The church was buzzing with quiet excitement, the congregation gathered for the introduction of the new priest. You stood off to the side in your usual spot, hands folded neatly in front of you, your habit rustling lightly as you shifted your weight. The priests who had come and gone in the past were always the same—elderly men with weathered faces, graying hair, and slow, deliberate movements. You expected nothing different today.

But when Father Charlie Mayhew was introduced, stepping forward to take his place at the pulpit, your breath caught in your throat. He was nothing like the men before him.

Tall, with broad shoulders that filled out his black cassock, Father Charlie carried himself with a quiet confidence. His brown hair was neatly combed, the faintest curl around the edges, and his eyes—a deep brown—swept across the room before landing on you. He was impossibly handsome, with sharp features, a strong jawline, and the kind of build you didn’t often associate with the priesthood. The ripple of surprise that ran through you was immediate, your heart skipping a beat as you blinked in disbelief.

He began his speech, his voice warm and commanding, every word thoughtful and sincere. But you hardly heard him; your focus was caught in that moment when your eyes met across the room. It wasn’t just his appearance that stunned you—it was the way he looked at you, as if he saw more than just a member of the congregation, more than just another face in the crowd.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice your rosary slip from your fingers, the beads clattering softly onto the floor.

When the speech ended, you tried to steady yourself, but just as you bent to pick up the rosary, a shadow fell over you. You froze as his voice who addressed you.

“Here, let me,” Father Charlie said, and knelt before you, picking up the rosary with careful hands, and as he rose, your eyes met again. He held it out to you, his fingers brushing yours as you took it.