Page 130 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

Not chaos. Not fire. Not men who you won't stay and still manage to feel like they’re everywhere.

This.

I walk over slowly, my steps softer without trying to be.

I reach for the duvet that has slipped off Blue’s shoulder and fix it gently, pulling it up, tucking it around her, and smoothing it over Aisha after, careful not to wake either of them.

My fingers linger for a second. Long enough to feel the comfort seep through my bones.

Aisha shifts subtly, adjusting her head, her arm clasping around Blue.

I straighten immediately, shaking it off, before turning for my bedroom.

When I leave my room,I look like myself again.

Or close enough.

The kitchen light buzzes when I switch it on, casting everything in warm yellow. I move through it automatically, pulling out what I need without checking twice.

Aisha said she was under attack by microscopic demons earlier. Which means she’s sick enough to be dramatic about it.

So I make soup.

I chop, stir, taste, and adjust, letting my hands think while my mind finally… doesn’t.

For a few minutes, it’s just this. The rhythm of the spoon against the pot. The bubbling. The steam rising.

“Is it ready yet?”

I glance over my shoulder.

Aisha is leaning against the kitchen entrance like she has just woken up from a coma, her blanket still wrapped around her likea cloak she refuses to give up. Her hair is worse now, slightly lopsided, and her eyes are half-lidded.

Blue is right beside her, one hand wrapped around Aisha’s fingers, the other rubbing at her eye like she’s still halfway asleep.

“You were asleep two seconds ago,” I point out, turning back to the pot.

“I smelled food,” Aisha replies without shame, already dragging herself further into the kitchen.

“That’s not how sickness works,” I murmur.

“It does when I’m involved.”

Blue nods like that makes perfect sense.

“She said the smell woke her,” Blue adds helpfully, climbing onto one of the stools by the counter with a small grunt.

“Of course it did.” I smile.

“So…” Aisha follows, easing herself onto the stool beside her. “What are we having?” She asks, peering into the pot like she expects something extravagant.

“Soup,” I answer simply.

“Soup?” She blinks, then looks at me.

“You’re sick.” I point out.

“I’m dramatic, not dying.”