"Bold accusations from someone using actual craft store supplies," Caleb fires back, and I spot the glue disguised as frosting James thought he was being subtle about. "What's next, Price? Load-bearing drywall?"
"It's a design feature." He gestures at his and Daphne's architectural fever dream. "Some of us are artists."
"That's not art, that's a sugar-based cry for help."
I stifle a laugh, pretending to care about candy symmetry while Caleb plays the long game of proximity. He's so close, practically glued to me, and his hands keep conveniently brushing past my hips like that's totally normal.
"Stop trying to sabotage the competition," I warn when his fingers drift suspiciously close to Vinnie and Ethan's perfect roofline.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Touch that gumdrop and die, Miller," Vinnie calls without looking up from her frankly unnecessary level of detailed piping work.
"Guys," I catch Daphne's eye and we share an exasperated smile. "You do realize this is technically a children's competition, right?"
A dollop of frosting lands on my nose, and I turn to find Caleb grinning at me with absolutely zero remorse. "Oops?"
"Really?" I grab a marshmallow and toss it at his head, but he catches it in his mouth with infuriating accuracy.
"Ten points to Miller!" He pumps his fist, then has to grab our teetering roof before it slides off completely.
Through the chaos of competing teams, I catch Greg and Dottie who are huddled over their own creation, heads bent close together as they work.
"Your dad's really into this," I say, surprised by how focused he looks while piping frosting.
"Yeah." Caleb's voice goes quiet. He keeps working on our roof, but I can tell his attention has drifted. "Mom basically strong-armed him into competing, but," he pauses, watching his parents interact, "I don't think I've seen him this happy since . . . fuck, I can't even remember."
The way he says it catches my attention. There's a hesitation, something he's trying to work out. I wait, letting him find the words.
"It's weird," he finally says, focusing intently on a gumdrop. "Seeing him this way. As if he remembered how to be . . ." He trails off, one shoulder lifting in a shrug.
"Present?"
"Yeah." His hands pause over the gingerbread. "Though if anyone asks, I'm deeply scarred by their newfound PDA habit."
"Time!" Margaret's voice cuts through the chaos, and everyone's hands freeze mid-decoration. "Step away from your houses, people. No last-minute structural support allowed, James."
"I would never," he protests, hiding something behind his back.
Margaret and Margie circle the room like architectural critics at a sticky gallery opening. Their clipboards might as well be gavels with how everyone tenses when they approach each table.
At James and Daphne's station, Margaret tilts her head like she's trying to decode modern art. "Is that load-bearing Snickers bar supposed to be abstract?"
"It's deconstructed Victorian," James declares, with the confidence of someone who definitely just made that up. Daphne snorts into her sleeve.
"Of course it is." Margaret's pen scratches against her clipboard. "Very bold choice."
Our creation gets a raised eyebrow, and what I hope is an approving nod at our somewhat precarious but standing roof. But it's Vinnie and Ethan's house that stops the judges in their tracks.
Their gingerbread mansion is ridiculous. They've somehow engineered working shutters out of wafer cookies, created a stone pathway from precisely crushed candy, and their roof has individual shingles made from slicedalmonds.
The winners are obvious before Margaret even opens her mouth. When she announces their victory, Ethan lifts Vinnie off her feet in celebration, spinning her until she shrieks with laughter.
"Put me down!" But she's beaming as she accepts their ribbon, pinning it to Ethan's chest.
"This is favoritism," James announces, gesturing at his melting masterpiece. "Just because some people spent actual hours practicing—"
"Weeks," Ethan corrects smugly.
