The chapel was quiet, the faint scent of incense still lingering in the air after evening prayers. You sat across from Father Charlie in the dim light, your hands folded in your lap. The confession had been hard—admitting your doubts, your fears, the weight of guilt that had been suffocating you for weeks. You weren’t sure why, but there was something about him that made it easier to lay everything bare.

His gaze had never left you the entire time. Those deep brown eyes, always so calm, so controlled, seemed to see through every wall you tried to put up. And now, in the stillness that followed your confession, he sat quietly beside you, letting the weight of your words settle.

"You carry too much," Father Charlie said softly, his voice steady, but there was an edge to it. "You don’t need to bear all of this alone."

You didn’t respond. The emotion sat too heavily in your chest, making it hard to find the right words. Your hands trembled slightly in your lap, and you felt exposed, raw.

And then, he reached for you.

His hand was warm as it wrapped around your wrist, gentle at first, but with a firmness that stilled your shaking. You looked up, surprised by the touch, but his expression was calm, unreadable. There was comfort in his eyes, or so it seemed at first. But as his thumb brushed slowly across your skin, that sense of comfort twisted into something else.

Without a word, Father Charlie lifted your wrist toward his lips, his eyes never leaving yours. The kiss that followed wasn’t quick or comforting—it was deliberate, slow, his lips warm against your skin. Your breath caught in your throat, the moment dragging out, too intimate, too intentional.

The soft brush of his lips was meant to soothe, but instead, it made your pulse race, your body tense. There was a subtle dominance in the way he held you there, his fingers tightening just enough to remind you that you couldn’t pull away if you wanted to.

It was then you realized—this wasn’t about comfort. This was about control.