I don't let strangers into my home.
I dress it up as a rule, something neat and sensible but the truth is less polished: I keep them out because some men know how to pull you apart thread by thread, and you don't even feel the first tug.
He lingers outside. The door stays shut, but the surveillance feed lays him bare in the palm of my hand. I study him without being seen. Tall, planted between the hedges lining my drive, fingers raking through unruly hair like he can't quite settle into himself. I've never met him, not really, but I already know the type. He looks like the boys I pass when I drop Charity at her university on the days she decides she needs me. 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 shift. No flicker of surprise, no polite smile, nothing. I'd expected something, anything. Instead, he looks at me the way one glances at furniture: present, unremarkable. The slight stings more than it should.
"Severino Haynes." His name curls easily off my tongue.
The corner of his full, red mouth twitches, barely.
"I am," he replies, voice low, steady, mismatched with the softness of his face. His eyes hold mine—sharp, predatory, the kind that notice too much. Colored, I realize. Contacts. A deliberate choice.
"You're late. Seventeen minutes." I step aside.
He slips past me, quick, his arm brushing mine, brief but enough. Heat. A trace of something clean and masculine lingers in the air, nothing like the stale, cloying scents I used to endure. I didn't know something like that could exist. Subtle, but distinct. Like 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, here you are," I answer coolly. "You could have managed better."
He doesn't argue. Just accepts it, like the comment passes through him without leaving a mark. 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, voice soft, promising she'd finally focus on her studies if I gave him the job. Perhaps this is the closest thing to a bridge I'll get between us.
When I turn, I catch him surveying the house. His gaze moves over polished surfaces, bare walls, the deliberate absence of clutter. No paintings, no chaos, only order wrapped in Victorian restraint. I can almost hear the judgment forming: cold, rigid, old.
As if wanting things untouched and precise is some kind of 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, too carefully for someone his age. The fabric is worn, edges repaired with rough black stitching. Pins scatter across the front. Bands, symbols, fragments of a life I don't quite recognize. Still, a few are familiar: Fleetwood Mac. The Beatles.
"Sorry," he mutters, pulling things out one by one. "It's a bit messy."
It isn't. Aged, yes. But not dirty. It smells faintly like him.
Inside: a thin sketchbook, expected. Charity mentioned that his habit of filling pages instead of speaking. The rest is minimal. Practical.
His résumé had already told me enough. Waiter. Barista. Virtual assistant. Construction worker. Bartender. A life stitched together by necessity. And beneath it all, a degree in Fine Arts finished, despite everything. When I opened his portfolio, I paused longer than I meant to. Surrealism. Abstract expressionism. Bold. Unsettling. Alive.
Potential, unmistakable.
"I'll help," I say, already gathering his things before he can object. Efficiency over courtesy. I want this done. The sooner we finish, the sooner he can do what he's here for. The sooner Charity benefits.
"Follow me."
I take the stairs first. Halfway up, the silence stretches and something prickles at the back of my neck. Awareness. The faint, irrational certainty of being watched. Not my face. Lower.
Ridiculous.
"You have a beautiful home, Patricia."
The words land differently than they should. I glance back. He meets my eyes without hesitation. It's not disrespectful, he has every right to use my name. Still, hearing it from him feels… off. Too familiar. Too close.
"Thank you…"
"Seven," he cuts in gently, catching the hesitation before I can hide it.
"…Seven."
I knocked twice on Charity's door. He was just standing beside me, leaving a noticeable distance between us. He didn't move, as if unsure of what he should or shouldn't do. I don't like boys who don't follow my lead.
"Charity, open the door—"
And then it opened. From her frowning face, her expression suddenly brightened, as if the most beautiful star had passed right in front of her, illuminating her gray eyes.
I crossed my arms and stepped aside as Charity came out and wrapped him in a tight embrace.
"Seven!"
Charity hugged him tightly while I watched them. His hands simply rested on her shoulders as he glanced at me. She looked at ease with him, and I trust my daughter enough to recognize that. Still, I don't trust the new boy, not yet.
She quickly let him inside, and just before shutting the door, Charity looked at me and said, "Mom, you don't have to knock anymore, okay? I've got food here. I already have everything I need. Thanks." Then she slammed the door.
There was nothing else I could do but walk closer, staring at my daughter's carnation-pink door before heading to the kitchen to get myself a drink. I poured a two-thousand-dollar wine into my goblet and took a sip while scrolling through my phone. Mike, one of my suitors, was once again insisting on coming over. He has been courting me for nine months and is a year older than I am. He earned a PhD in Business in Philadelphia and is now the founder of a strategic, tech-oriented company. I can say that we're both successful in life. We're quite a good match. And of course, he's handsome too.
But Charity doesn't like him. For her, Mike seems too good to be true. She told me to wait until at least a year has passed before fully getting to know him, and I respect that. I'm not really looking for a relationship anyway. I'm afraid I might lose interest, that I'll end up focusing solely on my career rather than my love life.
From: Mike
Can I come over? Please? I want to see you.
He sent that after I told him he needed to say "please" before asking me anything. I don't know why he still isn't used to me. I'm very particular and full of instructions.
Now that I've said yes, I suppose I'll just wait… and put on a performance once again.