[ALFIO'S POV]
If someone had told me that babysitting a seven-year-old would require the stamina of a Navy SEAL, the emotional range of a Pixar character, and the survival instincts of a jungle cat—
—I would have politely told them to shut up and then died anyway.
Because this?
This was war.
It started innocently enough.
Aria had insisted we watch a movie.
Which, of course, meant Disney. Again. Always.
I tried to subtly nudge her toward something calm—maybe Frozen for the seventeenth time or Brave so I could at least enjoy the Scottish accents.
But nope.
She blinked those wide little traitor-eyes and picked Moana. Again.
"This one speaks to my inner ocean goddess," she said dramatically, flopping on the couch like royalty.
"…You're seven."
"Spiritually, I'm forty," she declared with the deadpan seriousness of a tax-paying adult.
I stared at her. "…Wow. I can't believe I'm hearing this from someone who still needs a step stool to brush her teeth."
Anyhow.
