Page 49 of Joker

Because he’s not wrong. Because I didn’t take it because I needed it.

I took it because—

Because it made the drive easier. Because it felt steady. Because it smelled like something solid in a night where nothing else was.

I don’t say any of that. I just stand there holding the sweatshirt between us like it suddenly weighs too much.

Joker exhales quietly through his nose, then reaches out and finally takes it from my hands.

The loss of it is immediate.

Subtle. But there. Like something small just shifted out of place.

“That said,” he adds, folding it once more in his hands without looking at it, “you can grab it again if you need it.”

I don’t know why that matters.

It does.

It matters more than it should.

I nod once. “Okay.”

For a second, neither of us moves. The hallway is too quiet. The air between us feels too aware.

He’s close enough that I can still smell the soap from his shower, still see the faint dampness at the edge of his hairline, still notice the way his shoulders fill the space without effort.

This is a mistake.

Not him. Not this moment exactly. Just…standing here.

Letting it stretch. Letting it become something it shouldn’t.

“You should get some sleep,” he says finally.

The words break the tension cleanly.

Not dismissive. Not cold. Just…grounding.

I latch onto that immediately. “Yeah,” I say. “I will.”

I step back.

He straightens slightly from the doorframe.

I turn toward my room. And for one second, I almost reach for the sweatshirt again.

The instinct is so quick it barely registers. But it’s there. I ignore it.

I push my door open, step inside, and close it softly behind me before I can do something stupid like look back.

Once I’m alone again, the room feels just slightly different.

Still safe. Still quiet. Still warm. But missing something I have absolutely no business noticing.

I press my hand flat against the door for a second, grounding myself. Then I push away from it and go back to the bed where Lexi is still asleep, Bunny tucked tight against her chest like nothing in the world has changed. The folded blanket has slid halfway down her legs, and I move automatically to pull it back up, tucking it around her small body until she sighs andsettles deeper into the mattress. Then I crawl into bed beside her.

The sheets are clean. The pillow smells like detergent instead of a man I’m trying not to think about. The room is warm enough that I don’t need the extra blanket. And for the first time in so long I don’t even know how to count it, I realize something that nearly cracks me open from the inside out.