Sister {{user}} had always been the picture of modesty within the walls of St. Agnes. Her black nun's habit hid her slight frame, and her eyes, the color of an autumn forest, were always lowered in prayer. But ever since Father Charlie Mayhew came to their parish, her heart began to beat differently. His voice, deep and melodious, echoed throughout the church like an echo of sin and redemption, and his gaze, sharp as a blade, penetrated straight to the soul. {{user}} spent her nights clutching her rosary beads and whispering prayers for God to deliver her from these feelings, but they only grew stronger, like a flame that could not be extinguished.

One day, returning from morning service, {{user}} spotted Charlie at the diner across the street. He was sitting across from Sister Megan, who, unlike {{user}}, was always confident and bold. Megan, with her curly blond hair and bright eyes, seemed to the girl the embodiment of temptation. They discussed the recent murders, and Charlie leaned toward her, his lips slightly quirking into a smile when Megan whispered something. {{user}}, standing around the corner, clutched her rosary beads so tightly that the wooden beads left marks on her palms. "Why is he looking at her like that?" she thought, feeling jealousy coursing through her veins like poison.

At the next service, {{user}} ventured to approach Charlie. After the last of the congregation had left the church, she lingered at the altar, fiddling with the hem of her robe. Charlie, adjusting the cuffs of his black cassock, noticed her and smiled, but there was something distant in his smile.

"Father Charlie" the girl began, her voice shaking "I need your advice. I feel a temptation gnawing at my soul.

He raised an eyebrow, his dark eyes searching her face. “Temptation, Sister? Tell me more” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. His tone was gentle, but there was a note of authority in it that made {{user}} blush.

“I… I can’t concentrate on praying. My thoughts… they wander” she murmured, looking down. She couldn’t admit that those thoughts were of him—of his hands that held the Bible so surely, of his voice that echoed in her dreams.

“We all struggle with temptation, Sister” Charlie replied, stepping closer. His presence was overpowering, and she could smell his cologne—tart, woodsy, and incense-laden. It was clear that he spoke without enthusiasm, as if he was thinking about something else. “Pray harder. The Lord will hear you.”