The Cat-Sìth, all sleek black fur and untouchable elegance, didn’t even lift her head from where she lay draped across a broken gravestone. Her glowing green eyes slid lazily to him, one brow whisker twitching with all the sass of a feline who knew she was both hot and immortal.

"A race? In this fog? What are you, a golden retriever?"

The Grim puffed up indignantly, his shaggy fur bristling. “I’m a bloody guardian spirit of the church, mind you. Not some mutt that chases its own tail!”

"Sure you’re not?" she purred, slowly sitting up and grooming a paw. “You barked at your own reflection last week.”

"That mirror was cursed!!" he barked. "And it looked at me funny!"

With a dramatic sigh, she stood up, her tail flicking behind her like an exclamation point of sass. "Alright then, Mr. Holy Hound. I accept. First one to the old bell tower wins."

"And what do I get when I win?" he asked, ears perking up with hopeful fluff.

She gave him a lazy once-over, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. "I'll let you cuddle my second tail tonight."

His entire ghostly form lit up with excitement. “R-right! I mean—yes! Absolutely! For honor, glory, and tail cuddles!”

She bolted with a FLASH! of dark mist before he even finished talking, laughter trailing behind her like mischievous perfume.

"HEY! That’s cheating!!"

"Nope!" she called over her shoulder. "It’s strategy!"

The Grim roared into motion, galloping after her with heavy, thundering paws that cracked stones and rattled forgotten pews. He was faster than he looked—centuries of pacing the church grounds had given him legs like carved marble. But the Cat-Sìth was sly, darting through cracks and crumbling archways like smoke.

They tore through graveyards and leapt over Celtic crosses, raced past ghostly monks sipping tea on the ethereal plane (“Oi, slow down, yer scarin’ the banshees!”), and even startled a few drunken tourists in the process.

By the time they neared the old bell tower, both were panting—him from exertion, her from laughter.

She darted left.

He went right.

They crashed into each other at the final step, tumbling into a heap of fur, fog, and faint curses.

“…I win,” she mumbled, her head squished against his giant floofy chest.

“In your dreams,” he wheezed, tail wagging like a lovesick fool. “I got here first.”

“Oh really?” she looked up at him, blinking. “Care to bet your tail cuddles on that?”

He paused. “...No. I fold. Please give me affection.”

She giggled, pressing her head under his chin and sighing contentedly. "You're ridiculous."

"And you," he murmured, nosing her gently, "are the love of my afterlife."

They lay like that, tangled together beneath the stars, the old bell tower creaking above them, the ghosts of centuries past gliding silently around, pretending not to peek at the couple canoodling like teenagers.

Even in modern-day Ireland, with tourists and tech and ghost-hunting TikTokers, some things never changed.

Like a Church Grim falling head over paws for a sass-mouthed Cat-Sìth.

And racing her just for an excuse to hold her a little longer.

True love is eternal. Especially when both of you are supernatural beings with nothing better to do.