He moved around Carissa’s kitchen, putting groceries away liking that he was doing it. Not only because he was giving her brand-named ketchup, but that she had a big, nice kitchen she could cook in, put all her nice shit in, and take care of her boy in.

He shoved a bag of frozen corn in her freezer, closed the door, caught something at the side of his eye and stopped dead.

Carissa was standing at the entrance to the kitchen in a big, shapeless nightshirt she probably bought for her pregnancy. It hung low, almost to her knees. It was pink and had a scooped neck with a little rim of lace. That was the only hint at any femininity.

He instantly hated the thing. It didn’t suit her. It looked like she was at her grandma’s house, decided to stay over, and needed to borrow something to sleep in.

He did not hate the fact that her hair was a mess. Partially ratted out from sleep, it was two sizes bigger than it normally was, and his girl had a lot of hair.

Her face was kinda swollen and her eyes were sluggish. It was eleven thirty and it was written all over her she’d slept hard for the fourteen and a half hours she’d done it.

That, like her big bed head of hair, was cute.

Now she stood across the kitchen from him, unmoving, and Joker didn’t know if she stood there because she was still mostly out of it or she was winding up to hand him shit for buying her groceries.

He could get how it was tough to accept kindness. He’d lived under that burden with Linus and Mrs. Heely for years. You knew you needed it, had to accept it, even go out and take it on occasion. But you worried you’d never be able to return it and that was not a good feeling.

Still, he had to get her to a place where she got over that. She’d be getting kindness for a long time to come from Joker, his brothers, and their families, so she had to learn not to fight it.

He opened his mouth to start that lesson when she whispered, “Carson Steele in my kitchen.”

He shut his mouth and stared at her, feeling a lightness in his chest he’d never felt in his life.

She kept going, her drowsy face warming, telling him everything even as she put it in words.

“My biker, putting away groceries.”

My biker.

He turned fully to her.

As was her way, she ran to him.

He had no choice but to catch her, and when he did, she took him back and he slammed into the counter, the pain of the hit spiraling up his spine.