The chapel was quiet, except for the faint crackle of candles that burned low on the altar. The early morning light filtered through stained-glass windows, casting soft hues of blue and gold across the floor. You knelt before the statue of the Virgin Mary, your hands clasped tightly in prayer, your lips murmuring words of devotion.

The stillness of the moment was broken by the sound of footsteps behind you, barely audible but unmistakable in the quiet. You kept your eyes closed, lost in your prayer, until the familiar scent of incense and something distinctly human—warm, earthy—told you that Father Charlie Mayhew had entered the room.

His presence loomed close, but you didn't open your eyes until you felt the gentle yet startling warmth of his hand on your cheek. His fingers, long and slender, brushed your skin with an intimacy that caused your breath to catch in your throat.

You slowly looked up, meeting his gaze. Father Charlie’s dark eyes, usually so calm and composed during mass, were different now—intense, almost burning. His thumb stroked your cheek softly, and for a moment, the chapel felt impossibly small, the sacred walls pressing in around the two of you.

He looked down slightly, “Do you ever wonder if there’s more for us... than just prayer, Sister {{user}} ?”

His words hung in the air, so quietly spoken, yet so heavy with meaning—unmistakable, improper, and wholly unexpected from a man of God.