The Anatomy of Wanting Him

I don’t let strangers into my home.

I tell myself it’s a rule—clean, sensible. But the truth is messier. I keep them out because some men know how to take you apart slowly, thread by thread, and you don’t even feel the first pull.

He waits outside.

The door stays shut, but the surveillance feed puts him right in my hand. I study him without being seen. Tall, standing between the hedges along the drive, fingers combing through unruly hair like he can’t quite settle into himself. I’ve never met him—not properly—but I already know the type.

He looks like the boys I pass when I drop Charity at university on the rare days she asks me to. Except he isn’t entirely a boy. Not with shoulders like that. Not with a presence that refuses to shrink.

Still… young.

When I open the door, his expression doesn’t change. No surprise. No polite smile. Nothing. I’d expected something—anything. Instead, he looks at me the way people glance at furniture.

Present. Unremarkable.

It stings more than it should.

“Severino Haynes.”

His name comes easily. The corner of his mouth twitches—barely.

“I am,” he says. His voice is low, steady. It doesn’t match the softness of his face. His eyes hold mine—sharp, watchful. The kind that notice too much.

Colored, I realize. Contacts. Intentional.

“You’re late. Seventeen minutes.” I step aside.

He walks past me, quick. His arm brushes mine—brief, but enough. Warm. Clean. There’s a faint scent left behind, something subtle and unfamiliar. Not heavy. Not cloying.

Just… him.

“Charity forgot to mention your house is practically hidden,” he says. “It’s not on any map. Took me four hours to find it.”

“And yet, you did,” I reply. “You could’ve managed better.”

He doesn’t argue. Just lets it pass, like it doesn’t touch him.

If not for Charity, I would’ve hired someone else. A woman, maybe. Simpler. Cleaner. But he’s her friend—has been for years—and she asked me. Promised she’d finally focus on her studies if I gave him the job.

This may be the closest thing we have to a bridge.

When I turn, I catch him looking around. His gaze moves across polished surfaces, bare walls, the deliberate absence of clutter. No paintings. No noise. Just order, restrained and precise.

I can almost hear the judgment forming.

Cold. Rigid. Old.

As if wanting things untouched is a flaw.

I clear my throat. “May I check your bag?”

“Sure,” he says. “Where?”

I gesture to the white Victorian table. He sets it down carefully—more carefully than I expect from someone his age.

The fabric is worn, edges stitched in rough black thread. Pins scatter across the front. Bands. Symbols. Pieces of a life I don’t fully recognize.

Some I do.

Fleetwood Mac. The Beatles.

“Sorry,” he mutters, pulling things out one by one. “It’s a bit messy.”

It isn’t. Just worn. It even smells faintly like him.

Inside: a thin sketchbook—expected. Charity mentioned he prefers filling pages to speaking. The rest is minimal. Practical.

His résumé told me enough already. Waiter. Barista. Virtual assistant. Construction worker. Bartender. A life stitched together out of necessity.

And beneath it, a Fine Arts degree. Finished, despite everything.

When I first opened his portfolio, I paused longer than I meant to. Surrealism. Abstract expressionism. Bold. Uneasy. Alive.

There’s no mistaking it.

Potential.

“I’ll help,” I say, already gathering his things before he can object. Efficiency over courtesy. I want this done.

“The sooner we start, the better. Follow me.”

I take the stairs first.

Halfway up, the silence stretches. Something prickles at the back of my neck. That familiar, irrational awareness of being watched.

Not my face.

Lower.

Ridiculous.

“You have a beautiful home, Patricia.”

I glance back. He meets my eyes easily.

There’s nothing improper about it. He has every right to use my name.

Still, hearing it from him feels… wrong.

Too familiar. Too close.

“Thank you…”

“Seven,” he says gently, catching my hesitation.

“…Seven.”

I knock twice on Charity’s door. He stands beside me, leaving a noticeable space between us. He doesn’t move, like he’s waiting for direction.

I don’t like boys who hesitate.

“Charity, open the door—”

The door swings open.

Her frown disappears instantly, replaced by something bright and unguarded. Like a light switched on behind her eyes.

“Seven!”

She throws her arms around him. I step aside, arms crossing as I watch.

He doesn’t hug her back the same way. His hands rest lightly on her shoulders. Controlled. Careful. His gaze flicks to me.

She’s comfortable with him. That much is clear.

I trust my daughter enough to recognize that.

But I don’t trust him. Not yet.

She pulls him inside, already talking, already smiling. Before the door shuts, she glances back at me.

“Mom, you don’t have to knock anymore, okay? I’ve got food. I have everything I need. Thanks.”

The door closes.

Just like that.

I stand there a moment longer, looking at the carnation-pink wood, then turn and head downstairs.

The kitchen is quiet.

I pour myself a glass of wine—expensive, measured—and take a slow sip while scrolling through my phone.

Mike again.

He’s been courting me for nine months now. A year older. PhD in Business from Philadelphia. Founder of a tech-focused strategy firm. Successful. Polished. Attractive.

A good match, by every standard.

Charity doesn’t like him.

She says he’s too perfect. Told me to wait at least a year before taking him seriously. I agreed.

I’m not looking for anything, anyway.

I know myself. I lose interest. I always end up choosing work.

My phone buzzes.

From: Mike

*Can I come over? Please? I want to see you.*

I stare at the message.

I told him before—if he asks for anything, he says *please*.

He still hasn’t learned.

Now that I’ve said yes, I suppose I’ll wait.

And put on a performance once again.