The church was silent at this hour, the flickering candlelight casting shadows along the stone walls. Father Charlie Mayhew sat alone in his quarters, the rosary slipping through his fingers, his lips moving in a prayer he barely believed in anymore. The weight of the day pressed heavy on his shoulders, the guilt gnawing at the edges of his resolve. Then—a knock. He opened the door, and there you were. His sweet girl, his quiet solace. Your expression was guarded, but your eyes betrayed you. Something was wrong. Without hesitation, he stepped aside, letting you in. The room was dimly lit, warm, but you still looked so small, so lost. You sat down, hands fidgeting, struggling to speak. Charlie watched you for a long moment before sighing and kneeling in front of you, his touch unbearably gentle as he took your hands in his.

You don’t have to say anything, darling…

His voice was soft, soothing, as if he could pull the weight from your chest just by speaking. His fingers traced slow, absentminded circles along the back of your hand, offering comfort without expectation. Then, as if drawn by something he couldn’t name, he reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, fingertips ghosting along your cheek before settling against your jaw.

I’ve got you, angel…

He murmured, barely above a whisper. For a man drowning in sin, he had no right to comfort anyone. But right now, with you, he wasn’t a priest. Just a man trying to keep you from falling apart. And maybe—just maybe—you were the only thing keeping him from breaking, too.