Page 64 of Joker

Like she can’t quite stop herself from making sure the barrier between her and the outside world is still where she left it.

That one settles ugly under my skin.

Then there’s the freeze response. That one pisses me off enough I have to physically unclench my jaw.

Mac comes around the corner too fast at one point, not paying attention because she’s laughing at something Blaze said from the porch. Raven doesn’t even fully see her before she reacts.

She just feels movement behind her and goes rigid. Instantly. Not a scream. Not a stumble. Just total stillness for one sharp second like her body has learned that sometimes the safest move is to become motionless and wait for impact.

It’s gone just as fast.

Mac doesn’t notice. Nobody notices.

Except me. And once I see that, I can’t stop seeing it.

The shape of it. The history behind it. The kind of fear that gets stored in a body and starts living there even after the danger isn’t immediately in front of you anymore.

I lean against the far wall with my coffee and tell myself not to stare.

Then fail.

Because now I’m seeing everything she tries to hide too. The exhaustion is obvious once you know what you’re looking for. Not just being tired. Not just adjusting to a new place.

This is the kind of exhaustion that comes from living too long with your nervous system set to emergency. The kind where even when you finally get sleep, your body doesn’t know what to do with it because it spent too long believing rest was a trap.

There’s pride too.

A whole lot of it.

It’s in the way she reaches for things herself even when somebody’s already moving to help. The way she always says she’s fine before she says anything else. The way she thanks people like she’s afraid kindness is expensive and she’d better pay for it quickly before anyone changes their mind.

And fear.

That one’s quieter. Less obvious if you don’t know how to look. But it’s there in the way she never fully puts her back to a room.

Ever.

Kitchen. Common area. Porch. Hallway. Doesn’t matter.

She always angles herself just enough to keep sight lines open. Keeps exits in view. Keeps the room readable.

That isn’t habit. That’s survival. I know the difference. And every time I notice another piece of it, the same thought keeps landing harder.

Somebody taught her this.

Somebody put enough fear into her body that now she moves like a woman who learned safety is mostly about anticipation.

That thought has me on a short fuse all fucking day.

I don’t ask her about any of it. Not because I don’t want to know. Because I know enough already to understand what asking would do.

People like Raven don’t open up because somebody demands it. They either tell you when they’re ready or they don’t tell you at all. And trying to pry a story out of a woman whose body is already carrying too much is a good way to make yourself one more thing she has to guard against.

So I don’t ask. I don’t push. I just start doing things.

Quietly. Without telling her. Without asking permission.

The first is her windows.