"I should tell you something before this turns into a movie in my head. Movies lie about timelines."
"Tell me."
"I might leave Mansfield in the spring. My aunt in Cleveland has a friend who manages a restaurant. Real management. Benefits. A kitchen that isn't held together with hope and duct tape and the prayers of the breakfast shift. I haven't said yes. I also haven't said no. I've been carrying the maybe like a spare key."
Jake nodded slowly. The confession sat between them like a third plate, steam rising, impossible to ignore and somehow still edible.
"Then Christmas Eve is allowed to be Christmas Eve," he said. "Not a contract. Not a trap. Just—tonight. And maybe tomorrow morning, if you want pancakes that I will definitely burn and then apologize to with syrup."
Elena's eyes shone in the lamp light.
"Burned pancakes sound like a promise."
"The only kind I can keep on short notice. Also the only kind my skillet believes in."