Page 73 of Joker

And somehow he sees none of that as difficult.

Just…her.

Something in my chest tightens painfully.

He shifts his weight, glances toward the hall like he’s already halfway back to whatever part of the night belongs to him, then says, “Get some sleep, Raven.”

Simple. Grounding. Like always.

I nod. “Night, Joker.”

“Night.” He leaves.

The door shuts softly behind him.

And I stand there for a long moment staring at it while my daughter sleeps in the bed and my pulse refuses to behave like I’m a grown woman with survival instincts and common sense.

Because for the first time since we got here, one thought settles in clean and undeniable.

He would be dangerous to want.

I realize I like the kid when she tells me my dinosaur looks stupid.

Not the first day. Not even the second. It sneaks up on me the same way everything involving Raven and Lexi seems to now, slipping past my better judgment while I’m busy pretending I have this situation under control.

The clubhouse is in one of its calmer stretches that afternoon, which only means the noise is contained instead of absent. Music plays low from the common room. Somebody is laughing near the bar. One of the old ladies is arguing with a brother about whether the grill needs cleaned now or later, and judging by the volume, she’s winning. The kids have turned one end of the common area into their own little kingdom of crayons, blocks, books, toy trucks, and enough stickers to permanently damage every piece of furniture in a ten-foot radius.

Lexi is sitting cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table with Bunny tucked under one arm and a coloring page spread out in front of her. Jason is nearby with a handful of blocks he keeps trying to stack on the page until she glares him into moving them. Amy and Casey are on the couch, supposedly helping Gio with a card game, though from what I can tell they’remostly cheating with enthusiasm while Gio complains about it like a much smaller old man.

I’m not involved.

That’s what I tell myself while I stand in the kitchen doorway with a bottle of water in one hand and watch Lexi squint at a green crayon like it personally offended her.

Then she looks up, spots me, and lifts the paper in one small hand. “Joker.”

I should keep walking. Instead, I stop. “What?”

She holds the page out farther. “You do one.”

“No.”

Her face doesn’t change. “Why?”

Because I’m a grown man with actual things to do. Because I have no business sitting on the floor with crayons in the middle of the afternoon while half the clubhouse watches. Because I need at least one line left between myself and whatever slow, domestic ambush this whole mess has become.

None of that sounds like something I’m willing to say out loud.

“Because your artistic standards are brutal,” I tell her.

She blinks once. “What’s art… art…?”

“Judgment,” Casey offers from the couch, without looking up from her cards.

“Standards,” Amy corrects, equally distracted.

Gio, who’s losing and bitter about it, mutters, “He means you’re bossy.”

Lexi points at him with the crayon. “You shush.” Then she looks back at me and pats the carpet beside her like we’re not discussing this anymore.