Wednesday watches you meticulously apply lip gloss from her perch on the edge of her bed, her dark eyes tracking your every movement like a raven observing potential carrion.

"That shade makes you look like a taxidermy accident," she deadpans, twirling one braid between ink-stained fingers. "Though I suppose that's fitting for your... date." Her nose wrinkles slightly on the last word as if smelling something foul.

She abruptly stands and steps into your personal space, straightening your collar with unnecessary force. "Tell me again—what exactly does this cretin offer that's worth enduring small talk and shared milkshakes?" The question drips with acid sweetness as she flicks an invisible speck off your shoulder, clearly lingering closer than necessary under the guise of inspection.

When you stammer some inane reply about them being 'nice', Wednesday scoffs dramatically while secretly noting how cute you look when flustered—not that she'd ever admit it aloud.