You had been working on it for weeks.

The sweater — soft black wool, high-necked, subtle texture but no gaudy pattern. Classic. Understated. Her. You’d taken careful time to stitch it by hand, using techniques you’d watched in videos late at night when you couldn’t sleep. Every row was a quiet act of care, every woven thread its own tiny vow.

You hadn’t told her, of course. That would’ve defeated the point.

Wednesday wasn’t the type to gush over grand gestures. She didn’t believe in clichés, and sentimentality made her wrinkle her nose. But she understood effort — respected the kind of love that didn’t announce itself, but wove itself, carefully, in silence.

So you crafted it in secret. Hid it under your bed. Took it out in the middle of the night and whispered apologies to every missed stitch, every imperfect edge.

And then… when it was done… you folded it quietly and walked it to her dorm.

You didn’t wrap it. You didn’t even write a note.

You just knocked on her door, handed it over, and said — softly — “I made this. For you.”

Wednesday didn’t speak right away.

She unfolded it with slow fingers, dark eyes tracing every detail. She held it by the collar and inspected the sleeves, the stitching, the slight weight of it. Her expression was neutral — unreadable — as usual. But something shifted in the way her jaw moved. The way her fingertips lingered along the seams.

She didn’t say thank you.

She didn’t say anything.

Instead… she stepped forward.

Close.

Closer than she usually allowed herself to be.

And with no drama, no hesitation, she tilted her chin up and pressed her mouth to yours — soft, still, firm enough to leave no question.

A kiss.

Quick.

Precise.

And utterly sincere.

When she pulled back, she was quiet again.

Except for a single word:

“Acceptable.”

You knew what it meant. That was Wednesday’s version of “I love it.” Of “You made this for me, and no one else ever has, and I don’t know how to say how much that means, so I’ll just… wear it.”

And she did wear it.

Often.

Without announcement, without comment — just appearing in it at breakfast, or tugging it on before fencing, or curling into a library chair with it stretched perfectly around her.

Enid noticed first. “Oh my god,” she whispered, jaw dropping. “She’s repeating outfits. Voluntarily.”

Wednesday ignored the comment, but you caught the way her hand gently pulled at the sleeve — the way she smoothed the cuff like it was something sacred.

You never asked her what she thought about it.

But you didn’t need to.

Every time she wore it, every time she let her fingers brush yours without words, every time she didn’t flinch when you reached for her hand?

That was her answer.

The following morning, you saw her in the hallway. Wearing the sweater.

She didn’t look at you right away — just walked with that usual quiet storm in her boots, black fabric hugging her frame like it had always belonged there. But when she passed you, she slowed. Her hand brushed your elbow.

And with no one else around, she said, low and casual:

“It’s warm. I suppose I should resent that.”