Greta turns her head almost automatically, her cheek brushing against Iman's hijab. She doesn't trust her voice enough to respond aloud, so she presses a kiss to Iman's forehead, instead. She's right, of course. They're both safe. They're both out. It's over.

And there are more immediate concerns, like getting the syrup onto the pancakes without getting it everywhere else. "Let's," she replies, supporting the bottom of the cup so Iman can pry off the top. She carefully upends it over the pancakes, and... oh, dear, it's already pooling a bit close to the edge in one corner. One hand goes under the container to try and even it out a bit; the other hastily deposits the empty cup into the bag.

"This is going well," she says, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "We probably should have gotten a plate." Not that she's making any move to go get one. Rather, she settles in a bit more snugly against Iman's side and attempts to cut into the pancakes without dumping syrup into their laps, pulling her lower lip between her teeth as she concentrates.