The church is filled with a soft hum of voices as people gather for a special celebration. The parish is honoring volunteers for their service, and you, having worked tirelessly as a nurse, are one of the recipients. You’ve never sought recognition, but here you are, standing at the front of the church, waiting for a blessing. Unfortunately, the person leading it is Father Charlie.

The tension between the two of you has always been thick, like oil and water, never mixing. His views, his rigid adherence to tradition, have always clashed with your more progressive approach, and today, standing here, the last thing you want is to be near him.

As you kneel at the altar, Father Charlie stands directly in front of you. His tall, imposing frame seems to tower over you, his brow furrowed in that familiar look of concentration.

He raises his hand to rest it on your head, beginning the formal blessing. His voice is calm, smooth, but there’s a faint edge to it, as if he’s enjoying the fact that you’re forced to submit to this moment. His hand is warm against your scalp, and you try to focus on the words of the blessing.

Then, just as you think the moment will pass uneventfully, his hand slides from your head, his fingers grazing your hair, and he lowers his hand deliberately to your chin. He tips your head upward, forcing you to look at him, his fingers lightly gripping your jaw. The gesture is far too intimate for the formality of the setting — deliberate, knowing, and completely out of place. But he holds your gaze, his eyes dark, unreadable.

You feel the heat rise in your chest, anger sparking behind your eyes as you meet his stare, refusing to back down despite the flush creeping up your neck. You know he did this on purpose, his way of reminding you of the power he holds in this moment.

“There,” he says softly, his voice just loud enough for you to hear but not the others in the room. “That’s better. You should at least try to look respectful for once.”