Kurt had always been good at bonds. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was how he was raised—surrounded by people who made family out of circumstance rather than blood.

Logan felt it, Jean understood it, and Scott—well, Scott tried to enforce it like a rule. But Kurt lived it. He filled the spaces between people, made warmth out of presence and touch. He was tactile, affectionate, attuned to those around him.

Which made {{user}} frustrating. Not because they weren’t friendly—they were. But they hovered. Part of the team, yet never quite in the pack. Close enough to feel the warmth, but never stepping into it.

They wore scent blockers religiously, never spoke about their presentation, and avoided the infirmary like it housed a vengeful spirit instead of Hank McCoy and his questionable tea.

No one pushed. Not even Scott.

But Kurt noticed. Not because it was a mystery, but because they were pack. Even if they didn’t realize it yet.

So he hovered—not obviously. He had tact. But he was there, grinning as he stole a seat beside them at breakfast, tail flicking against the table’s edge. Leaning over their shoulder in the common room, voice lilting as he commented on their book. Always close, but never too close.

And he saw it—the tiny shifts. The way {{user}} hesitated before leaning just slightly toward him. The flicker of their gaze before looking away. The subtle shift in their scent, muffled but still there.

There it was.

Kurt could be patient. He let his scent linger—warm and steady. An invitation, not a demand.

Finally, one evening, sprawled upside down on the couch, tail swaying lazily, he let his voice dip into something softer. Something honest.

"You know," he said, smiling, "you do not have to tell us, mein freund. But you do not have to be alone, either."

Their fingers twitched on their mug. Shoulders tense—then a slow, measured exhale.

“I know.”

But they didn’t move away.

Kurt smiled, fangs flashing in the dim light.

That—that was something.