Page 153 of Joker

He arches a brow. “Who else would I be making one for?”

That answer lands so softly and so hard at the exact same time that I have to look away before my face gives me away.

I reach for the mug on the counter and wrap both hands around it, breathing in the warmth and the familiar smell of coffee and his cologne and toast already in the toaster and Lexi’s shampoo and all the strange, ordinary pieces of life that have started layering themselves together in ways I can’t seem to stop wanting.

Lexi pulls back enough to look at Joker’s face critically. “I need cereal.”

“Tragic,” he says again, deadpan.

“I need it.”

“Sounds serious.”

“It is.”

I press my lips together to hide a smile into the rim of my mug.

Joker looks at me over Lexi’s shoulder, completely expressionless. “She’s dramatic.”

“She gets that from you.” I say with a smile.

He stares at me for a second. Then, with Lexi still balanced on one arm, he reaches into the cabinet, grabs the cereal, and starts getting breakfast together like he hasn’t just been accused of sharing personality traits with a three-year-old.

That’s the thing about him.

He never makes a production out of the things that matter. He just does them.He shows up. He remembers. He adjusts. And every time he does, I feel myself leaning a little more.

Not physically. Not just that, anyway. Emotionally. Instinctively. In the kind of ways you don’t always notice until you catch yourself already relying on someone and realize it happened while you weren’t looking.

I lean on him when Lexi gets fussy and I’m running on too little sleep. I lean on him when the fear creeps in around the edges and I need something solid enough to interrupt it. I lean on him in little ways too, stupid ways, quiet ways, like asking if he’s heading into town because I need shampoo or reaching automatically for his hand when we’re walking across the lot and it’s dark outside.

I don’t think I’ve fully realized how much of my weight I’ve already started putting in his hands. Not until moments like this.

Moments where he’s standing in the kitchen with my daughter on his hip and my coffee made exactly the way I like it and there is no version of this that feels temporary anymore no matter how hard I try to remind myself it should.

That thought sits in my chest all through breakfast. And apparently I’m not the only one noticing.

Because when Emma walks into the kitchen with Jason on one hip and Amy trailing behind her in a cloud of ten-year-old energy and attitude, she takes one look at the scene in front of her and immediately smirks. “Well,” she says lightly, “this is disgustingly domestic.”

I nearly choke on my coffee.

Joker doesn’t even blink. “Morning to you too.”

Emma grins wider and sets Jason down so he can toddle immediately toward the fruit bowl like a tiny drunk man with a mission.

Amy, for her part, just plants both hands on her hips and squints at Joker. “You made her coffee again.”

I blink.

Joker blinks.

Lexi shovels cereal into her mouth like none of this concerns her.

Amy points at the mug in my hand like she’s presenting evidence in court. “That’s serious.”

Emma actually laughs out loud.

I feel heat flood my face so fast I’m surprised steam doesn’t start coming off my skin.