The Anatomy of Wanting Him

I thought I understood control.

As a dermatologist in Paris, my life is a monument to precision. Every decision is calculated; every emotion is contained. My daughter lives in excess, untouched by consequence, while I exist in the quiet discipline of a reputation that cannot afford to crack.

But discipline is fragile. Especially when temptation learns your name.

Severino Haynes entered my life under the most ordinary pretense: a tutor for my daughter. He was young, struggling, and disarmingly honest. He was also entirely inappropriate. He disrupted the sterile silence of my home with laughter, defiance, and a gaze that lingered a second too long to be accidental.

At first, I mistook him for a distraction. Then, a problem.

I didn't realize he was something far worse: a man with intent.

Behind his careless charm lies a resentment rooted in a past I unknowingly helped destroy. What started as curiosity has devolved into a dangerous game. Boundaries are blurring, roles are collapsing, and I can no longer tell the difference between desire and revenge.

He wants to break me. And I am beginning to want him enough to let him try.

In a city like Paris, beauty is currency and secrets are inevitable. Nothing stays hidden forever-not my double life, and certainly not his true intentions. The cost of wanting Severino isn't just my reputation. It's my daughter, my past, and everything I've built to survive it.

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.

I let the intercom ring twice more before I moved.

It wasn't that I didn't hear it. My house was designed to carry sound like a whisper through glass. I waited because anticipation, when timed right, is a weapon. Two minutes was my sweet spot-long enough to unsettle, short enough to remain polite.

I set my wine down and crossed the marble floor barefoot. The stone still held the warmth of the afternoon sun. On the monitor, the camera feed flickered to life.

Mike. Of course.

He had two bouquets this time-red roses, predictably over-the-top-and a sleek box of imported chocolates tucked under his arm. He shifted his weight, practicing patience the way men like him always did: visibly.

I opened the door the exact second he started to lose his cool.

His face lit up like a switch had been flipped. His glasses were spotless, catching the hallway light. Mike didn't do anything halfway; even his charm was polished to a high shine.

"Good evening to the most beautiful woman on earth."

There it was. A line practiced in a mirror, delivered like it had never failed him.

I leaned against the doorframe, unimpressed. "You're getting predictable, Mike."

"Predictability builds trust," he said smoothly, stepping past me before I could invite him in.

Some people don't ask for permission. They just take up space. The scent of roses followed him-thick and theatrical. I took one bouquet, sniffing it out of habit.

"I'll take these," I said, dropping them on the table. "I assume the other is for Charity?"

"Of course." He pulled out a chair, sitting with the confidence of a man who owned the room. "Where is she? Asleep?"

I opened the chocolates. Dark, glossy, expensive. I bit into one, letting the bitterness coat my tongue before washing it down with wine. "No. She's with someone."

Mike paused mid-reach for his glass. "Someone?"

His tone shifted. It was a tiny crack, but I caught it. Dermatology taught me to read surfaces; life taught me to read what crawled beneath them.

"Her boyfriend?" he asked.

I took my time. Another sip. Another second of silence to make him sweat. Then, a voice cut through from the hallway.

"I don't like boys, Uncle."

We both turned. Charity stood there, but my eyes immediately snagged on the man behind her. He filled the doorway, making the kitchen feel suddenly cramped. He had a single bag slung over his shoulder and a loose, lazy posture that made Mike look stiff. Severino didn't fit the room, and somehow, that made the room look worse, not him.

He looked at us with a stare that bordered on disgust.

"I'll walk Seven out, Mom," Charity said.

"I'll do it, sweetheart. Stay here." I stepped toward her, smoothing her hair. "Just say hi to Mi-"

"No." The word snapped. She folded her arms, chin high.

I swallowed a sigh. Now wasn't the time for a lecture. "Wait here," I told them, then turned back to Mike.

He looked sour. He knew Charity hated him, and he was too proud to try and win her over. "Well," Mike muttered, "I guess I'm being ignored again. Who's the kid?"

"Charity's tutor," I said. "It's late, Mike. I have to see him out."

Mike adjusted his leather coat, buffing a spot that wasn't there. "I'll take him. Where does he live?" He grabbed my arm, nudging me aside as he let out a sharp, careless whistle toward the door. "Kid! Where do you live? I'll drop you."

"Mike..." I grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back. He tried to lace his fingers through mine, but I pulled away. "I'll handle it. I need to talk to him about her grades."

He exhaled, long and dramatic. He knew that tone-it meant the conversation was over. "Fine. Looks like I don't have a choice." He leaned in, his thumbs tracing slow circles on my elbows. "See you at the clinic." He kissed my cheek.

It felt like nothing. No spark, no heat. Not even a flicker of the fire I could find on my own.

I didn't walk him to the door. He knew the way out. I waited until I heard the heavy thud of the front door before turning back to the kitchen.

Charity and Severino were talking, her voice light and animated-a side of her Mike never saw. At nineteen, she looked almost like his peer.

"Finally," Charity sighed when she saw me. "Mom, please don't do that stuff in front of us. It's embarrassing, especially with Seven here."

I glanced at Severino. He was scrolling through his phone, his long fingers moving fast. "Is your friend ready?"

"Yeah, he's just messaging his aunt," Charity said, leaning in to peek at his screen. They were comfortable. Too comfortable.

"All right. Let's go."

***

"Do you live alone?" I asked as we wove through traffic.

The car was small, and his scent-something warm and masculine-was fighting with my perfume. It made the air feel heavy.

"No. I stay with my aunt," Severino said, looking out the window. "Parents are dead. I moved in to help her earn a living."

He said it so casually it hit harder than a sob story. I tightened my grip on the wheel, focused on the GPS. "That must have been hard."

"How would you know?" he shot back. "You've never been in my position."

I glanced at him. "I don't have to live your life to understand it."

Silence stretched between us, thick and vibrating. I opened my mouth to bring up Charity's lesson plan, but he beat me to it.

"Have you ever been with a younger man, Patricia?"

My foot slipped off the accelerator. "Excuse me?"

The car slowed. I turned to him, and he was already staring. His eyes were dark, burning with a look that wasn't respectful or "tutor-like." He was looking at me like a challenge he intended to win.

"I'm asking if you've ever had a relationship with someone younger," he repeated, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my lips. "I'll take that as a no."

"Do you want to get fired on your first day?" My voice was sharp, but there was a hum in my blood I couldn't ignore.

"Fired for a question?"

"That wasn't just a question."

He leaned in slightly, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Then what was it? Why won't you answer? Are you embarrassed to admit you've never-"

The crack of my hand against his cheek cut him off.

My palm stung. My fingers trembled as I pulled them back. A bright red flush spread across his skin. I didn't regret it for a second.

Severino didn't flinch. He just ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip and turned back to me, looking more amused than hurt.

"The next time you slap me," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low crawl, "I won't let it end there. I'll be on top of you, probably in this car, and I'm clenching inside your pretty little cunt."

It wasn't a threat. It was a promise.

Before I could breathe-before I could decide whether to scream or reach for him-he opened the door. The roar of the city flooded the car. He stepped out, shut the door with a final thud, and walked away.

I sat there in the silence, my heart hammering against my ribs, skin flushed with a heat I couldn't explain.

Severino Haynes was a jerk. And I was in trouble.