Juneteenth Reunion

The Johnson Family Reunion is legendary.

Every five years, descendants from all six branches converge on the old family property outside Houston. Three days of barbecue, dominoes, line dancing, and enough potato salad to feed an army.

I haven't missed one since I was born.

But this year, something's different.

Damon is here.

My stepbrother.

Our parents married when I was fifteen and he was seventeen. Lived under the same roof for three years before he joined the Marines and disappeared into the world. I've seen him exactly twice since then—both times briefly, both times painfully.

Because I've been in love with Damon since I was sixteen.

"Mo-Mo?"

That nickname. No one's called me that in fifteen years.

I turn, and there he is.

Thirty-eight now, shoulders broader than I remember, wearing a fitted black t-shirt that shows exactly what the military did to his body. He's got a beard now—trimmed neat—and eyes that haven't changed at all.

"Damon." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Been a while."

"Too long." He pulls me into a hug, and I feel every inch of him against my body.

I'm not the skinny teenager he remembers. I'm thirty-six now, thick in all the places women get thick, my sundress doing its best to contain curves that don't want to be contained.

He notices.

His eyes travel down and back up, and he doesn't try to hide it.

"Damn, Mo-Mo. Look at you."

We spend the day circling each other.

At the barbecue pit, he hands me a rib and our fingers touch. At the spades table, we're partners—still reading each other's signals after all these years. At the line dance, he pulls me in for the couple's section and his hands find my waist like they belong there.

"You married?" he asks during a break.

"Divorced. Two years ago. You?"

"Never found the right one." His jaw tightens. "Kept comparing everyone to someone I couldn't have."

My heart stops. "Damon..."

"Not here." He nods toward the old barn at the edge of the property. "Meet me tonight. After the fireworks."

The fireworks are beautiful.

Red, white, blue, green—bursting over the Texas sky while the family oohs and aahs. But I'm not watching the sky.

I'm watching the barn.

And the moment the finale ends, I slip away.

He's waiting inside.

Hay bales, old equipment, the smell of dust and history. Moonlight streams through cracks in the walls, silver stripes across his face.

"You came."

"Like I could stay away." I stop a few feet from him. "We should talk about this."

"We've been not talking about it for twenty years." He moves closer. "I'm done not talking."

"We're step-siblings."

"We were step-siblings for three years when we were teenagers. We're not blood. We're barely family anymore."

"Then what are we?"

"I don't know." He stops in front of me, close enough to touch. "But I know I've been in love with you since I was seventeen. And I'm tired of pretending I'm not."

"Damon..."

"Tell me you don't feel it." His hand cups my face. "Tell me these twenty years haven't been torture for you too. Tell me you didn't spend your whole marriage wishing it was me."

I can't tell him that.

Because it would be a lie.

"I felt so guilty," I whisper. "You were supposed to be my brother."

"I was never your brother." His thumb traces my lip. "I was the boy in the next room who couldn't sleep because he knew you were right there and he couldn't touch you."

"I heard you," I admit. "At night. I heard everything."

His breath catches. "And?"

"And I touched myself to the sound of you touching yourself."

He kisses me like he's been starving.

Twenty years of longing poured into one moment. His hands grip my hips, pull me against him, and I feel how much he wants this.

"Tell me to stop," he groans against my mouth.

"Don't you dare."

He walks me backward to a hay bale.

Sits me down, kneels in front of me, pushes my sundress up my thighs.

"Been dreaming about this," he says. "What you look like. What you taste like."

"Damon—"

"Let me find out."

He pulls my panties down and buries his face between my legs.

Oh God.

He eats me like a man possessed. Licking, sucking, tongue-fucking me while I grip hay and try not to scream. Twenty years of fantasy don't compare to the reality of his mouth.

"So sweet," he groans. "Sweeter than I imagined."

"Please—I need—"

"I know what you need."

He slides two fingers inside me, curls them, finds the spot that makes me see stars.

"Come for me, Mo-Mo. Come for your brother."

The word—the forbidden word—pushes me over. I come so hard I buck off the hay, crying his name into the rafters.

"My turn."

I push him back, fumble with his belt. He helps, lifting his hips, and when I free him—

"Oh my God."

He's beautiful. Long and thick and already leaking at the tip.

"Like what you see?"

"I love what I see."

I take him in my mouth, and his groan echoes through the barn.

I've had practice since we were teenagers.

I know how to work a man now—when to go slow, when to speed up, how to use my hands and mouth together.

"Fuck—Monique—"

"That's it," I murmur around him. "Say my name."

"Monique—I'm gonna—"

I pull back, stroking him. "Not yet. I need you inside me first."

He lays me back on the hay.

Covers my body with his, lines himself up, hesitates.

"You sure?"

"Twenty years sure."

He slides inside me, and we both moan.

He feels like coming home.

Like every empty space in my life was shaped for exactly this. He fills me completely, perfectly, and when he starts to move—

"Yes—oh God yes—"

"So tight, Mo-Mo. So fucking perfect."

He sets a rhythm that builds slow, each thrust deeper than the last. The hay scratches my back. The barn creaks around us. Outside, I can hear the distant sound of family still celebrating.

"Harder," I beg. "I've waited twenty years—"

"I know." He grips my hips and gives me harder. "I've been waiting too."

We ruin each other.

In every way, in every position. He fucks me on my back, on my hands and knees, bouncing on his lap while he sucks my nipples.

"Never letting you go," he pants. "Never again."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

I come one last time, and he follows, pulsing inside me while we cling to each other.

We lie in the hay after, catching our breath.

"What do we tell the family?" I ask.

"The truth, eventually. That we fell in love."

"They won't understand."

"They don't have to." He kisses my forehead. "We're not kids anymore, Mo-Mo. We're adults who found each other again. Nothing wrong with that."

"Some people will think—"

"Let them think. I'm done caring about everyone else." He pulls me closer. "I love you. I've loved you since 2005. And I'm spending the rest of my Juneteenths proving it."

We sneak back to the reunion just before dawn.

Aunt Shirley eyes us suspiciously over her coffee. "Y'all were out late."

"Catching up," Damon says smoothly.

"Mm-hmm." She looks between us, then shrugs. "Well, long as y'all are happy."

"We are," I say.

For the first time in twenty years, I mean it.

The five-year gap between reunions suddenly feels unbearable.

But Damon moves to Houston the following month.

Gets an apartment three blocks from mine.

Shows up every morning with coffee and every night with intentions.

The Johnson family eventually gets used to seeing us together.

And when we get married two years later—yes, our parents' reactions are complicated—the family reunion becomes our anniversary celebration.

Some love stories take decades to unfold.

Ours was worth the wait.