The Anatomy of Wanting Him

Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m no longer at home. I didn’t wait for you since I knew you’d be working late. I’m safe, so please don’t worry. I’m staying with Seven at his studio apartment. I know you fired him, but I don’t want whatever we have to be severed. I’m not asking you to understand. Just… please don’t come looking for me. I’ll come back. 

I was driving home when Charity’s message came through. I forced myself to stay steady, to keep my hands firm on the wheel. At least she told me where she was, at least I wasn’t left in the dark, scrambling to call in favors and chase shadows just to find my own daughter. Still, anger simmered beneath the surface. She was with him. With that boy. I hadn’t stopped to think about the aftermath when I dismissed him. What he might say, what he might do to draw her into his cramped little apartment.

I called Charity again and again. Each attempt went straight to a dead line. Her phone was off. 

Now I’m on my way to that apartment, whatever it is, to bring my daughter home. I know the address. It was tucked neatly into his résumé, a detail I never imagined I’d need.

What I don’t know is which floor.

“If you lay a finger on her, I'll kill you.” I sent the threat as a voice message to Severino. Calling him was out of the question. Merde. I didn’t even want to hear his voice, didn’t want to see his face—not after everything. The thought of him made my stomach turn. I needed him to understand that I was doing this for one reason alone: Charity. 

I pulled my white Renault Clio to a stop beside the apartment building and slipped through the narrow gate. Inside, a rusted maroon staircase loomed, its metal steps worn and groaning with age. I scanned the row of doors—four units in total, each marked with fading numbers. Which one was his?

My phone buzzed in my hand. An unfamiliar number flashed across the screen.

C302. Third floor.

I didn’t hesitate. I took the stairs two at a time, the narrow steps forcing my pace into something sharp and urgent. Each landing was shallow, the gaps between them steep. My flats struck the metal with a hollow clang that echoed up the stairwell. 

Easy. Breathe, Patricia.

You’ll only have to do this once. 

I knocked when I reached room C302. A few seconds later, Severino filled the doorway. I had to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes—he towered over me.

I hated how good he looked right then. Then again, didn’t he always? A white tank clung to his frame beneath a black apron, blotched with paint; more flecks marked his neck and broad shoulders. He wore nothing but black shorts, as if the mess and the heat didn’t bother him.

“How was the climb up the stairs?” he greeted, leaning against the doorframe, legs and arms crossed as though he owned the hallway. “Did you have so much done to your face you forgot how to smile?”

I bit the inside of my cheek, swallowing the irritation before it could surface. I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing it land. The thought alone was absurd. Being provoked this easily by someone younger than me. I had spent years teaching myself to be unshakable, to keep my composure intact. And yet, with a few careless words and that infuriating ease of his, he was already getting under my skin.

“I didn’t come here to entertain you,” I said evenly. “Where’s Charity?”

“Didn’t your dermatology training teach you to greet people first? Where are your manners—”

“Well, you’re not my client,” I cut in.

I nudged him aside; thankfully, he yielded. My gaze swept past him, ignoring the chaos of his place. The air reeked of fresh paint.

“Charity—” I crossed the room at once. She lay curled on a red sofa, asleep beneath a fluffy beige blanket. I checked her clothes, her face—everything. God, I wanted to pull her into my arms. She slept deeply, cheek nestled against a soft, round pillow. I brushed her skin with the back of my fingers; she didn’t stir.

I felt him draw near and rose to my feet. He loomed over me, but I kept my chin lifted.

“Let’s talk,” I said, steady and certain, even as his stare pinned me in place.

Before coming here, I made sure to change. Not only because I’d been out, but because I refused to overwhelm him. As much as I loathe him, I try to meet people halfway. Clothes can announce a person’s place in the world, shape how others read them at a glance. I know that.

But what matters to me is how you treat people. I know the life Severino leads. He isn’t wealthy, and I have no desire to prove I’m above him, not to him, not to anyone. I didn’t dress in luxury or drape myself in jewels just to step into a cramped studio apartment. I’m not attending a fashion show. Why dress like I am? Basic decency shouldn’t require a price tag. 

My parents never taught me that, and I didn’t wait for them to. The only thing I ever expected from them was financial stability.

“My room is small,” he said.

This place already felt small to me; I could only imagine the rest.

“I know this place is cramped,” he went on, as if he’d read my thoughts. “But my room is even smaller. We can talk here. I need space to breathe and to admire your pretty face.”

I shot him a glare. I hated the arrogance in his voice, the easy confidence with which he said it. Especially with my daughter just a few steps behind me. And I hated the way something sharp and unsteady twisted inside my chest, something I couldn’t quite name.

“T–to your room, then.” I cleared my throat under my breath and stepped ahead of him.

Only then did I take in the apartment as a whole. The moment you enter Severino’s place, it feels unmistakably like an artist’s. Every corner carefully curated, every detail intentional. The palette leans into soft pastel blues, deep blacks, clean whites, and the warm grain of exposed wood. The ceiling isn’t particularly high; I suspect it’s wooden too, though it’s concealed beneath a tarp painted with drifting clouds.

The floorboards are wood, scattered with sheets of paper pasted here and there. Most brushed over in black paint, adorned with delicate flowers and butterflies. The walls, washed in pastel blue, are alive with hand-drawn surrealist pieces. I can’t name them all, but there are many, and together they create something striking. Effortlessly aesthetic, quietly captivating.

He doesn’t own much. Just two maroon-and-white Lawson sofas, a modest 24-inch television, a couple of electric fans, a brown coffee table, framed prints, vintage posters, neatly arranged bookshelves, proper lighting, and a handful of small plants that soften the space.

A wooden staircase stands beside the bathroom. The door is open, so I catch a glimpse inside, surprisingly clean. In fact, the entire apartment is clean. It only appears cluttered at first glance because of the scattered papers, but even those are few, almost deliberate.

There’s a small kitchen tucked to the side, along with a refrigerator. A few unwashed dishes sit in the sink. He must have cooked earlier. I find myself wondering what he and Charity had eaten.

I step aside to let him reach the door, allowing him to twist the knob. He enters first. I follow, pushing the door just enough to leave it slightly ajar.

If the rest of the apartment is art, his room is immersion. It’s more vivid, more alive. Immaculately clean, too, with a faint, pleasant scent of air freshener lingering in the air. Posters line the walls in careful alignment—bands, films, layered without feeling crowded. A customized guitar rests nearby, aged to the point that it looks almost a century old. And at the center of it all, a massive white bed.

“You can sit anywhere,” he says, switching on the electric fan.

It’s already night, and the windows are shut, framed by pastel blue curtains. I settle onto a beige couch, the cushions giving way beneath me. Soft. For a moment, I almost smile at how comfortable it feels. My butt is clapping. 

“I thought you were living with your aunt.”