Chapter 14 #2
Energy builds in layers, not overwhelming but enough that it settles into something warm and real.
Maceo arrives with family in tow, his presence fills the space before he even says a word, before the bell finishes chiming.
The resemblance is immediate and striking, shared features, shared coloring, that same striking blend of heritages that shows in the lines of their faces and the shades of their eyes, in the way they move and hold themselves.
Each one of them is absolutely stunning in their own way, and I have to actively stop myself from staring.
It’s in the water, I’m sure of it. Something magical about the Johnson bloodline that has nothing to do with shifting and everything to do with genetics being unfairly generous.
He finds me easily, like I’m magnetic north and he’s been calibrated to find me in any crowd. He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close, leaving absolutely no room for the holy spirit or anyone else to slip between us.
“Hey,” he says, and leans in to press a kiss to my cheek, the gesture casual and possessive all at once. I flush from the attention of the people waiting patiently behind him, watching this display with varying degrees of amusement and approval.
Introductions follow, easy and natural, names exchanged and hands shaken without ceremony or awkwardness.
They tease Maceo about how much he’s talked about me.
“Couldn’t shut him up,” one of his cousins says with a grin, and how they already felt like they knew me before ever meeting me, like I’d been part of the family conversation for weeks now.
Maceo stays beside me the entire time, his arm never leaves my waist, and he smiles down at me with so much adoration I don’t know what to do with myself, don’t know where to put all the warmth spreading through my chest. For a few minutes I let myself settle into it, let myself sink into the reality of being included in something that already feels established and solid, something that doesn’t require me to prove myself or earn my place.
Lucien arrives not long after, composed as ever, moving through the growing crowd effortlessly.
He smiles when he spots me beside Maceo, something soft and genuine lighting up his eyes.
He grabs a drink from a nearby table and closes the distance between us.
Leaning in to greet me, he brushes a kiss against my other cheek, his lips warm and deliberate, lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“You look beautiful, Sweetness,” he whispers as he pulls away, the words meant only for me, taking his place on my other side like it was always meant to be his.
“You two need to stop with the PDA,” I mutter under my breath, fanning my overheated face with my hand because the flush is spreading down my neck now. Eyes are on us from every corner of the room. “I’m on fire here.”
“This is your grand reopening, Ki-Ki,” Maceo says, giving my waist a quick squeeze so I’m acutely aware of every point of contact between us. “The town may as well know you’re spoken for. Not only by me, but Luce and Ez as well.”
“How very eighteenth century of you, Wolfie,” I snort in amusement, even as something warm and satisfied settles deeper in my chest at the casual claiming, at the way he says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Maceo just grins, completely unfazed. He reaches for Lucien’s drink without asking, taking a slow sip, licking the rim before handing it back. His fingers drag briefly along Lucien’s jaw as he does. Lucien’s eyes half-close for a second, like he’s savoring the contact, but doesn’t comment.
My breath catches at the display of affection. Yeah, that was not subtle.
“Relax, Beautiful,” he says, winking those gorgeous greens at me. “We just don’t have a problem sharing.”
“Not with each other,” Lucien adds, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I blink, my eyes shifting between them, a little thrown by how casually they say it.
“Right,” I manage. “Of course, because sharing is caring.”
Lucien laughs, and the sound brushes over me like silk, relaxing me further as I scan the room and spot my third and final piece to the puzzle.
Ezra lingers closer to the shelves at first, observant and quiet like always, watching everything with that analytical attention that misses nothing.
His attention tracks me more than anything else, subtle and constant.
The weight of his gaze presses against me even when I’m not looking directly at him.
I want to beckon him closer, want to pull him into this warmth the way Maceo and Lucien have placed themselves, but knowing Ezra, he’s happiest exactly where he is, observing and cataloging, present in his own way.
Sir watches all of it from above, tail flicking lazily like he has opinions about everything and intends to keep most of them to himself, at least for now.
For a moment, it feels right. Complete in a way I didn’t know I was searching for.
I try not to think too hard about the lack of turnout, about the fact that the shop should be more crowded than this for a grand reopening, that there should be people I don’t know filling the spaces between familiar faces.
People pass by the window outside. They slow down, their steps faltering. They look in, and I can see curiosity written clearly on their faces, can see the moment they register what this place is, who owns it now.
Then they keep walking, like their asses are on fire, like the threshold itself might burn them.
I try to keep up conversations, chatting with Bea and Zane, with Lin and Toni who are still bickering about who is opening the cafe in the morning, with Maceo’s sister who tells me embarrassing stories about him as a teenager.
I try my hardest to ignore the feeling that something is off, that the energy outside the shop doesn’t match the energy inside it, that there’s a disconnect I can’t quite name but can definitely feel.
At first, I tell myself it’s nothing. Maybe I didn’t give the town enough notice, didn’t advertise properly, didn’t make it clear that this was happening today. Maybe they’re curious but can’t commit to stopping by right this moment, maybe they have other obligations, other places to be.
Then I observe the same wary behavior again, and again.
People looking in with interest that dies the moment they remember something, the moment something shifts behind their eyes.
People who slow down and then speed up, who meet my eyes through the glass and then quickly look away like they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t.
The shift is subtle, but it’s there, threading through the warmth of the room like something colder trying to take hold, trying to poison what should be a celebration.
I set my cup down on the counter with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the relative quiet, and excuse myself from the group before I can talk myself out of it, before I can convince myself it’s fine and I’m overreacting.
“Keisha,” Ezra says quietly behind me, his voice carrying a note of warning that I pretend not to hear.
“I’ll be right back,” I answer, already reaching for the handle, already pushing the door open.
The bell chimes softly as I step outside, the cooler air hitting my skin just enough to sharpen my focus, to clear away some of the warmth and replace it with clarity.
A man slows a few feet down the street, his steps faltering as he glances back toward the shop like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t have, like I’ve caught him in the middle of avoiding me.
“Hey,” I call out, keeping my tone light and friendly, non-threatening. “You want to come in and see what I’ve done with the place? Everyone is welcome.”
He hesitates, and that tells me everything I need to know. That pause, that moment where he’s clearly weighing options, clearly deciding whether it’s worth the risk.
“I—” He shifts on his feet, weight moving from one leg to the other, glancing back toward the shop again before lowering his voice like he’s worried someone might overhear. “We were advised to stay away.”
My stomach churns with nerves and anticipation, because I knew something was wrong, knew there was a reason the street felt emptier than it should, but hearing it confirmed is different from suspecting it.
“Advised by who?” I ask him, stepping closer but not close enough to crowd him, keeping my body language open and non-threatening.
“The mayor,” he says, like that should explain everything, like those two words carry enough weight to justify the absence of half the town.
“Said it might not be. . . safe. That you’re working with things you don’t fully understand yet.
” He pauses, looking uncomfortable, then adds quietly, “You are a magicless Witch. Unstable.”
There it is.
The words land like stones, heavy and deliberate, and settle into my chest even as I keep my expression carefully neutral.
I let out a slow breath, keeping my expression steady even as irritation flickers under the surface, hot and sharp, even as I want to march down to the town hall and have words with my dear aunt that are decidedly not family-friendly.
“Do I look unsafe to you?” I ask, spreading my hands slightly, letting him see me clearly. “Unstable?”
He studies me for a second, longer this time, really looking at me instead of at whatever idea of me he’s been carrying around based on secondhand information and fear-mongering.
“No,” he admits, something shifting in his expression, uncertainty giving way to sheepishness. “Of course you don’t. I’ve seen you around town these past few weeks. I don’t believe that for a second. But Mayor Thorne—”
“Then come inside,” I say simply, not letting him finish, not giving him room to talk himself back into fear. “See for yourself.”
He hesitates again, and I can see the war playing out across his face, the conflict between what he’s been told and what he’s seeing with his own eyes.