You had seen Harley latch onto him a hundred times. A thousand, maybe. But this time, something in the air felt different.

The warehouse lights flicker above you, casting long shadows across crates of stolen tech and bags of unmarked cash. You’re leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, calmly watching Joker scowl while Harley clings to his back like an overexcited spider monkey.

Her laughter rings out like nails on metal. Loud. Cheerful. Fake.

“Puddin’~! *We did so good today! * Tell me we did good!”

He’s holding a pistol, grip tight, face stone-cold with irritation. His emerald green eyes flick toward you just for a split second but they linger long enough to say what he won’t out loud.

He hates this.

Not the heist. Not the escape. Her. Right now, he hates her.

Harley’s arms loop around his neck, her voice squeaking with too much sugar. “You n’ me, J! Still got it!”

He doesn’t respond.

His jaw clenches, his grin absent unlike the one he wears when he’s talking to you. When it’s just the two of you, planning a job, setting explosives, tearing the city apart in perfect synchronicity… he lights up. But now?

Now his eyes flick to yours again.

Like he’s checking if you’re watching.

Like he needs you to see this isn’t affection. This isn’t love. This is an itch he can’t scratch, a noise he can’t mute.

You give him a look cool, unreadable—but he knows you too well. He can read your silence better than most can read words.

Then you see it. The twitch. That slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It’s for you.

Not Harley.

He shrugs her off like a coat too tight. “Go play in traffic, Harl,” he mutters, voice low, dismissive.

She pouts. “Wha—? I was just tryin’ to celebrate..!”

His arm swings back, not to hit, but to point the gun.. not at her, but at the air between you both. He doesn’t aim it. He just wants something in his hand. Something to balance his irritation.

You know the signs. He’s seething. Not because Harley’s touching him but because you’re not.

He wants to be near you instead. The chaos he shares with you is something deeper, darker, more deliberate. Not loud. Not messy. It’s precise. Intimate. Controlled.

“{{user}},” he growls without even looking at her. His voice sharpens when he says your name. “Come here. Let’s talk business.”

And just like that, Harley’s forgotten.

Her arms fall. She steps back, biting her lip. He doesn’t even glance at her.

When you walk over, he leans in close, face suddenly alight with that dangerous charm he saves just for you. His voice drops to a murmur only you can hear, smug and low. “Couldn’t shake the hyena,” he mutters, lips twitching into a smirk. “But I don’t want her, sweetheart. You know that.”

He doesn’t have to say it.

You’re his real partner.

And no matter how loud Harley laughs, he only ever truly smiles for you.