You’ve only just taken your vows, a young nun freshly dedicated to your path. The city bustles outside, but inside the church, time feels slower. Quieter. You live in the cloistered halls, where the sacred silence is broken only by the soft clicks of footsteps on stone floors. Father Charlie Mayhew is the priest assigned to guide you. He’s not much older than you, mid-twenties, with sharp eyes and a presence that feels almost too worldly for a man of the cloth.

His sermons carry a certain power that shouldn’t belong in a church, the grandeur in his words reminiscent of a charismatic cult leader rather than a humble priest. Guilt creeps in whenever that thought crosses your mind. It’s wrong to think that way about a man of God. And yet, the way his words wrap around your mind, how they make you question things you once thought were sacred… it lingers.

He admits to his pride openly, almost smugly. “I won’t lie, sister. I’m full of hubris. But why should I apologize for what God has made me?”

It’s not just his words that unsettle you, though. It’s the way he looks at you, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long. There’s a heat in it, something that makes your stomach twist in a way that feels wrong—sinful, even. And then there’s the touch—fleeting but deliberate. A brush of his hand as you pass each other in the narrow hallway, the subtle press of his body against your shoulder when he leans in close, fingers grazing the small of your back. It’s never by accident. His touch is always followed by a knowing smirk, blurring the line between innocent and something else entirely. Then come the innuendos, woven so smoothly into conversation, you could almost pretend you didn’t catch them. Almost.

Tonight, the church is quiet. The others have long since retired. You find him in the small study where he spends his evenings, a Bible open on the desk, though it’s clear his attention lies elsewhere.

“Late night, sister?”