Page 62 of Joker

Movement. Presence. Awareness.

I hate that I can tell the difference. I hate it even more that I don’t even have to think about it anymore.

I round the corner toward the kitchen and there she is.

Barefoot again. Hair loose again. And wearing my sweatshirt.

The sight of it nearly stops me in my tracks.

Not because I didn’t know she’d find it. I left it folded on her bed for a reason, even if I’ve done a real shit job of explaining that reason to myself. Not because I expected some big reaction either. If anything, I figured she’d either ignore it or bring it back again like she was trying to win a war against comfort she didn’t think she deserved.

But she’s wearing it.

Actually wearing it.

The sleeves are pushed up slightly at her wrists this time, like she’s already been moving around in it long enough to need her hands free. The hem hits high enough on her thighs to tell me she’s probably got shorts on underneath, though I can’t see them from where I’m standing and I very specifically do not let myself look too hard. Her hair is still a little sleep-mussed, dark and soft around her shoulders, and she’s holding a mug with both hands like she’s trying to warm herself from the inside out.

She looks up. Sees me. And something passes between us immediately. Recognition. Understanding. A silent thanks she doesn’t say out loud.

And something else.

Something warmer. Something more dangerous.

Not a smile exactly, though the corner of her mouth shifts like she might be thinking about one. More like a quiet acknowledgment of the fact that she knows exactly why the sweatshirt was on her bed and I know exactly why she’s wearing it now.

Neither of us says anything about it.

Good.

Because if we start saying things about it, I’m not entirely convinced I’ll say the right ones.

“Morning,” she says instead. Her voice is still rough with sleep.

That’s becoming a problem all by itself.

“Yeah.”

She glances down at the sweatshirt for half a second, then back at me. “Thank you.”

There it is.

Simple. Quiet. And somehow worse than if she’d made a joke out of it.

I lean one shoulder against the kitchen doorway and keep my eyes on her face because the alternative is a bad fucking idea. “Didn’t want you freezing to death in your room.”

One brow lifts slightly. “Such a gentleman.”

“Don’t spread that around.”

That gets me exactly what I was aiming for.

A soft, real laugh. Small enough to miss if you weren’t paying attention.

I am, unfortunately, paying attention.

Always.

She shifts around me to refill her coffee, and I step back automatically to give her space. The sweatshirt brushes my arm as she passes, warm from her body, and my brain immediately betrays me by filing away that detail too.