The Anatomy of Wanting Him

“Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m not at home. I’m safe, so please don’t worry. I’m staying with Seven at his studio. I know you fired him, but I don’t want to lose him. Please don’t come looking for me. I’ll be back.”

I was halfway home when Charity’s message flashed on my dashboard. I forced my hands to stay steady on the wheel. At least she’d told me where she was. At least I wasn't chasing shadows. But the anger was there, simmering. She was with him. That boy. I hadn't considered that firing him would drive her straight into his cramped little apartment.

I called her. Again. Again. Every attempt went straight to voicemail. Her phone was off.

I took a sharp turn toward the address I’d memorized from his résumé. I never imagined I’d actually need to use it.

*“If you lay a finger on her, I’ll kill you,”* I hissed into a voice message for Severino. I didn't want to hear his voice, let alone see his face. The thought of him made my stomach turn. I needed him to understand this was about Charity, and nothing else.

I pulled my Renault Clio to the curb and slipped through a narrow gate. A rusted maroon staircase loomed ahead, the metal steps groaning with age. Four units. Which one?

My phone buzzed. An unfamiliar number.

*C302. Third floor.*

I took the stairs two at a time. The landing was shallow, the climb steep. My flats struck the metal with a hollow clang that echoed through the dark stairwell.

*Breathe, Patricia. You only have to do this once.*

I reached C302 and knocked. A few seconds later, the door swung open. Severino filled the frame. I had to tilt my head back just to meet his eyes.

He looked infuriatingly good. A white tank top clung to him under a black apron stained with paint. More flecks of color marked his neck and broad shoulders. He was in nothing but black shorts, looking as though the heat and the mess didn't touch him.

“How was the climb?” he asked, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. “Did you have so much work done on your face that you forgot how to smile?”

I bit my tongue. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction. It was absurd—I was a grown woman, a professional, yet he was getting under my skin with a single sentence.

“I’m not here to entertain you,” I said coldly. “Where is Charity?”

“Didn’t med school teach you to greet people? Where are your manners—”

“You’re not a client, Severino.”

I brushed past him. He let me through, and I ignored the chaos of his living room. The air smelled of fresh turpentine and paint.

“Charity.” I crossed the room in three strides. She was curled on a red sofa, fast asleep under a fluffy beige blanket. I checked her face, her clothes—everything. She was fine. She was sleeping so deeply her cheek was pressed into a round pillow. I brushed her hair back with my knuckles; she didn't even stir.

I felt him move behind me, his shadow falling over us. I stood up and faced him.

“Let’s talk,” I said, keeping my voice low but firm.

I’d changed before coming here. Not just because I’d been working, but because I didn't want to walk into his world draped in luxury. I knew Severino wasn't wealthy. I had no desire to flaunt my status in a cramped studio. Basic decency shouldn't have a price tag, even if my parents never taught me that.

“My room is small,” he said, breaking the silence.

The whole place felt small.

“I know it’s cramped,” he continued, as if reading my mind. “But my room is even smaller. We can talk in there. I need space to breathe—and to admire that pretty face.”

I shot him a glare. I hated his arrogance. I hated his confidence. And most of all, I hated the unsteady thrumming in my chest that I couldn't quite name.

“Fine. Your room,” I muttered, stepping ahead of him.

Now that I was looking, the apartment was unmistakably an artist’s space. It was intentional. Soft blues, deep blacks, and warm wood. The ceiling was covered by a tarp painted with drifting clouds. Sheets of paper were pasted to the floorboards, covered in black paint and delicate butterflies. It was aesthetic. Effortless.

It was also spotless. Aside from a few unwashed dishes in the small kitchen, the place was meticulously clean.

He opened the door to his bedroom and stepped in first. I followed, leaving the door slightly ajar.

If the living room was art, this was an obsession. Posters of films and bands lined the walls in perfect alignment. A vintage guitar sat in the corner, and a massive white bed dominated the center of the room. It smelled faintly of air freshener and something masculine.

“Sit anywhere,” he said, clicking on an electric fan.

The windows were shut, hidden behind pastel blue curtains. I sat on a beige couch, the cushions surprisingly soft as I sank into them.

“I thought you lived with your aunt,” I said, trying to find my footing.