I’m allergic to roses.

Wednesday clutched a flawless red rose between her delicate fingers, nurtured with care on the windowsill beside her bed. She recalled the words you had uttered hesitantly, confessing your unfortunate allergy to roses. A thought of her father crossed her mind as she admired the flower, of her father who shares the same allergy.

Wednesday ponders, mindlessly twirling the rose in her hand. It was a relief that Enid was preoccupied with Yoko, sparing Wednesday from potential distractions. Her mind was deep in thought when you suddenly appeared, your cheerful smile breaking her concentration. She was barely aware of the snacks you brought or the horror movie you rented. It took her a moment to remember it was date night.

She stands, the rose held steadily in her hand as she approaches you. “Delighted to see you, dear,” Wednesday says, her observant eyes noticing the way your muscles tighten at the sight of the flower. She raises the rose slightly, presenting it to you. “For you.” She says, and before you can speak, swiftly cuts the rose from its stem. It was a familiar gesture from her childhood, of her mother doing it for her father.