You noticed it first when the laundry went missing.

Not all the laundry. Just the warm stuff. The fleecy blanket you kept on the couch. Your old hoodie. The pile of mismatched socks that hadn't had a partner in months. One by one, they disappeared.

You didn't think much of it—until your flashlight beam caught the massive pile of pillows, towels, and yes, your favorite fuzzy blanket, stacked in the far corner of the basement.

And in the center of it all, curled up like a literal boulder, was Draal.

Fast asleep.

You stared.

He snored.

There was a shredded pillow stuck to one tusk and a pair of your socks draped across his massive shoulder like a scarf.

You gaped. “What… what is this?”

Draal opened one eye. Then the other. Then rumbled in a way that might have been embarrassment, if he were capable of it.

“…Tactical fortification,” he said slowly.

You blinked. “That’s a nest.”

“It is not a nest.”

“You made a nest. You even stole my hoodie.”

Draal sat up with a heavy grunt, feathers and pillow stuffing falling off his armor. He crossed his arms.

“Trolls are territorial creatures,” he grumbled. “And tactile. We require… comforts. Nesting is a defensive instinct rooted in ancient instinctual—"

"You nested, Draal."

Silence.

You crossed your arms. “Be honest. Did you steal my sweater because it smells like me?”

Draal didn’t meet your eyes. “You do not own the scent of… cinnamon.”

You nearly laughed. “So that’s a yes.”

He huffed and turned away, shifting a few towels to preserve the dignity of his... pile. “It is warm. And your scent is… calming. For alertness. Strategically advantageous.”

You stepped forward, crouched down next to the nest, and poked one of your missing socks. “You know, if you just asked, I’d probably give you one of the actual blankets from the linen closet. Maybe even one of the heated ones.”

He looked up at you then—really looked.

And in that moment, you realized: he wasn’t just hoarding for comfort.

He was making a safe space.

His kind of safe space.

His den, his watchtower. His weird, fuzzy, half-sock-laden dragon’s hoard.

His way of protecting you… and himself.

You smiled and nudged one of the blankets closer to him. “You can keep the hoodie, by the way. Looks better on you.”

He grunted. "Obviously."

“Just stop stealing my socks, man.”

“No promises.”