"I will come up with something."

“Or Friday, if you want to be a traditionalist,” Pippa suggested more for Walt’s sake then anything. His hesitation wasn’t sounding too promising, all things considered.

"Got a favorite flower?

“Poppies,” she answered immediately. “They grow wild around the house. The Scottish one, not the London townhouse,” she explained. Not that he probably needed to know the distinction. He probably would’ve noticed that the townhouse was right on the street without nary a flowerbox to be seen. Or maybe she was giving him too much credit. He was observant and smart, but did boys even notice flowers? Maybe she shouldn’t have made the distinction. Did she come across as a snob when she said things like that?

Maybe she shouldn’t have said poppies. She didn’t like roses nor did she like daisies but poppies weren’t the most romantic of flowers. She always liked them though, the bright pop of red against the black center. They were mostly used as flowers of remembrance for fallen soldiers. Nothing said romance like remembering the dead, she thought sarcastically.

“Or Lilies,” she amended. There, a more...well normal type of flower, which she liked. Not as well, but she did like them.

“Just not roses,” she insisted, wrinkling up her nose in disdain. “They remind me too much of weddings or funerals, both extremes, that.” She meant full well to skip both of those experiences. If she got married, a big if, that came down to two syllables, elope. As for her funeral, cremation by dragon fire was her hope, but she’d be dead and past caring so it didn’t really matter, did it?

This was the last conversation she expected to have in her pajamas.

“Favorite candy?” she asked, falling into their regular routine of twenty questions