"Jake isn't my chaos. He's my compass."
As soon as I said it, something loosened inside me. A lock opened, or a held breath finally released. The truth of my comment startled me—raw, unvarnished, and more honest than I'd been with myself in months.
Juno raised an eyebrow, but she didn't pounce on the admission. She merely nodded.
"Tell me more about that."
As she spoke, for the first time in my life, I realized I wanted to.
"I spent eighteen years learning that people leave," I heard myself saying. "Foster families, social workers, teammates. Soyou build systems. You control what you can control because everything else is just... disarray waiting to destroy you."
Juno didn't interrupt.
"When Jake showed up, he was supposed to be temporary. Another roommate situation that would last until something different came along." I stared at my hands. "But in less than a month, he's rearranged everything—not my stuff, but... me. He's made me want things I didn't think I was allowed to want."
"Like what?"
The question quietly demanded an answer. I could have deflected and gone with something safe about friendship or team chemistry. Instead, I leaned forward, releasing words I'd saved for years.
"Like believing someone might choose to stay. Not because they have to, and not because it's convenient, but because they want to." My voice was rough and raw. "Jake doesn't need my systems or my organization. He's got his own style, his own way of navigating the world. Still, he comes home to my labeled spice rack and my color-coded everything, and somehow he makes it feel like... like maybe I'm not too much work."
Juno set down her mug. "And now?"
"Now there's a scout coming, and I'm terrified Jake will realize he was supposed to want more than Thunder Bay and a guy who makes spreadsheets for fun." I exhaled slowly. "I'm even more scared of not telling him the truth about what he means to me."
When the interview was over and we stepped outside, the cold air was like a slap to the face. It was sharp, clean, and cut through my jacket, making my breath visible in small, urgent puffs.
I walked Juno toward the street where her beat-up Honda waited under a flickering streetlight. The car looked like it had survived several apocalypses and was preparing for the next one.
"Thank you," she said, stopping beside her driver's door.
I shoved my hands deep into my pockets. "For what? I barely said anything useful."
"Not for content." Juno's smile was softer than I'd ever seen it. "For trust."
Trust. Such a small thing, but it felt enormous. I'd spent most of my life rationing it, doling it out in careful portions to people who'd earned it through demonstrated reliability and consistent behavior patterns.
Tonight, I'd handed it over to a near-stranger with blue hair and a digital recorder, and somehow the world hadn't ended.
Before I could process what was happening, Juno stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. I stiffened instinctively—every muscle locking up like a startled deer.
Touch was always transactional. Medical, athletic, strategic. Never just… offered, but then something in my brain caught up and I leaned into the hug, a half-second too late to make it graceful. Her jacket smelled like coffee and something floral, and she was smaller than I'd expected, solid but not imposing.
I couldn't remember the last time someone outside the locker room, other than Jake, had touched me without tape or padding between us. The realization hit me sideways, unexpected and a little devastating.
When we separated, Juno stepped back and studied my face in the amber streetlight. I thought she was trying to decide whether to say something.
She cradled her chin in one hand and spoke. "You know what I realized during that interview?"
"What?"
"You've been talking about your systems and organization like they're armor, a way of keeping the world from getting too close." She tilted her head. "But that's not what they are anymore, is it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you don't organize your spice rack alphabetically because you're afraid of disorder. You do it because when Jake comes home and sees it, he smiles." Her voice was gentle but confident. "You're not building walls anymore, Evan. You're building a home. There's a difference."
I instantly knew she was right. She rewrote everything I thought I knew about myself in only a few sentences. All those lists, labels, and color-coded systems I'd thought were about control... they weren't shields anymore.
