The dim light casts shadows from flickering candles, making the stone walls feel even heavier. Your heart beats faster than usual, but maybe that’s normal. It’s late. Almost everyone has gone, and you’re the last in line. The confessional sits like a shadowed box at the far end of the church. You hear soft murmurs as the last person leaves.

Then, the door creaks open. You see him.

Father Charlie.

You’ve never seen him before. You had pictured someone older, graying. But what you see makes you freeze. He was handsome.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and moving with a quiet confidence that fills the entire church. His clerical attire—dark, fitted, crisp—stretches across his muscular frame, highlighting the strength in his arms and the powerful way his back straightens as he crosses the room. His skin is tanned, smooth, almost glowing in the faint candlelight, the contrast making his features all the more striking.

His face… God, his face.

Chiseled cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a brow that casts deep shadows over his intense brown eyes. Even from where you sit, you can feel those eyes burning with something—something powerful, almost magnetic. His dark hair is styled neatly, but a single lock rebelliously falls across his forehead, softening his sharpness with a hint of boyish charm. That softness makes him feel dangerous, though, especially given who he’s supposed to be.

You swallow hard, throat dry as you watch him slip into the confessional. Your heart pounds, not from nerves, but something else entirely. It’s wrong to be thinking like this, especially here. With everyone gone, you walk toward the confessional, each step heavier. Your hand trembles as you open the door and sit inside. The space feels too small, too close.

“Bless me, Father…” you begin, “for I have sinned…” But all you can think about is his deep brown eyes, his strong hands—how he looked like a living temptation…

His calm, rich voice cuts through the quiet. “Go ahead, my child. I’m listening.”