Page 2 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle
He was safe.
Until he wasn’t.
And maybe this is where I should blame it on something clinical, something neat enough to make it feel less pathetic.
My anxious attachment, reaching, stretching, trying to pull him back into the version of himself I first met.
His avoidant tendencies, slipping further away the closer I get.
Like we’re locked in some tug-of-war neither of us knows how to stop.
But labels don’t change the outcome.
They don’t make him better.
I stop walking.
Across the room, I spot him.
Daniel is exactly where I left him hours ago, planted at a blackjack table like it’s grown roots around his shoes.
His sleeves are rolled up, his watch catching the light every time his wrist moves. There’s a stack of chips in front of him, smaller than it was earlier, I notice… And his focus is absolute. The kind of attention I haven’t felt from him in months.
Maybe longer.
I watch him for a moment, hoping stupidly that he’ll look up. That something in him will tug, like a thread pulling him back to me.
He doesn’t.
The dealer speaks. Cards slide. Chips clack.
Daniel leans forward, his green eyes honing, jaw clenching, like the outcome of this hand matters more than anything else in the room.
More than me.
I inhale, reshuffling my emotions, then cross the floor toward him.
“Daniel.”
He doesn’t hear me. Or maybe he does, and I’m just not loud enough to compete with the chaos he’s chosen.
“Hey.” I step closer, placing a hand lightly on his arm. “Daniel.”
That gets him.
He glances at me quickly, distracted.
“Hey, baby.” He throws a small smile, already looking back at the table. “Give me a second.”
A second passes.
The dealer flips a card. Someone groans and another laughs.
Daniel barely blinks.
I keep my hand where it is, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he’s coiled around the game like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“I thought maybe we could go upstairs,” I start, keeping my voice soft, easy. “Or grab dinner somewhere that isn’t… this.”
