The sun was low—amber light bleeding out across the edges of the field, washing the battered goalposts in something too warm for the bruised sky. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago, but he hadn’t moved much since the last whistle. His jersey clung to his back in streaks of sweat and dirt. One knuckle was split open. A thin line of dried blood curled down toward his wrist like a lazy river.

He didn’t seem bothered.

Wednesday Addams watched from the edge of the field, back resting against the old chain-link fence that bordered the track. Her silhouette was sharp against the light, all dark fabric and stillness. The black of her dress looked nearly blue under the sun’s last reach, her collar white as bone. She wasn’t meant to be there—none of this was her terrain—but she stood as if it were the others who didn’t belong.

Her eyes were locked on him. His hands. His shoulders. The way he didn’t flinch when he wiped mud from his cheek with the heel of his palm.

He glanced her way, once. Not long. Not surprised. Just enough to confirm that yes, she was still there.

Her arms stayed folded across her chest. “You’ve looked better,” she said, flatly.

It wasn’t concern. It wasn’t mockery, either. Just a dry observation, offered like a challenge or a dare.

He bent down to retrieve the worn rugby ball near his foot. Leather peeling, seams dark with soil. He turned it once in his hand and then, without fanfare, lobbed it toward her.

Wednesday caught it easily, both hands closing around it like she’d done it a hundred times. She tilted her head slightly, examining the split along the stitching with a look not unlike curiosity.

She didn’t hand it back. She didn’t ask why he threw it. She simply walked a few steps away from the fence and sat on the bottom row of the metal bleachers—back straight, shoulders perfectly aligned, the ball now resting on her knees.

He stood a moment longer in the center of the field. Then he moved, slow but certain, and crossed the distance without hesitation. He didn’t speak. Didn’t sit immediately either. Just stood near her, like orbit around a fixed point.

She didn’t look at him.

Not yet.

The silence between them stretched, thick and grounding. There was no rush to fill it. If anything, it felt like a third presence sitting quietly beside them—watching.

Finally, he sat. One row down. Elbows on his knees. He didn’t lean toward her, but he didn’t lean away, either. His fingers brushed the edge of a deep bruise blooming just below his kneecap. He winced, barely.

Her voice came again, low. “You throw better when you’re angry.”

There was a trace of something there—not quite approval, not quite interest. Just... fact. Truth, maybe. The kind she collected like dead insects in jars.

He didn’t respond. But the corner of his mouth twitched, subtle. Maybe he’d noticed the way her fingers were still resting on the ball. Maybe he hadn’t.

Above them, the sun finally dipped out of view. The field darkened in slow layers, casting long shadows that slipped across the bleachers. The others were long gone. Even the sound of cleats in gravel had faded.

Neither of them moved.

A breeze picked up. Not cold, just enough to make the metal beneath them hum softly. Wednesday’s hair shifted—braids tight, but the shorter strands near her ear lifted faintly. She didn’t adjust them. She didn’t speak again for a while.

When she did, it was quieter.

“I like this version of you.”

That was all.

She didn’t clarify what version she meant. The scraped one, the tired one, the one who didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t being watched. She didn’t look at him after saying it, either. Just let it hang in the air like mist.

He didn’t move.

Neither did she.