It isn't often that Iman is reduced to a stunned silence, at least in Greta's experience. She gives her friend a brief, bewildered look, not knowing quite how to interpret the expression on her face, but feeling her cheeks prickle in response. Something's wrong, she's made some sort of embarrassing misstep, but what? Was it... oh. Her dropped gaze lands right on the napkins, currently spread over the blanket as a first line of defense against a more catastrophic spill. She could have used one of those - should have, obviously, that's what they're here for - even though syrup is sticky and it probably would have just resulted in Iman's chin getting covered in paper fiber as well. Regardless, it would have been a bit more dignified than Greta's casual use of her hand, as if Iman was her child as opposed to her friend.

Is this what Iman gets for asking for help? Greta babying her right out of the gate? Ugh. Small wonder if she doesn't think twice about asking for assistance, next time.

"Sorry," Greta says, blush deepening despite Iman's game attempt to move things along. "I didn't mean to, um... mother you." And she can hardly follow up that apology by offering her another bite, oh dear, this is appalling. She can't even move, can't risk shifting herself for fear of upsetting the arrangement across their laps. With so few options available for venting her mortification, she ultimately ends up dropping her forehead onto Iman's shoulder with a groan. "I wasn't even thinking."