Page 106 of Joker

My stomach twists hard enough to feel nauseous. Not from regret. From the aftermath. From the unbearable weight of what it meant.

Because sex is one thing.

Sex can be heat. Impulse. Relief. A bad decision made in a vulnerable moment. What happened between us last night wasn’t that.

That’s the problem.

It mattered. Too much.

And now I’m in his bed with his arm around me like I belong here, and I don’t know what to do with the fact that some broken, reckless part of me wants to stay exactly where I am and never move again.

Panic starts low and climbs fast. Not a full spiral. Not like last night.

This is quieter. Colder.

The kind that starts in your chest and spreads until every thought feels sharp around the edges.

What did I do?

What happens now?

What if this changes everything?

What if it changes nothing?

What if he wakes up and realizes this was a mistake?

What if I already know it wasn’t one and that’s somehow worse?

My breathing goes shallow.

I hate it. I hate that my own body still does this to me. That even after a night that felt like the first honest thing I’ve had in years, my first instinct in the morning is still to brace for impact.

I try to move carefully. Slow enough not to wake him.

The second I shift, the arm around my waist tightens. Not hard. Not trapping. Just enough to let me know he’s awake.

My whole body goes still.

A beat passes.

Then his voice, rough with sleep and gravel and everything that makes it unfair before sunrise, hits the back of my neck. “You running?”

There’s no accusation in it.

No anger. No edge sharp enough to cut. Just…a question.

And somehow that’s worse.

Because if he’d sounded cold, or distant, or even vaguely awkward, I would know what to do with that.

This? This careful, half-asleep, unbothered version of him makes something in my chest pull painfully tight.

“No,” I say too quickly.

His arm loosens immediately. Not because he’s pulling away. Because he’s letting me.

That lands harder than I’m prepared for.