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Their third date is at a tiny cafe in the heart of Jericho.
Unlike the Weathervane with its large crowds and heavy noise, this place quaint and less known to the general population. Its dark and obscure storefront deters certain demographics from visiting, leaving only people like Wednesday to take interest in it. It’s made up of only eight tables and two booths and primarily functions on its to-go and delivery orders, which is just an added bonus. No one is ever here, and if there is, it’s always a nerdy kid reading a book or an elderly couple about one week away from securing their place in the dirt.
Wednesday loves it because it isn’t so overwhelming. Enid loves it because Wednesday loves it. It’s perfect for them, a quiet place for them to settle down and talk or for Enid to admire Wednesday like she’s the best thing the universe ever created.
They’ve been here for what feels like years. The sun was out when they first sat down and ordered, and now it’s long gone and the Jericho streetlights flick on. Enid hasn’t finished her buttered croissant, and Wednesday’s black coffee is cold. Still, that doesn’t matter, because the words they’ve been exchanging over coffee cups and spoons are far more important than wasted food.
The girl working behind the counter an hour before closing keeps stealing glances at the couple wedged in one of the booths by the window. She seems to be the only employee left for the evening, now sweeping the shop and wiping down the tables with a wet rag.
“Don’t tell anyone, but Yoko is planning on getting Divina something really nice for her birthday next week,” Enid tells Wednesday, picking at her croissant. “I think it’s gonna be expensive.”
“I don’t elect to converse with either of them, so you can rest assured that she will never find out,” Wednesday says. She looks into her coffee mug, finding the brew has gone flat. “I’m going to order a fresh cup. Would you like another coffee?”
Enid finished her iced coffee over an hour ago, sipping between giggles and telling Wednesday funny jokes that didn’t provoke one laugh from her. It was fantastic and full of flavor, certainly unique in comparison to those at the Weathervane, which hasn’t been receiving much of her patronage since the blood moon.
“Sure,” she replies, a blush creeping up her neck as she watches Wednesday slither out of the booth. “Dark roast espresso with caramel and two pumps of—“
“Brown sugar syrup and oat milk,” Wednesday completes, dusting off her pants. “I know what you like.”
It’s the same order every time. Sometimes Enid will spice up her routine and order a seasonal drink, but lately she’s been exclusively ordering espresso with brown sugar syrup. It’s a fan favorite of the cafe’s, one of the only drinks that sticks around throughout the year, through sun and snow.
Wednesday knows her so well.
She knows her so well, that when she approaches the counter, she prattles off the order as if she’s reciting her full name. The barista is cordial yet awkward about it, still stealing glances at Enid. Aside from taking their orders, she’s been almost dead silent as she moves about the cafe. Wednesday appreciates it, but the persistent staring is concerning.
“Just a reminder, we close in 45 minutes,” says the barista as she’s filling a plastic to-go cup with espresso. Her green eyes remain focused on her task, even as Wednesday’s pointed glare weighs heavily on her shoulders. “Just so you know.”
“I’m aware,” Wednesday shortly says, tapping her nails on the marble counter. “I read the hours posted on the window.”
“I was only reminding you,” the barista replies as she snaps a lid on the cup and sets it on the counter before she pours black coffee into an equally wasteful cup. “Sometimes people lose track of time. And you look. . .comfortable.”
“You’re mistaken,” Wednesday says, slapping a twenty dollar bill on the counter. “I am never comfortable.”
After gathering her change and the coffees, Wednesday returns to the booth she shares with Enid and carefully places the cup in front of her. Enid stretches up in her seat and plants a soft kiss on Wednesday’s cheek, before she settles down and eagerly jams a plastic straw into the lid.
“You’re the best,” she tells Wednesday, cheekily smiling at her. “How do you remember so much?”
“Very rarely do I pay people any mind,” Wednesday says as she stirs her coffee with a spoon, as if she added any mix-ins. “You are the exception. I know what you like to drink, to eat, to do. You deserve nothing less than someone who acknowledges your desires.”
Enid pauses, staring at Wednesday in awe. Her unoccupied hand lifts across the table and brushes an abnormally long piece of hair away from Wednesday’s forehead. Her nimble fingers rake through the black silk until Wednesday uncomfortably wiggles in her seat, prompting Enid to bring her hands to herself.
“You’re so cute,” Enid tells her, taking her first sip of her coffee. Her nose wrinkles and eyebrows confusingly meet in the middle. “Oh.”
“What’s wrong?” Wednesday asks, already scooting towards the edge of her seat as she leans forward in case Enid vomits. “Do you feel ill?”
“No, it’s just. . .never mind.”
Enid takes another cautious sip. She hopes Wednesday doesn’t notice the curl of her lip when she has to swallow.
But alas, in true Wednesday fashion, she does notice. In fact, she goes to ask Enid if she swallowed poison, because the immediate reaction to something she typically enjoys is quite alarming.
“It was made incorrectly,” Wednesday notates when Enid licks the excess off her lips and cringes. “It isn’t what you ordered.”
“No,” Enid affirms, wiping her face with a paper napkin. “It’s so sweet. And there’s no caramel. It’s like I’m drinking pure brown sugar and milk. No coffee.”
There is coffee towards the bottom of the cup, swirls of milk mixing in between the ice cubes, but it isn’t what Enid is used to having whenever they visit this cafe. She doesn’t even want to give it another sip or thought, pushing it away from herself. Her shoulders sag with disappointment.
Wednesday pinches her lips together, eyes shifting towards the barista, who is spraying the coffee bar with Lysol. Her back is turned and she seems to be rushing through her closing chores, perhaps to kick Wednesday and Enid out the moment the clock strikes eight.
“I’ll be back,” Wednesday huffs as she swipes the rejected coffee off the table.
Quickly maneuvering to the end of the booth, Enid reaches out and grabs Wednesday’s sweater sleeve. The coffee almost bursts out of the cup as Wednesday’s hand clenches around it.
“No, babe, please don’t make a scene,” Enid quietly begs, trying to draw Wednesday back to her. “It’s fine. It’s just coffee. I don’t need it anyway. I’ll have a heart attack and get the zoomies again if I have more. It’s okay, I swear.”
“It’s the principle of it,” Wednesday seethes. “I will be right back, with the coffee you wanted. This is not what you wanted.”
Before Enid can protest and beg her to not murder the barista, Wednesday is stalking up to the counter with her hand violently gripping around the sweating cup.
“This is not what she ordered,” Wednesday says, skipping all pleasantries as she puts the poorly made coffee onto the countertop that’s just been wiped clean and thoroughly sanitized. “I need you to mend it. I paid for it.”
The barista drops her broom against the wall and looks pointedly at Wednesday, then to the coffee. “Is it not espresso with three pumps of brown sugar syrup?”
“It’s meant to have caramel,” Wednesday corrects, and picks up the cup. She shakes it so the ice clatters. “I don’t see a single drop of caramel in this cup. And furthermore, she says that it tastes too much like syrup and not enough coffee. You must’ve been heavy-handed on the syrup. It’s an honest mistake, I’d like to believe. So if you’d just remake it, we’ll leave you be, since it’s quite clear you cannot hurry out of here fast enough.”
“Maybe she should have ordered it herself,” she mumbles, grabbing the cup and popping the lid off. “I was sure I put three pumps. No more, no less.”
“I’m only telling you what she told me,” Wednesday says, fingernails rapidly clicking away at the countertop. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you have been working all day and had an easy mishap. Whatever the case may be, I’d appreciate if you’d just remake the coffee the way it was originally intended to be made, and skip the conversation.”
While the barista is dumping out the ruined coffee into the sink, she mumbles to herself, mostly unintelligible nonsense to Wednesday’s ears. She begins to remake the coffee, and Wednesday watches with calculated intent. Caramel drizzle along the sides, five ice cubes, espresso, three pumps of brown sugar syrup, and a half cup of oat milk. On goes the lid, and then the cup is slid across the counter.
“That’s an improvement,” Wednesday comments, grabbing the cup.
“I hate serving Nevermore freaks,” the girl mutters. “Vampires and wolves and. . .whatever you are.”
In the two seconds it takes Wednesday to process that statement, Enid is already beside her and prying the coffee from her trembling hand. The werewolf is quick to place a hand on the small of Wednesday’s back, subtly grabbing onto the fabric of her sweater.
“I may be a freak,” Wednesday says, going rigid against the warm breath ghosting over her ear from behind her. “I may be a freak, a burden to society, a disease crawling along the earth and infecting everyone in this town, but at least I understand how to properly follow a simple coffee order.”
“Babe, please don’t,” Enid whispers. Her entire arm wraps around her waist and pulls her close. “Don’t do it. You can’t go to jail again.”
Wednesday jolts the next time she registers the hand on her hip and the fingertips sinking into her skin. It’s then she realizes that Enid is practically holding her. They’ve never been this close in proximity under the scrutinize of the public eye, and there they stand, an inch away from intimacy, while a young barista sneers at them like they were spawned with two heads.
“Oh, I get it,” the barista says, shaking her head at Wednesday. “Nevermore freaks who don’t swing the right way. Do you feel sorry for her? Is that why you date her? Because she has scars and nobody but a freak like you would like that?”
Coffee and ice splatter once the cup hits the floor and Enid is using both arms to wrap around Wednesday’s waist. She pulls Wednesday away from the counter, shushing very loudly at her to calm down and take a breath, and when that proves futile, Wednesday is able to wriggle from her embrace.
Enid glances at the barista, who’s backed herself against the coffee machine. “You’re in danger.”
Wednesday slams her hands down on the marble and looks up at the girl with such disgust in her big brown eyes. If looks could kill, the cafe would have no barista.
“You assume that calling me a freak wounds my ego. It doesn’t. But to insult my partner. . .” Wednesday pauses to exhale. She can feel a hand rubbing soothing circles into her back, but it’s just not satisfactory enough. “She’s infinitely perfect, unlike you; flawed, scatterbrained, useless. She may have scars, but she wears them as badges of honor. The only honor you’ll ever have is becoming a tired divorcee, seeking validation from any male gaze handed to you. You’ll bow to the likes of a man who cannot properly find the female anatomy when it’s presented to him, suffer several ruined climaxes because he just can’t satisfy you, and end up alone with all your cats and hoarding addiction. Alternatively, you’ll have children who will abandon you or become the prime suspects of the town’s case of matricide.”
The barista’s eyes fill with tears. Her lip trembles in a way that makes Wednesday shiver with excitement.
“It’s just a coffee. . .” she whimpers, flinching when Wednesday withdraws back to stand up straight. “Don’t hurt me.”
“I want to,” Wednesday says, inhaling and brushing off the stress with her hands. “But I cannot afford another night in jail. You’ll pay for this in future inconveniences.”
Before the shaking girl can even mutter an apology, Wednesday steps over the mess on the floor, taking Enid’s hand and guiding her out of the shop. She holds the door open for her and ushers her over the threshold with her hand, throwing one last look at the barista cowering away in terror.
Enid pulls her coat tighter around herself and gives Wednesday a shake of her head. Like she has her own fumarole, Wednesday cannot contain herself when the anger starts to bubble over, and Enid knows just how painful suppressing that urge can be. She wants to berate her for making a scene and putting herself in such danger at every chance she happens upon, but oh, those eyes.
Those big, wondrous brown eyes that terrify children and the elderly.
“Scold me later,” Wednesday immediately says once she notices the twist in Enid’s face, brushing her palm over Enid’s scars. “Right now, I want to get you home.”
“I wanna be mad at you, but I can’t,” Enid replies. Her pink cheeks raise with a smile. “That was totally hot.”
—
Enraptured by Enid, Wednesday cannot help herself but to stare at her bubbly werewolf girlfriend when she has four legs and a tail. She could imbibe, with wide and curious eyes, for hours. And maybe she has.
They’ve been out in the woods for longer than originally anticipated. Wednesday has mucilage on the underside of her boots, probably from the exotic plant she accidentally stepped on when Enid’s wet snout startled her awhile ago, and she squeaks every time she walks.
Wednesday has never had a dog before. Cats, yes, a myriad of them in all different breeds and stages of life, but never a dog. They’re just too happy and excitable for her. Yet, when she’s walking alongside what is essentially a glorified golden retriever who just so happens to howl at the full moon, she wonders if she would be a great companion to a four-legged friend.
“You didn’t specify how long your shifting takes,” Wednesday tells Enid through a puff of breath smoking out of her mouth in the dead of the winter night. “I feel as though we’ve been walking for hours.”
She adjusts the pink backpack on her shoulder so she doesn’t have to look at the unicorn sanitizer clip hanging off the strap. Enid always brings a towel, a spare change of clothes, her shoes, and a pack of baby wipes to give herself a quick cleanup with on the nights she shifts, and Wednesday begrudgingly obliged to carry everything on her back. She’s only fortunate that no one can see her so far into the forest. She would be made a mockery of.
Enid whines and a wet nose brushes against Wednesday’s pants, causing her to stop in her tracks and look down. She runs a tentative hand over the fur between Enid’s ears and strokes back the silk. Enid repays her gratitude with a subtle lick to her arm before nudging her again and trotting forward.
It’s meant to snow tonight, or so the useless weather app on Wednesday’s smartphone says. So far there have been intermittent bursts of flurries, but nothing to land on the nose or taste on the tongue.
Wednesday doesn’t mind the cold, but human Enid won’t appreciate it when she shifts back into her usual form. Wednesday doesn’t want her to be cold. She’ll complain about it the entire way home, and if not that, she’ll try to curl up into Wednesday and sink into her skin and only prolong their walk.
So maybe it isn’t exactly terrible, but Wednesday’s legs are made of jelly by now and she would really enjoy a cold shower with her favorite soaps, followed by a thick layer of woodsy body lotion.
“You’re going to regret this in the morning,” Wednesday tells the pup trailing along at her side, leaving paw prints in the vague layer of snow underfoot. “All cold and sniffly. You believe the myth that the cold itself brings sickness, as does walking outside barefoot. And I thought Divina was a paranoid species.”
Enid’s snout sputters, as if she’s scoffing at her. Wednesday pats her head again and continues weaving through the trees. An owl coos in the distance and then flies overhead, startling Enid, who lifts her chin to the moon and howls loud enough to shake the branches.
“Oh, hush,” Wednesday gently scolds, grabbing Enid by her scruff when she tries to charge at a squirrel foraging for nuts. “Don’t force me to leash you. I was serious about it last time.”
She did bring a black leash, but only because Enid can be reactive around strangers. Wednesday doesn’t think that will happen tonight, but she can’t be too careful with a fully shifted Enid. Partially-shifted Enid is more human, just with an addition of a tail and pronounced ears and teeth, and doesn’t need the extra help with taking her canine urges. Wednesday is just trying to keep a lid on things.
Whining an apology, Enid brushes her snout over Wednesday’s wrist. Wednesday affectionately drags her fingernails through the pink swoop of fur.
“Just don’t go prancing off and leave me behind,” Wednesday huffs. “You may have to carry me on your back like a horse if you don’t shift back very soon.”
She’s only attempting to make a silly statement, but Enid’s ears still perk.
“I’m not going to do that,” Wednesday assures, even if it’s tempting. “I’m not that lazy.”
A crunch just behind her makes Wednesday twitch and every hair on her body stand up. She immediately grabs onto Enid’s scruff and presses the wolf to her side, head slowly turning to the left. With her dominant hand, she reaches into her left boot and grasps the base of her hunting knife, eyes still scanning the immediate area.
Under the minimal moonlight, she can see the lithe silhouette of a person. It’s tall and broad and slightly plump around the middle. She can make out the shape of a hat on its head and what seems to be large snow boots on its feet. If it were still December and she were childish enough, she would think it’s Santa.
“What’re you doing out here all alone? I could’ve shot ya!”
It’s a man. As the flurries dwindle into thin air, Wednesday gets a clearer look at his face. He’s much older, with gray hair peeking out from the edges of his blue beanie and enough wrinkles to create a pathway to the grave. It’s now that Wednesday realizes he’s been toting a hunting rifle. She glances at the measly knife in her hand and lightly pushes Enid’s wolf behind herself.
“I’d make myself scarce if I were you,” she warns, looking up at him with intent. “Don’t you dare think about shooting my wolf.”
“Your wolf? Ha! I’m lookin’ for deer!” he exclaims. There’s a twinge of New England and a dash of Arkansas in his voice. A rare breed, for certain. “What do you think you’re gonna do with that little knife there? You must not be too bright to be out here in the dark with only that to protect you.”
Enid whimpers and nudges Wednesday over a few inches. She lowers her head and looks up at the man, teeth on full display. She makes a show of growling and arching her back like a cat.
Wednesday would only be lying to herself if she said she isn’t absolutely petrified. Her parents confiscated her handgun over the holiday break, leaving her with her knives and grenades. A grenade isn’t the best solution to this, and her knife isn’t doing too much deterrence.
“Leave us alone,” she demands with a twitch of her lip. “Get out of here. Go back to your hunting. Unless you’re planning on hunting me.”
“I’m not gonna hurt ya,” he says.
And then he moves a foot closer. Enid makes a grunting noise, slowly inching forward. Wednesday’s hand leaves her scruff and lays limp at her side while the other clutches the knife like a security blanket.
Wednesday’s father warned her about men like this one. He said that in this world there are good men who protect and nurture, and men who harm and take advantage. Judging by the hunting rifle alone, Wednesday doesn’t think he has intentions to nurture her.
“Enid, don’t,” she warns. Her throat begins to tighten. “Let me handle this.”
Enid took down the Hyde. It’s Wednesday’s turn to repay her. It’s her time to shine for her partner.
The man shuffles closer. Enid growls, her jowls quivering, now having moved entirely in front of Wednesday so the weight of her 80 pounds will take the brunt of the force if he were to charge at her.
Wednesday points the knife outward towards the man. “You stay away from my wolf. You won’t make it out of here if you even contemplate hurting her.”
“I don’t want that thing. Their fur isn’t worth as much as you think,” he chuckles, then his eyes meet hers. “But you. You have Bambi eyes.”
In the second it takes Wednesday to blink, Enid is pouncing on the man with enough force to tackle him to the ground. The rifle goes flying somewhere in the snow and sounds off, the trigger having been set off. Wednesday immediately ducks and waits for something—anything—to slice right through her the way that knife did.
“Enid!” she cries, face planted into the ground as she pushes herself up on her elbows.
There’s roaring and grunting and the sound of a man groaning in agony between squelching noises. Wednesday takes in a deep breath, feeling the weight of Enid’s backpack pressing into her. She’s alive and doesn’t feel anything oozing out of her body, unless she has to wait for the adrenaline to wear off to feel anything.
When she finally staggers to her feet using a tree trunk to brace herself, heart pushing through her throat and her intestines rearranging themselves around under her ribs, she finds Enid slicing through the man’s face with a claw. He’s writhing in pain and attempting to shove her off, only for her to react with bites to the chest and nails digging into his skin.
“Enid.”
Wednesday is quiet now, frantically searching for her missing knife. She finds it in the snow and grabs it with her shaking fingers, still pointing it at the man despite the fact that he’s likely not to survive this without horrible scarring and a lengthy hospital stay, if not death.
Deciding she’s had her fill, Enid rolls off the man with a whimper. It takes her a moment to gain enough strength to push herself up onto her four legs, but once she’s there, she snarls at the man.
Blinking away wetness, Wednesday rushes to the wolf and drops to her knees. She cradles Enid’s face in her hands and notates the amount of blood dripping from her mouth. Her fingers diligently work around Enid’s body, searching for any wounds or injuries. Enid doesn’t even whine, instead nudging Wednesday’s cheek with her bloodied snout.
The man’s groaning slowly ebbs away. He’s still twitching and writhing, but it seems that shock has overtaken him. He’s muttering swear words and slurs and all kinds of awful things that would have human Enid going on a tangent about human rights on her blog, even as he gasps for breath.
“My perfect wolf,” Wednesday fondly murmurs, burying her nose into the musky fur of Enid’s neck. “Let’s go home.”
Home. Home sounds perfect right about now.
Enid whimpers and snuffles up against Wednesday’s shoulder. Wednesday slides her knife back into her boot and stands up, her hand never departing from Enid.
“Let’s go home,” she repeats, her heartbeat finally coming down from the high. “Lead. Please.”
Tail wagging, Enid trots ahead with a limp in her step. Wednesday blindly follows and listens as the man’s cries for help fade from her ringing ears. Eventually the groans become soft whimpers and then absolutely nothing at all.
Though she’s certain that the danger is no longer imminent, Wednesday moves with calculated steps and light breaths. Everything about her is cold; her skin, her feet, her heart when she considers what that man’s intentions were.
There are some fates worth than death, her mother used to say when her strong-willed child questioned why the characters in her favorite storybook would beg for death when death is meant to be the absolute worst outcome.
She didn’t quite understand then, but now, walking on quivering knees and thinking of the hunter and then the Hyde that so desperately tried to take her life just fourteen months ago, she understands who the real monsters of the world are.
Humans.
Sometime between a thought of the monster that once shared a kiss with her and pushing the sob down into her chest, Wednesday fails to notice that Enid is laying in a crumpled heap on the ground, a quarter mile from the edge of the woods.
“Enid?” Wednesday asks, suddenly zapped hard enough for her to jolt. “Enid, what’s the matter?”
Enid is sprawled out in the dirt, muscles contracting and limbs crackling as she shifts back into her human form. Wednesday has witnessed this in certain parts but has always torn away her eyes just in time for Enid to lay completely naked. This time, she doesn’t make it.
“Oh god,” is what Enid says every time she shifts back to human form. “Shit, that hurt.”
The adrenaline that’s been pumping through the wolf suddenly wears thin, leaving Enid shivering against the cold and coming to terms with the fact that she’s nude and sprawled out like she’s the star of an adult film. She immediately closes her legs, sits up like a spring, and pulls her knees to her chest.
Fortunately, Wednesday is very attentive, and is already grabbing Enid’s fluffy towel from her backpack. She quickly wraps it around Enid and continues rummaging for her clothes and shoes, fumbling around like a damn fool. It’s hard to tell if it’s her palpable fear thudding in her chest or the fact that the first time she caught a real glimpse of Enid’s naked body has to be in such a bleak situation.
“Here,” Wednesday mumbles, shoving the clothes into Enid’s arms.
Enid shudders and holds the clothes in her hands, clutching them to her chest. Her teeth chatter and her shoulders quiver. When she neglects to start dressing, Wednesday does all she knows how to do, and assists her by first grabbing the sweater and trying to yank it over Enid’s head.
“Ouch, stop,” Enid whines, gently pawing at Wednesday.
The sweater falls to the ground, soaking up the dirty snow. Neither of them react, only staring at each other. Wednesday doesn’t move, taking in the sight of her girlfriend’s perfect blue eyes that have turned an agonizingly beautiful shade of blue under the moonlight.
“I thought he killed you,” Wednesday whispers. “I thought. . .when the rifle went off. . .”
“Close, but not close enough,” Enid tells her, shaking her head. “You’re still stuck with me.”
Wednesday withdraws an inch. If she had pearls, she would clutch them.
“Don’t ever say that,” she says, although it’s meant to be so much harsher than it leaves her. “I am not stuck with you. Being with you is my choice. I wouldn’t know what to do if you. . .if you weren’t here.”
Cold fingertips graze over Wednesday’s cheeks and wipe away what feels like tears. Wednesday didn’t register the saltwater spilling over her eyelids until now, when she sees them glisten on the pads of Enid’s bloody fingers.
“I don’t like to think I’m capable of killing someone, but I had to protect you,” says Enid, still caressing Wednesday’s freckles. “I just snapped.”
“I don’t think you killed him,” Wednesday mutters, leaning closer to the gentle caress of Enid’s palm.
“That’s too bad.” Enid’s lips smile with some decent effort. “He deserved it. He was going to do something terrible. I’d do it again if I had to.”
Wordless, Wednesday can only nod, a succinct gesture that leaves Enid with no need for elaboration.
Enid scoots a little closer to Wednesday, sealing the large gap between their bodies and pressing a soft yet firm kiss to her lips. She uses one hand to hold the towel in place, and the other comes around to cradle the back of Wednesday’s head as she draws her further into her mouth.
They stay there for a minute or two, both shivering but so warm in the cocoon of their own embrace. Their lips move in sync with each other, perfectly matched and in tune, like a breeze sweeping in on a warm summer evening.
“Oh,” Wednesday murmurs in a cloudy breath as she exhales and separates from Enid’s taste. “You must be so cold out here without any clothes.”
Enid makes a humming sound, pressing herself against Wednesday and trailing kisses up her neck. Her hands are a degree warmer as they glide over the prickled skin of Wednesday’s back.
“I think we should go home,” Enid finally says once she’s satiated, reaching down to grab her clothes. “We can continue this there, where it’s warm and safe.”
Wednesday blindly agrees, and helps Enid into her clothes. She’s so careful with her, like she’s handling a fragile, premature baby. Enid loves her for it.
And she thinks Wednesday deserves to know that.
“I love you,” she tells Wednesday in earnest, looking up at her once she’s fully dressed and on her feet.
For the first time in her life, Wednesday feels a magnetic pull that snaps her like an elastic band right into Enid’s heart.
She cradles her face and strokes along the scars, counting them and ensuring they’re all present.
“And I love you more.”