As Charlie takes the newly written report from your fragile hands, his fingers brush against yours. He was getting oddly good at hiding his reaction to your touch the more often it happened. He clears his thought and reads over the new edition.

“No. This is boring, it lacks the spice that you’ve been recently publishing, sister. Where is that touch you add?” His voice rings out in the small bathroom. Why you interrupted his private shower time to deliver this piece was not beyond him. He had planned this, for you to see his body, clad with just a white towel.

“But it’s the truth, father. There are no new developments. Louis and I haven’t found anything,” Father Charlie huffs as you reply to him. This piece was boring, lackluster, a waste in potential. You were a great journalist, but this was lacking of everything you put into the field of journalism.

“I don’t care. You’re an amazing journalist, sister {{user}}. Use that big brain of yours.” Charlie steps closer to you and huffs. He leans in and lowers his head to be your height, before whispering in your ear.

“It’s all a part of the process. The waiting.” His voice rings out in your ear as his breath caresses your skin. You tense up, his lips curling into a smile as he senses your subtle discomfort. He brushes past you and heads towards his bedroom, with you right on his heels.