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*****
Present Day â Jericho
Ethan sat astride his bike on the shoulder of the empty road, helmet dangling loosely from one hand. His eyes were fixed on the small, one-story house across the street. Nothing remarkable at all.
Except for the girl inside it.
Wednesday Addams.
Right now, she was seated on some creaky therapy couch, listening to a well-meaning adult drone on about healthy coping mechanisms and emotional vulnerability â two concepts she treated with the same enthusiasm as dental surgery.
Ethan knew the script, knew the beats, knew exactly how this afternoon was supposed to go.
Because this was the moment the canon story tried to force itself back into place.
The infamous therapy session escape.
The one where Wednesday slipped out, wandered Jericho, and inevitably crossed paths with Tyler. Their awkward, accidental meeting. His attempt at charm. Her accidental curiosity. The slow, messy, absolutely doomed "love-hate" thread that followed.
A thread Ethan refused â completely, absolutely, wholeheartedly refused â to let happen.
He drummed his fingers once against the handlebar, eyes narrowing at the house.
He might be calm. He might be patient. But there were limits.
If he let the plot run its original courseâŠ
If he just sat by and watched Wednesday stumble into that coffee-brewing little HydeâŠ
Then he'd be standing here wearing a bright, shiny green hat â and he had zero intention of playing the fool in someone else's story.
He didn't mind putting a hat on others. In fact, it was fun.
But wearing one himself?
Not happening.
Not in this lifetime.
Not in any timeline.
So yes â he was here for one reason only.
To make sure Wednesday Addams did not develop so much as a flicker of affection for that little Hyde.
And he'd stop the entire plotline himself if he had to.
Ethan's gaze sharpened as he watched the house. He didn't have to wait long.
The bathroom window on the side creaked open, just like he expected. A pale hand slipped out first, then Wednesday swung herself through the narrow frame with cold, efficient precision. No hesitation, no wasted movement.
She used the drainpipe, slid down with practiced ease, and dropped lightly onto the groundâsilent, controlled, completely unfazed.
Ethan's eyes narrowed.
Dangling from the strap of her bag was a severed hand, pale and stitched, its fingers drumming impatiently like it had somewhere urgent to be.
Thing.
One of the Addams family's more unusual membersâand Wednesday's unofficial right hand, in every sense.
"Well finally, I was really tired of waiting" said Ethan
And while walking, Wednesday bumped into a man carrying a crate of apples. The impact sent them rolling everywhere.
Then the world snapped into a sudden, violent visionâ
The man in a truck.
A distracted turn.
A massive tractor-trailer.
An eruption of shattering glass and twisting metal.
His death.
Just as quickly as it came, the vision shatteredâgone, leaving only the faint echo of impending tragedy behind her eyes.
The man, utterly unaware, shot her an irritated glare.
"Watch it, weirdo," he muttered before storming off, kicking an unfortunate apple out of his way.
Wednesday didn't react. She never did.
But thenâ
"Hey, Wednesday! Over here!"
A voice she recognized.
A voice she absolutely did not expect to hear in Jericho, of all places.
She turned, slowly.
And there he was.
Ethan.
Standing across the road, one hand raised in a lazy wave, as if bumping into her in the middle of townâduring her escaped therapy session, no lessâwas the most normal thing in the world.
Her eyes narrowed by a single, almost imperceptible degree.
Of all the annoyances she'd anticipated todayâŠ
He was not supposed to be one of them.
She crossed the road with her usual unhurried, predatory grace, stopping in front of Ethan with the exact expression she always have.
"What," Wednesday said flatly, "are you doing here?"
"I'm just slacking off like usual," Ethan replied, shrugging. "And I saw some interesting sightsâlike you escaping therapy while Principal Weems is sitting in her car, waiting for the session to 'work its magic.'"
Wednesday's eyes narrowed a fraction.
"Therapy," she repeated, voice dripping clinical disdain, "is a futile ritual designed to make emotionally fragile people feel less fragile."
"I do not require assistance managing my feelings. I have none that need managing."
Her gaze drifted briefly toward the house she'd slipped out of.
"My issues are not psychological. They are environmental. And the environment is⊠other people."
She turned back to Ethan, expression unchanged.
"Escaping was the most logical course of action. Remaining would have been an act of crueltyâtoward myself and the therapist."