Page 175 of Joker

But between us?

Dead quiet. Because that one landed too. And this time I see the anger flash in his eyes before he reins it back so fast it almost hurts to watch.

“Is that what you think this is?” he asks. His voice is lower now. Rougher. Controlled in a way that tells me he is trying very hard not to say the first thing that comes to mind. “That I’m making decisions because I’m scared?”

I fold my arms tighter over my chest, like I can physically hold myself together if I lock my own body down hard enough. “I think you’re making decisions without asking me.”

His jaw flexes. “Because someone got a picture of you in town.”

“I know that.”

“Because a detective with a hard-on for dragging you home is physically close enough to smell.”

“I know that too.”

“Because if something happens to Lexi—”

“Don’t,” I snap.

His mouth shuts instantly. Too late. Because there it is.

The name. The one thing neither of us can touch right now without setting the whole room on fire.

My breathing is too fast now. My skin too tight. My heart pounding so hard it’s making everything feel unreal around the edges.

And God, Joker is trying.

That’s what makes this hurt so much. He is trying so hard to be patient, to hold the line, to keep me alive without turning into a wall I have to climb over. And I am still reacting to him like he’s the enemy.

He takes one careful step closer. Not crowding. Not aggressive. Just enough that I can feel the shift in the air. “Raven.” My name in his mouth is rougher now. Worn thin by restraint. “You need to breathe.”

That should help.

Instead, it makes me want to scream. Because there it is again. That awful, awful sensation of someone trying to regulate me from the outside. Trying to guide me down. Steady me. Manage the fear.

And my traitorous, stupid, panicked body hears it as one thing only…control.

I take a sharp step back. “Stop telling me what to do.”

His entire body goes still. I can see the exact second he realizes this isn’t just stress anymore. This is trauma. This is my body taking his hands, his voice, his protectiveness, and filtering all of it through the ugliest version of survival.

That realization should help me stop.

It doesn’t.

Because now I’m crying too. Not hard. Not dramatically. Just enough that I know I’ve officially lost control of this conversation and still can’t seem to get myself back.

Joker’s expression changes. Not softer. More careful. Which somehow makes it worse. “I’m not him,” he says quietly.

And there it is.

The thing I wasn’t going to say. The thing I would never say if I were thinking straight. The thing my nervous system has been screaming all week without my permission. And because fear is cruel and trauma is uglier and I am already bleeding all over the wrong person, I say it anyway.

“I know that,” I whisper, voice shaking.

Then, because apparently I haven’t done enough damage yet I add. “But sometimes this feels too close.”

The second the words leave my mouth, the whole room changes. It happens instantly. Not loudly. Not dramatically.