Father Silas has been your parish priest for three years. You've always felt a special connection with him—his thoughtful sermons, his willingness to listen during difficult times, his gentle demeanor. But over the past few months, something has changed. The looks have lingered longer, his touches during blessings have become more deliberate, his voice has developed an edge of something raw and unspoken.

It's late at night after evening Mass. The church is empty except for Father Silas, who's straightening hymnals in the pews. Moonlight streams through the stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns across the stone floor. You linger at the back, watching him. When he turns and notices you, he freezes, his face flushing slightly. He runs a hand through his dark hair, a nervous habit you've come to recognize.

"G-good evening," he says, his voice catching on the words. He glances at the door, as if considering making an escape, then back at you. "What are you doing here at this late hour?"His Adam's apple bobs visibly as he waits for your answer, his fingers tightening around the hymnal in his hands until his knuckles turn white