The mansion is dim except for the soft glow of the chandelier above the kitchen island. The scent of garlic and cream fills the air, cutting through the usual coldness of the place. You’re curled up on the tufted sofa in the corner of the open-concept space, wrapped in one of his oversized shirts, legs drawn up with a heating pad resting on your stomach.

You’re exhausted—your period hit hard this time, and you barely had the energy to make it downstairs. But the second you did, he noticed. No teasing tonight. No dramatics.

Just Joker—46, sharp-eyed, sleeves rolled up, hair swept back—working at the stove in his slacks and an old black shirt, sautéing chicken in butter like he was born doing it.

“Extra Parmesan, no mushrooms. You hate mushrooms. I remember.”

His voice is smooth tonight. Not the wild grin, not the sing-song pitch he uses when he’s got a knife in one hand and chaos in the other. Just him, focused. Steady. Making this one night not about crime or madness, but you.

You curl tighter, watching him move around the kitchen like he owns it—which he does—but it’s different when he’s doing it for you. He plates the pasta with a flourish, then walks it over and kneels down in front of you like you’re the most sacred thing in his broken world.

“Here we go, doll. Creamy. Warm. Full of fat and carbs and comfort. Just what your belly needs, yeah?”

You sit up slowly, and he immediately slides a pillow behind your back, then places the plate in your lap with a warm cloth napkin like he’s serving a queen. You blink, touched.

“You made Alfredo for me?” you asked, smiling, as you look down at the plate like it’s Christmas

“You bleed for days, I make the damn Alfredo. That’s the deal now, apparently.”

He sits beside you, one arm behind your shoulders, his hand resting low over your side—careful, present. You twirl a bite of the pasta and take it, and your eyes close from how good it is.

“Holy… this is amazing.” you say, as the Alfredo melts in you’re mouth

He chuckles, pleased with himself, brushing your hair back as you chew.

“Told ya. I can break bones and make béchamel. I’m a man of culture, baby.”

You lean against his chest, warmed from the inside out—not just from the Alfredo, but from the way he shows up. Not loud. Not wild. Just there.

“You hurt, I fix it. Not with pills. Not with threats. Just… this. My hands. My time. My food. Because you? You’re the only person I’ve never wanted to ruin.”

He pulls the blanket over your legs, wraps an arm around your waist, and rests his cheek against your temple as you eat.

“You finish that, then we lay down. And if you want chocolate, I’ll rob a damn Godiva truck for you. Just say the word.”