore. The trees whispered, the way they always did before something changed.
Then—three sharp knocks.
Toji froze mid-sip, head tilting slightly. No one knocked like that. he was aware of one person.
He set the cup down, walked to the door, and opened it.
Wednesday Addams stood there.
The morning light framed her like ink bleeding through parchment—dark, still, unyielding. Her expression, as usual, gave nothing away, but her eyes flicked down for half a heartbeat before meeting his again.
Toji leaned against the doorframe, unbothered by his half-dressed state, the faint steam still rising from his shoulders. "Morning, Addams," he said, voice low, calm. "Didn't think you were the type to make house calls."
Her gaze didn't waver, but something in her grip on the candle she carried tightened. "I'm not," she said simply. "But we need to talk."
He gave a small nod, stepping aside, motioning her in with a tilt of his head.
She hesitated only slightly Wednesday stepped in before Toji could speak, her boots soundless on the polished floor. The room smelled faintly of steel and citrus discipline bottled into scent.
Toji was halfway through buttoning his shirt, dark fabric stretched over muscle, eyes flicking to her once and back to his cufflinks. "You're early," he said.
"I wasn't aware I was expected," she replied.
He glanced up, a brief smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You always show up when I least expect you. That's starting to feel like a pattern."
"Perhaps," she said, tone flat. "I've come to correct one."
He didn't ask yet. He only studied her as he rolled his sleeves down, the morning light slicing across his jaw. She stood there, spine straight, hands folded behind her back like a verdict in human form.
"You've been quiet lately," Toji said. "That's not normal for you. Usually, you're busy diagnosing my flaws."
"There are only so many ways to point out a disease before you realize it's terminal."
He gave a short laugh. "Ouch. I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't."
It should have ended there, the way it usually did—her sharpness meeting his calm and canceling out. But something in her didn't stop this time.
She walked past him to the window, the morning chill brushing against her neck. Outside, the quad was coming alive. She could hear Enid's laugh faintly, some bird calling across the roofs, the faint thud of students running late. All of it too alive for what she was about to do.
"You're not wearing your tie," she said, still facing the window.
"Didn't feel like it," he answered, leaning back against the table. "Trying a new look. What do you think?"
"I think it fits you," she said. Her reflection in the glass looked like she was talking to someone else entirely.
He nodded once. "So what's this about?"
Wednesday turned then. Calm. Precise. "I want a divorce."
The room went still. Even the sound of the clock seemed to hesitate.
Toji's expression didn't shift. He blinked once, then continued fastening the top button of his sleeve. "All right."
Her voice stayed level, but the words caught in her throat like they were heavier than they should have been. "That's it?"
"That's it," he said. "You're free. Wasn't exactly a lifelong dream for me either."
She hated the way it sounded—how smooth, how unaffected. As if she hadn't just carved something out of herself to say it.
"You don't even want to know why?"
He shrugged, meeting her eyes briefly. "Why should I? You've already decided. Knowing your reason changes nothing."
Her hands tightened behind her back. "I thought you'd at least ask. You're not curious?"
"I don't deal in curiosity," Toji said, calm, steady. "It's messy. Gets people killed."
She took a slow step toward him. "You agreed so easily."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Because you said yes," she replied, her voice quieter now, "to this… arrangement. You said yes without hesitation."
"I said yes because Grandmama asked nicely," he replied, tone cutting but soft. "Not because I expected it to last."
She blinked, something sharp flashing across her eyes, gone as fast as it came. "So that's all it ever was. A favor."
"Isn't that what you wanted it to be?" he countered.
Wednesday didn't answer. She stared at him—at his face, his indifference, the steady composure that had once fascinated her and now infuriated her. The silence between them stretched until even the air felt heavy.
Finally, she said, "You're remarkably good at making detachment look noble."
"And you," Toji said, "are remarkably bad at hiding disappointment."
Her breath hitched. Barely. But it was enough.
"I'm not disappointed," she said.
He smiled faintly. "Sure."
"I'm not."
"Of course not."
They stood like that—neither breaking, neither yielding. Her mind screamed for control, for order, for anything but the chaos that he always seemed to carry like an aura.
After a long moment, she said, "You're insufferable."
"And you're predictable," Toji replied. "That's why this works."
"Worked," she corrected.
"Right," he said. "Worked."
She turned toward the door but didn't move. Her hand lingered on the knob, and for the first time, he saw something faint tremble in her reflection—the smallest fracture in her poise.
Without turning back, she said, "You won't even fight it?"
"No point," he said. "You've already won."
Her eyes lowered, then rose again. "You're impossible."
He tilted his head. "And you're human. It's bound to happen."
There it was. The unspoken thing between them. The reason her nights had been restless, her sketches of him burned, her breath stolen by thoughts she refused to name.
She finally said, "I despise you."
Toji smiled faintly. "Good. That means you'll remember me."
For a moment, she almost laughed—just once, brittle, quick, before it died in her throat. "You really don't care, do you?"
He looked at her for a long time, and though his face stayed neutral, his eyes were older than his tone allowed. "If I started caring, I'd stop surviving."
Wednesday nodded once, sharp, deliberate, as if signing the end of a treaty. "Then survive, Toji. Just don't expect me to watch."
She left.
The door clicked softly behind her. Toji stared at it for a while, then exhaled through his nose and muttered, "Finally quiet."
But when he glanced at the table, his hand lingered over the coffee cup she had touched the last time she was here. The one he hadn't washed, though he couldn't explain why.
He set it down again, expression unreadable, and whispered, "Guess we're both liars."
The clock ticked on, relentless as ever.
After all time waits for no one
---
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