Page 151 of Joker

And, of course, I’m right.

I know I’m right before he even moves, because sometime in the last week, maybe longer, I’ve learned the rhythm of him.

The way he wakes. The way he lies still for a minute like he’s orienting himself before the day starts. The way his breathing changes right before he moves. The way his hand always tightens slightly at my waist before he lets go, like some instinct in him resents the distance even when he’s the one creating it.

This morning is no different.

His hand flexes once against my stomach. Then his chest rises in a deeper breath and he mutters, rough with sleep, “Go back to sleep.”

My mouth curves before I can stop it. “You’re awake.”

“Unfortunately.”

I shift enough to tip my face up and look at him.

His hair is a mess. His jaw is shadowed dark and rough. There’s a crease from the pillow across one cheek and a sleepy, dangerous kind of irritation still hanging around his eyes like he hasn’t fully remembered how to be a functioning human yet.

It should not be this attractive. It really, really is.

“Good morning to you too,” I murmur.

He squints at me like I’ve offended him personally by being awake and talking before coffee. Then, without opening his eyes all the way, he bends his head and presses a slow, warm kiss to my forehead.

That’s it.

Just my forehead.

Nothing heated. Nothing demanding. And somehow it hits me harder than if he’d dragged me under him and wrecked me before breakfast.

Because it’s so soft. So casual. Soours.

My chest squeezes hard enough to hurt.

Joker doesn’t seem to notice the minor emotional devastation he’s just caused. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. Either one is possible.

He pushes up a second later, stretching enough to make his T-shirt pull tight across his shoulders and chest before he swings his legs off the bed and reaches for his jeans.

I lie there watching him like I’m not.

He absolutely notices. He doesn’t call me on it.

Instead, he drags his cut off the chair, shrugs into it, then glances over his shoulder at me. “You want your coffee in bed or you planning to act like a civilized person today?”

I snort into the pillow. “That depends. Are those my only options?”

“Yeah.”

I pretend to think about it for a second. “Civilized person.”

“Shocking.” He heads for the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob and looks back at me again, dark eyes softer than they should be this early in the morning. “Check on Lex first,” he says. “Then come steal my coffee if yours isn’t made right.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Leaving me staring at the closed door with something too warm and too dangerous settling low in my chest. That’s what I mean.

This.

This ridiculous, domestic, entirely-too-intimate little rhythm we’ve somehow slipped into like we didn’t even mean to.