Patrick gasped. “I’m third?”
Boone shook his head. “More like tenth or eleventh.”
Puck’s lip trembled. “Am I in the top ten?”
“Absolutely,” he said quickly.
“That’s so sweet.” The omega wiped his eyes again. “I love you guys so much.”
“I love macaroni and cheese,” Milo grumbled, “but you don’t see me crying about it.”
Elise smiled nervously at Mia. “Your friends seem nice.”
“I just met these weirdos yesterday,” she said, pointing at Puck, Milo, and Felix. “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for all of them.” She waved a hand at Patrick, Dave, Boone, and the other two army friends who joined them.
Abuela and Demarien came out with rolls.
“Finally,” Puck said, attacking the turkey platter as they were finally allowed to eat. Milo groaned as he stuffed his face with another serving of mac and cheese, and Felix filled his plate with mashed potatoes and gravy. How such a little guy could eat so much, Boone didn’t really understand.
“We really should go,” his mother said again, trying to stand.
Abuela shoved her back in her seat.Sit down, idiot.
“She said she hopes you’ll enjoy dinner,” Puck said sweetly.
“We’re already here, dear.” Perry moaned as he tasted the turkey. “Demarien, this is absolutely divine.”
“Here, here,” Puck said, raising his glass. “Toast to Demarien for this delicious food. Thank you, buddy.”
“Thanks,” everyone said, raising their glasses.
“And to new friends,” Milo added, raising his cup to Haley and each of Boone and Patrick’s friends. “You are welcome here anytime.”
“Why we’re at it,” Joe said, grinning at Boone’s parents. “Let’s have a toast to Demarien and Boone. It’s nice to see the younger generation settling down and building their lives.”
His mother let out a long sigh. “Fine.” She raised her glass. “It could be worse, I suppose.”
Demarien smirked. “Don’t get too sentimental, Lynda. You wouldn’t want your mascara to run.”
Chapter 15
“Imissed this,” Demarien said, watching the ocean waves slam against the black rock cliffs from the safety of the old lighthouse. The Oregon coast in December was windswept, cold, dramatic, and deeply alive. Storms moved fast off the Pacific, dragging curtains of rain across the beaches and rattling the windows.
Today, they gathered at Felix’s newly renovated home. The lighthouse stood on a black-rock headland above the coast, where the waves came in hard and gray even on clear days. Wind carried the smell of salt, cedar, and cold kelp. From a distance, the tower still looked as if it belonged to another century, but up close, signs of life had settled into it.
The old keeper’s house had been joined seamlessly to the tower by a glass walkway built low against the bluff so storms could pass over it. Original beams remained exposed overhead, darkened by decades of sea air, and the walls still carried tiny imperfections from hand-laid plaster. Some of the iron fixtures bore flecks of rust preserved beneath clear sealant like relics.
Inside, the home balanced ruggedness with surprising softness. Driftwood-colored floors ran through open rooms filled with deep wool rugs, overstuffed chairs, and shelvescrowded with books. A massive stone fireplace anchored the living room, its chimney built into the original lighthouse foundation. As kids, on stormy nights, Demarien and his friends would stay there with a large pillow fort, games, and snacks while rain slammed sideways against the glass and waves exploded below the cliffs.
Without regular maintenance over the years, the house had somehow managed to stand strong, though the roof had needed fixing. Most of their time over the past two weeks was spent working on the most striking and dilapidated part of the house – the tower.
The tower itself was now the heart of the home. The lower levels held small circular rooms converted into intimate spaces. A reading nook with curved built-in shelves, a compact office lined with maps, and a guest room where the walls bowed inward slightly with the shape of the structure. A spiral staircase climbed through the center, worn smooth by generations of keepers before becoming polished by restoration.
At the top, beneath the lantern room, the renovation took on an almost reverent quality. The original Fresnel lens remained in place, no longer guiding ships but preserved like a sculpture. Sunlight fractured through its glass during the day, scattering pale rainbows across the walls. The room below it had been turned into Felix’s workshop, and from there the entire coastline stretched endlessly north and south. Dark sea stacks rose from surf, pine forests clung to cliffs, and distant beaches faded into fog.
The air was dry, heavy, alive with the smell of scorched metal, ash, and something faintly mineral, like hot stone after rain. Every surface seemed dusted with a fine shimmer of glass powder that caught the orange furnace light.
At the center of the room, the glory hole burned white-hot, its open mouth radiating heat strong enough to sting fromseveral feet away. Long steel blowpipes rested on racks nearby, blackened from years of use, alongside paddles soaked in water, giant tweezers, shears, blocks carved from fruitwood, and thick leather gloves stiff with scorch marks. The concrete floor was scarred with circular tracks where Felix had rolled pipes back and forth while shaping molten glass.
