Page 173 of Joker

I know it’s not.

That doesn’t stop the claustrophobia from creeping in anyway.

By the time it really gets bad, it’s late afternoon and all I want in the world is ten minutes to myself and maybe one stupid, normal thing I can do without someone tracking it like a military operation.

Lexi is napping in our room, my room, his room, both, neither, I don’t even know what to call it anymore because at this point I sleep in Joker’s bed more often than I don’t and the clubhouse has gone into that weird in-between lull where halfthe people are resting and the other half are scattered doing whatever they do when they’re not all in each other’s business.

I’m standing in the kitchen staring at the coffee pot like maybe caffeine will somehow fix my mental state when Joker walks in from outside.

The second I see him, my whole body does that awful, traitorous thing it always does.

Relaxes first.

Then notices the cut on his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the phone in his hand, the focused look in his eyes, and tightens all over again. Because lately, even when he’s the person who makes me feel safest, he’s also become the face of all the rules.

All the adjustments. All the changes. All the quiet, constant management of my life. And I hate that.

Not him.

Never him.

Just what this is doing to us.

He sees me and immediately shifts direction. He’s halfway across the room before I’ve even figured out whether I want him close or need space. “You okay?” he asks.

It’s such a normal question. Such an innocent one. And somehow it feels like pressure anyway. Like one more set of eyes on me. One more person checking my temperature. One more reminder that I am being monitored even by the man who touches me like I’m something holy.

I hate that thought the second it appears.

Still, I can’t stop it. “I’m fine,” I say.

The lie comes too fast. Too clipped.

He clocks it immediately. “No, you’re not.”

That should comfort me. It doesn’t. Instead, something tightens harder in my chest.

Because there it is again.

That awful feeling of being read before I’m ready. Seen before I’ve decided what I want to show. Known too closely when I already feel like I have no privacy left anywhere.

He steps closer. “What’s wrong?”

I know he means it gently. I know he’s not interrogating me.

But all I hear is:

What are you doing?

What are you thinking?

Why aren’t you acting right?

My grip on the counter tightens. “Nothing.”

His jaw shifts. “Raven.”

And there’s my name in that tone. Low. Steady. Not angry. Still enough to make my spine go rigid anyway. Because there are some sounds your body learns to fear before your mind has time to argue.