"Fate in sugared crust?"
"Or pastry wearing fate like a ribbon."
"Now who’s the poet?"
"Don't punish me for being sentimental in my own kitchen."
They moved from table to hearth almost without noticing, carrying bowls and the heel of bread, letting their chairs tilt toward the fire as the day sank into the kind of blue that makes windows into mirrors. The careful distance that had lived all week between them, polite as a well-trained servant, retreated a pace.
"Tomorrow," she said, staring at the flames, "there will be the bonfire, the bells, everybody in the square."
"Will you stand at the front and marshal us like troops?" he asked.
"I always do. Someone must prevent Mrs. Morrison from weaponizing mistletoe."
"Will you let me stand with you?"
She looked startled. "If you like."
"If I’m welcome."
"Everyone is welcome at New Year’s," she said, then after a beat, more quietly: "It’s a night for starting over."
"Is that what this is?" His voice was careful. "A beginning?"
"I don't know what this is." She rubbed a thumb along the rim of her bowl, thinking. "But it might be something."
"Possible?"
"Possible," she allowed. "I am still deciding."
"How long will your decision take?"
"As long as it takes." A glance up, direct. "You cannot expect trust with speeches."
"But you can earn it?"
"You can work toward it," she said. "With consistency, not fireworks."
"I can do that."
"Can you? Because gestures seem to be your native language."
"I'm practicing new ones."
"New gestures?"
"New settings," he said, lips quirking. "Such as sitting by your fire, eating soup, and not declaring a lifetime of devotion."
"Are you devoted?"
"Absolutely."
"That sounded remarkably like a declaration."
"A statement of fact."
"Facts require proof."
