Page 178 of Joker

That might be the worst part of all.

Because I can’t fix it with one sentence. Can’t erase it just because I wish I could. Can’t undo the exact moment I put him anywhere near the same category as the man who terrorized me.

The damage is done.

I did that. And now I have to live with the fact that I just cut the one person who has never once tried to own me. The one person who has only ever tried to stand between me and the worst things in the world.

Joker lets out a slow breath. Then another. And finally says, “I need a minute.”

The words are quiet. Measured. But they still hit like a punch. Because he’s not shutting me out forever. Not walkingaway for good. Just stepping back because I hurt him enough that he needs space to keep from saying something worse.

And somehow that restraint hurts more than anger would’ve.

I nod immediately.

Because what else can I do? Because I owe him that much, at least. Because if I reach for him right now and he doesn’t know what to do with my hands, I think it might actually kill me.

So I just stand there.

Crying silently in the middle of the kitchen while the man I’m in love with and absolutely don’t deserve in this moment gives me one last look I won’t forget anytime soon.

Not cold. Not cruel. Just deeply, visibly wounded.

Then he turns and walks out.

And I stay exactly where I am, one hand pressed hard over my mouth and the other braced on the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me upright, while the full weight of what I just did crashes down on me all at once.

Not because I had a trauma response. Not because I got overwhelmed. Not because I panicked. But because in the middle of all of that, I aimed my fear at the one person who has only ever tried to carry it with me.

And standing there in the wreckage of our first real fight, with the silence of the clubhouse suddenly too loud around me and his absence already feeling like a missing piece of my ownskin, I realize something that hurts worse than the argument itself.

I didn’t just lash out.

I cut the one man who has never once tried to cage me.

And if I’m not careful…

I might ruin the safest thing I’ve ever had.

I’ve been hurt before.

That’s not exactly groundbreaking.

Anybody who grows up the way I did, loses what I lost, and then spends enough years in this life with a patch on his back and violence in his hands learns how to take a hit.

You take it. You bleed if you have to. You keep moving.

Simple.

What I’m learning, though, is that there’s a whole different kind of hurt that comes from a woman looking at you like she knows you’re safe and still flinching anyway because her body hasn’t caught up yet.

That one doesn’t land on skin. It lands somewhere much uglier. Somewhere you can’t stitch shut with whiskey, blood, or bad decisions.

I leave the kitchen after the fight because staying would’ve made it worse. Not because I wanted distance.

Because she did. Because the last thing I ever want is to become another wall she has to push against just to breathe.

That thought sits like glass under my ribs while I walk the downstairs hall, boots heavy on the floorboards, every instinct in me screaming to turn around and go back and pull her into my arms until the fear in her face settles into something I know how to handle.