Page 110 of Joker

His brow lifts. “You act surprised every time I know basic shit about you.”

That shouldn’t feel intimate. It does. More than last night in some weird, unsettling way.

Because sex is one kind of vulnerability.

This?

This is another. This is him knowing how I take my coffee and making it without asking twice. This is him checking on my daughter before bed and again this morning before I even had the chance to panic.

This is him standing in his kitchen like I haven’t detonated every emotional landmine I possess in the last twelve hours and treating me like I’m not fragile just because he now knows exactly where my softest parts are.

That is infinitely more dangerous than whatever happened in his bed.

I move toward the counter on unsteady legs and wrap both hands around the mug just to have something solid.

It’s warm. Real. Grounding.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

He shrugs like it’s nothing, then jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Amy said Lexi’s still asleep. Casey’s awake and apparently in charge of breakfast negotiations.”

I laugh before I can stop it. “That sounds right.”

“Gio looked like he was reconsidering all his life choices.”

“That also sounds right.”

He leans back against the counter across from me, arms crossed over his chest, and for a second neither of us says anything. Not because it’s awkward.

Because it isn’t.

That’s the problem.

It should be. It should feel weird or delicate or slightly off-balance after everything that happened last night. Instead, it feels…easy.

Natural.

Like maybe this version of us has been waiting just under the surface for a while now and all last night did was drag it into the light.

I take a sip of coffee and nearly close my eyes. It’s perfect. Of course it is.

Joker watches me over the rim of his own mug, dark gaze steady and unreadable in a way that no longer feels closed off so much as careful.

Measured.

Like he’s giving me space to decide what this morning means without pushing me one direction or another.

That shouldn’t make my chest ache. It does. Because he’s not asking for reassurance.

Not claiming more than I’ve offered. Not acting like sleeping with him means he gets to immediately rearrange my whole emotional landscape.

He’s just…here.

Solid. Present. Waiting without making me feel trapped by it. And I think, with a kind of cold, sinking clarity, that this might actually be worse than if he were demanding. Because if he’d pushed too hard, I would know how to protect myself.

If he’d gone distant, I’d know how to brace. If he’d acted like last night was just sex, I could hate him for it and move on.

But this?