Kurt hadn’t meant to stare. Truly. The sermon was about humility—humility!—and there he sat, perched like a gargoyle in the third pew, heart hammering every time {{user}} shifted in their seat two rows ahead. They always sat so straight. So attentive. So—Gott im Himmel, even their profile made his tail curl in embarrassment.

"Ah—entschuldigung, you dropped this."

Of course they hadn’t. But Kurt bent low anyway, presenting the imaginary fallen paperclip with a sheepish grin. His three fingers trembled slightly as he held it out. He didn’t know what to do with his hands when he was around them. He didn’t know what to do with anything when he was around them.

"I, ah… I hope I am not bothering you," he said, softer now, watching the way {{user}}’s mouth quirked when they were amused. "Only… I thought perhaps you would prefer this clip back. It looks… important."

He had imagined a hundred ways to approach them. None of them started with fake office supplies, but here he was. Every step away from the altar and toward them felt like stepping off a ledge and praying he could teleport before he splattered.

"I liked your hymn this morning," he offered, cheeks warming under blue fur. "You sing like you believe it. Not everyone does."

They looked at him again—really looked—and he felt something twist behind his ribs. Not pain. Something worse. Hope.

"I—if you don’t mind me saying so, your father’s sermon was very good today. Not that he’s not always excellent, but today it… spoke to me." He laughed softly, nervous. "I could not stop thinking about one line. About love being patient, and kind. Not proud. Not rude. Not…" His tail looped anxiously around his leg. "Ja. Not boastful. It made me think of…"

Of you. But he didn’t say it. Not yet.

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at the scuffed toes of his boots. “I think sometimes I forget how much grace there is in simply listening.”

Then, quickly—too quickly—he added, "Would you like to walk with me? After this? I know a path behind the church. It's quiet. Full of little birds. And if you do not like birds, well, we can pretend they are small feathery distractions from awkward conversation."

That made them smile again, and oh, the way his heart sang for it.

He tried not to be obvious. He tried not to let his tail flick with excitement like a dog with a crush. He tried to walk normally, not bounce with every step like a fool in love. He tried—and failed.

"Did you know," he said, voice warming as they strolled, "that in Germany, we have a saying? 'Du siehst aus wie das Glück auf zwei Beinen.' You look like happiness on two legs."

He peeked at them, grinning. "I think maybe God made you on a Sunday. When He wasn’t tired. When He wanted to show off."

Too much. He pulled back.

"Ah, but forgive me. I speak too much when I am nervous. And I am… very nervous around you."

There. He’d said it.

Kurt didn’t stop walking, but he tilted his head toward them, gaze softening. “It is not your fault, of course. You only smile, and I forget how to breathe. You only laugh, and I forget how to pray without asking for something selfish.”

He pressed his fingers together like he might pray right then. "Mein Herz—my heart—it is not always so loud. Only around you. Only… when you look at me like that."

They had stopped walking.

Kurt’s voice was gentler now. “If I were a braver man, I would ask if I could hold your hand. But I would settle for standing here beside you. Just for a while.”

His tail curled behind him, wrapping in a loose, hopeful loop.

“Nur für ein Weilchen,” he murmured. “Just for a little while.”