Page 48 of Joker

I freeze.

Joker steps into the hallway like he wasn’t expecting anyone to be there, and for one second, neither of us moves.

He’s fresh from the shower.

I know that immediately.

His hair is still damp, darker than it looked in the truck, pushed back just enough to show the sharp lines of his face. A black T-shirt stretches across his shoulders, slightly clinging in places where the fabric hasn’t fully dried yet. His jeans sit low on his hips like he pulled them on without thinking too much about it, and his cut is nowhere in sight yet, which means I caught him in that narrow window between shower and fully put together.

It’s…unfair.

There is no other word for it. Because the man already looks like trouble fully dressed and armed with attitude.

This version?

Rough. Unpolished. Quiet in a way that feels more dangerous than loud ever could.

And entirely too much for me to be standing here half-awake, barefoot, holding his sweatshirt like an offering I don’t understand.

His eyes drop to my hands. Take in the folded fabric. Then lift back to my face.

Understanding settles there immediately. Of course it does. He notices everything.

“I was going to give this back,” I say, because silence is worse and because I need to explain why I’m standing in his hallway like I don’t know what I’m doing. My voice sounds quieter than I expect. More uncertain.

I hate that.

Joker leans one shoulder against the doorframe, like he’s not in any hurry to take it. “You didn’t have to rush it.”

I blink. “I wasn’t—”

He lifts one brow slightly.

I stop.

Because I was.

Trying not to keep it. Trying not to let it become something it shouldn’t. Trying not to notice how much I didn’t want to hand it back.

My fingers tighten just slightly around the fabric before I extend it toward him anyway.

He looks at it. Doesn’t take it right away. “Keep it,” he says.

The words land softly. Too softly.

“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I don’t need it now.”

“That wasn’t what I said.”

I look up at him.

His expression hasn’t changed much, but there’s something in his tone that makes it clear this isn’t a casual throwaway comment.

“I’m not going to freeze,” I tell him, trying to keep it light. “I have my own clothes.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And you had your own clothes earlier too.”

That stops me.