Page 32 of Bear and Order

Something about that settles unexpectedly in my attention. "One place?"

"I like knowing where I'm sleeping. I like knowing who lives next door." A smile appears, unhurried and genuine. "I like knowing where the good coffee is. Which trees bloom first in spring. And I like knowing that when I walk down Main Street, everybody already knows my name."

I study her for a moment. There's no hesitation in her voice, no uncertainty, no apology for any of it. Maple Hollow isn't simply where Juniper lives — it's part of her, woven through her strongly and is impossible to separate. The realization is obvious once you see it.

"What about you?" she asks.

"What about me?"

"You've lived everywhere."

"How do you know that?" I retort swiftly.

She laughs softly. "You talk."

"No, I don't."

"You absolutely do." She points at me. "Not much."

A reluctant smile surfaces before I can prevent it. Juniper notices — naturally, because she notices everything. "I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"You do smile."

I immediately regret it. She looks entirely too pleased with herself, which she has no right to be. "Answer the question," I say.

"I'm waiting for you to answer mine."

I look back at the files. "I move around. New assignment, new town. Then another assignment." The explanation sounds thin spoken aloud, stripped of the logic that made it feel reasonable across years of practice.

Juniper's expression softens. "That sounds lonely."

The words land harder than expected. I've considered it normal for so long — necessary, part of the job, simply how things are — that hearing it spoken aloud makes it sound entirely different. Maybe because it's her saying it. "I suppose it is," I admit, and the admission feels more honest than I intended.

Juniper studies me carefully. "You never stayed anywhere?"

"No."

"Not once?"

The bakery falls quiet around us. Juniper looks unexpectedly sad, and the reaction surprises me enough that I ask, "Why are you making that face?"

"Everyone should belong somewhere," she says, with a conviction that leaves no room for argument. She means it completely, and I realize somewhere in hearing it that I have nothing on what that actually feels like. I've had apartments, temporary homes, and hotel rooms. Places to sleep until the next assignment pulled me elsewhere. None of them were mine. None of them mattered when it was time to leave, and I never once thought to question that.

Juniper walks over and takes the chair across from me, the cleaning entirely forgotten. "What about your family?"

"They're scattered." She nods, not pushing, just listening — and the quiet attentiveness makes it easier to continue than it should. "I spent most of my life moving."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It was normal."

She smiles faintly. "Normal doesn't always mean good."

She's right. With the look on her face, I don't think she had ever been wrong. A dangerous habit.

"What about you?" I ask, redirecting before she can press further.