She didn't play fair.
The suggestion landed—right between my ribs. All of my carefully organized defenses failed to protect me. My shoulders locked up, a familiar tension that told me someone had gotten too close to something true.
"I'll think about it."
Juno didn't move from her spot against the beam. "We're recording Thursday. You're bringing cookies. That's the deal."
I blinked at her. "That's not how deals work. Both parties have to agree."
"You already agreed. It just hasn't made it from your heart to your head yet." Her smile was sharp and warm at the same time, like good whiskey.
"Honestly, why me?"
"Jake talks about second chances. You'd be talking about the first ones. About what it looks like when someone who never had a foundation finally gets to build one." Juno pushed off from the beam, straightening to her full height. "Someone needs to say that being the responsible one doesn't mean you're not allowed to want things."
I realized she wasn't asking me to be vulnerable for Jake, the podcast, or even the hypothetical foster kid who might be listening.
She was asking me to do it for me.
"Thursday," I said. "What time?"
"Eight. After Common Thread closes." Juno's grin was victorious, but not unkind. "And Evan? Bring the good cookies. The ones with cornflakes."
She walked away, combat boots echoing off the concrete. I sat there for another minute, surrounded by perfectly organized gear and the growing realization that I'd agreed to something frightening.
But for once, the fear came from a choice, not an accident.
***
When I entered the Common Thread's back room after closing, it was like landing on a different planet.
Gone were the afternoon bustle and the clatter of ceramic mugs against saucers. Now it was only me, Juno, and the soft mechanical hum of the espresso machine winding down. She'd dimmed the overhead lights to a warmer level, and the whole space felt smaller. Intimate in a way that gave me goosebumps.
"Tea?" Juno gestured toward a collection of mismatched mugs arranged on a side table.
"I'm good." I was too keyed up for hot beverages, too aware of the microphone sitting between us like a loaded weapon.
My chair squeaked when I shifted my weight. I froze, then carefully adjusted my position until I found the sweet spot where the springs didn't protest. I settled my hands into my lap and stayed there, fingers laced together like I was at confession.
I suppose that was accurate.
Juno settled across from me with her mug—something herbal that smelled like my grandmother's house. She clicked her recorder on, and a tiny red light blinked to life.
I braced myself for the inevitable questions about foster care and trauma and all the ways my childhood had been a systematic disaster. Instead, she tilted her head and asked: "Do you think what you're building with Jake means you're finally letting go of control?"
I blinked. "What?"
"Control. Your spreadsheets, labels, and color-coded everything." She leaned back in her chair, completely relaxed. "Is Jake teaching you to let go?"
The question caught me so off-guard I almost laughed. "I'm still the guy with a backup spreadsheet for my sock drawer."
Juno nodded like I'd said something profound, then did the cruelest thing possible.
She waited.
Silence spread into every corner of the small room. The espresso machine hissed softly. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed. I heard my own breathing, too loud in the quiet space.
I blurted out the first words that entered my head.
