Page 142 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

Chapter Twenty-Three

Christine

We’re in the sitting room now.

Enzo is slumped to the side, nursing a glass of wine like it’s the only thing keeping him sane, his scowl fixed on the TV where Cocomelon is playing as per Blue’s demand.

Atelia stepped out to take a call, leaving the rest of us to the cartoon noise.

I’m perched at the edge of my seat, barely present.

Because my eyes won’t leave them.

Robert and Blue.

He’s seated at the edge of the couch, one arm braced along the back, the other holding a small bowl balanced carefully in his palm.

Blue is half on him, half off, turned sideways across his lap like she couldn’t decide on a position and settled for both. Her legs are tucked under her, her body leaning into him with the kind of ease that claims.

“Open.” He scoops a small portion of dessert and lifts it toward her.

She does immediately.

“Good girl.” He feeds her patiently.

She chews the lemon cake, then starts talking mid-bite about something that doesn’t connect to anything. Ants again, or cartoons, or something only she fully understands, and he listens, giving her his full attention, his eyes on her.

And it’s cute to see that even when he clearly doesn’t understand half of what she’s saying, he nods anyway and participates by asking questions.

He feeds her another spoonful without interrupting her rhythm.

My heart flutters in my chest, my gaze unable to drift anywhere else.

This is what I didn’t expect. Not in the years I had thought about reaching out to him or if he appeared in our lives. Not as easy or as seamless as this.

He wipes the corner of her mouth with his thumb when she misses, unthinking, like the gesture lives in his body already.

And she lets him, leaning in closer, like she trusts the space he creates around her.

My fingers curl slightly where they rest against my arm as I start to see the shape of it. What this could be. Not the version in my head that comes with warnings and conditions and everything I’ve been holding onto to keep myself trapped.

But this.

This lived-in, unspoken rhythm that doesn’t need to be explained.

“You’re thinking too hard.” Atelia’s voice cuts in from beside me.

I blink, dragged back into reality.

“I’m not,” I reply automatically.

“Sure.” She hums like she doesn’t believe me.

“It’s just…” My gaze drifts back to him anyway, like I don’t have control over that part of me. “He looks good doing it.”

I’m still trembling from what he said earlier.

About marriage.