You and Wednesday sat in the backseat of the moving car, the steady hum of the engine blending with the faint rhythm of tires against asphalt. Up front, Lurch’s towering figure remained rigid, his dark eyes fixed unwaveringly on the road.

You swirled the amber liquid in your glass before taking a slow sip, fishing out the olive garnish with deliberate ease. The sharp taste lingered on your tongue just as Wednesday’s voice cut through the quiet usually cold and precise, but now carrying the faintest trace of softness.

“Father,” she asked evenly, her gaze fixed on the passing shadows outside the window, “have you ever wondered whether you might have liked someone of your own gender?”