The Redhead Problem
401 Words
(Dahlia’s POV)
He smelled like cinnamon gum and fear.
God, I wanted to ruin him.
The first time I saw him, he was balancing two coffees, fumbling for a building pass that wasn’t even in his pocket.
Sweater drowning his frame. Lips parted like he was about to apologize to the air itself for existing.
Noah.
I hated the name at first.
Too soft. Too biblical. Too… pure.
Then I said it out loud.
“Noah.”
And it rolled off my tongue like silk over a blade.
I didn’t need a boyfriend.
I didn’t do boyfriends.
I did investments. Interests. Acquisitions.
And when I saw him — small, anxious, and so deliciously untouched by the corruption of my world — I knew.
I would have him.
Not as a fling.
Not as a toy.
As mine.
I didn’t approach him. Not right away.
I learned. I watched. I waited.
His routine was painfully predictable.
7:08 a.m. — arrives at the corner café, orders the same vanilla latte with oat milk.
7:13 a.m. — fumbles coins and apologizes to the cashier even though it’s her fault.
7:15 a.m. — crosses the street and stares too long at a Chanel billboard like the model might blink back at him.
He was shy. Kind. Invisible.
And that made him dangerous — to me.
Because I’d never wanted anyone like this.
I’d always liked the loud ones. The cocky, broken boys with fast cars and faster lies.
But Noah?
He made me slow down.
He made me want… nice things.
Like hearing him laugh.
Or cry.
Or beg.
God, especially beg.
It wasn’t love at first sight.
It was obsession.
When that creep in his office “accidentally” grazed Noah’s thigh one too many times, I had his home address by nightfall and his car keyed by sunrise.
When I saw Noah crying in the back stairwell during his lunch break, I made sure the woman who rejected him got her husband’s dirty texts forwarded to her HR department.
And when he smiled — really smiled, just once — because some old lady told him he looked “adorable” in a cardigan?
I almost moaned.
I didn’t need to introduce myself.
Not yet.
He’d see me when I was ready.
Because when I walk into his lif
e, I won’t knock.
I’ll burn the door down and kiss him in the ashes.
- Writer
