She leaned across the table, over the ruins of her gingerbread house, and kissed him.
He tasted like royal icing. He made a small surprised sound against her mouth and then his hand let go of her wrist and came up to cradle the side of her face instead, his thumb at her jaw, very carefully, as if she were something he had been told he was not allowed to touch in a museum and had decided, just this once, to risk it. His glasses bumped her nose. Neither of them cared.
When they came apart, her mauve-pink gloss was mostly on him.
"I think," Graham said, a little unsteadily, "that this event is a tie."
"It is not a tie. Your house is still standing."
"I don't care about the house."
"You measured the eaves."
"I'll never measure anything again," said Graham, and kissed her back.