“You’ve gotten good at this,” his dad said eventually.
“At cooking?”
“At everything.”
Demarien paused. A year ago, he’d been living hours away, missing birthdays, dodging phone calls, buried in work he hated. Thanksgiving had been one of the restaurant’s busiest days. The best he could manage was a Friendsgiving dinner the weekend before.
Now he stood barefoot in his childhood kitchen wearing one of Dahlia’s old aprons that read “Kiss the Cook and Bring Wine.”
He swallowed once before answering lightly, “Well. Somebody’s gotta step up. I’ve always wanted to cook a Thanksgiving meal.”
Joe smiled faintly into his coffee mug. “Your mom always said this was the best part,” he said.
“The chaos?”
“No. Before everybody gets here.” He gestured vaguely around the kitchen. “Just… this.”
Demarien looked around, too. The sink full of potato peels. Flour on the counter. The smell of sage and onions and coffee. The turkey crackling softly in the oven. Rain against the windows. His dad sitting there in the spot he’d occupied every Thanksgiving morning for twenty-plus years.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think she was right.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then the smoke alarm exploded into noise.
Demarien shot upright. “The rolls!”
Joe burst out laughing as his son lunged for the oven mitts, swearing under his breath, while the kitchen instantly dissolved into chaos.
An hour later, Puck and Felix came in, rubbing their eyes. “Why isn’t the dog show on?” Puck asked.
“It hasn’t started yet.” Felix shoved Puck’s arm. “Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade first. Remember?”
“Oh yeah.”
Demarien pointed to the table where a selection of fruit and different types of toast were spread out. “Coffee’s on the counter. Grab some breakfast and watch the parade in the entertainment room. Dad wants football on in here.”
“He’s so bossy.” Puck sniffed and loaded his plate up.
“Do you need our help with anything?” Felix asked, ever the polite one.
“Nope. Dad and I have it covered.”
The back door opened, and Boone and Patrick came in, shaking off rain. “Hey, sweetheart.”
Demarien leaned into Boone, ignoring how wet the man was, and kissed him. “In a little while, will you help me set the table? You’ll know where your friends will be more comfortable sitting.”
“We will,” Patrick answered for him, leaning in for a kiss too.
Demarien shoved him away and rolled his eyes.
Boone ignored his friend’s antics. “That’s a good idea. We can’t put Patrick next to the thermostat. Last year, he turned the heat up to eighty-three because his knees were ‘receiving messages from the cold.’”
“Theywerereceiving messages,” Patrick argued, looking affronted. “Painful ones.”
“They were receiving attention,” Boone shot back.
Puck wrapped an arm around Felix. “Let’s leave before we get volunteered to do anything.”
“I’ll join you, if you don’t mind. They don’t appreciate me here.” Patrick sniffed and followed the omegas from the kitchen.
