Page 135 of Joker

That one catches me completely off guard. My eyes widen. “What?”

“He wants to hear your voice, hear you’re okay.”

The words hit somewhere soft enough to hurt. Immediately. Because of course he does. Because of course all the distance and silence and damage Cal built between us didn’t actually erase the fact that my father still wants to know I’m okay.

That he still worries. That he still loves me. And somehow, after everything else I’ve already survived in this room tonight,thatis what nearly brings me apart.

I look away fast, blinking hard.

Joker doesn’t say anything about it. Just waits. That seems to be his answer to everything that matters. He gives me enough space to step into it on my own.

My voice is smaller when I finally say, “I don’t know if I can do that by myself.”

Joker doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll stay.”

I look back at him.

He means it exactly the way he says it. Not taking over. Not hovering.

Just there. Steady.

If I need him. And because I’m apparently past the point of pretending his presence doesn’t settle something in me I don’t know how to explain, I nod. “Okay.”

He reaches for the burner on his dresser without another word and hands it to me. The little phone looks absurdly small in my palm.

Cheap. Light. Harmless. Like it isn’t the thing that got me out alive.

My fingers shake when I type in the number.

Joker notices. He doesn’t say anything. He just sits down on the edge of the bed beside me, close enough that our thighs almost touch, far enough that I still have room to breathe.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Then—

“Raven?”

My breath catches so hard it hurts.

I close my eyes immediately because hearing my dad’s voice after all this time without a middleman, without secrecy, without panic already breathing down my neck, is somehow too much. “Hey, Daddy.”

The silence on the other end lasts all of half a second before it cracks. “Baby girl.”

That does it. Tears burn instantly. I press my free hand over my mouth and bow my head, trying and failing to keep my breathing even.

Beside me, Joker goes very still. Not uncomfortable. Not awkward.

Just present.

Solid enough that I can lean into the edge of him without meaning to, and he lets me.

“Hey,” my dad says softly through the phone. “Hey, don’t do that. You’re alright. I got you.”

The words break something open in me all over again. Because I didn’t know how badly I needed to hear them from him until right now.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, hating how wrecked I sound.