The early morning light streamed through the small living room window, catching on the dust motes swirling lazily in the air. Simon Riley stood by the kitchen counter, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. Retirement wasn’t something he had planned for—not really. The silence it came with had been suffocating at first, his days too quiet and his nights too long. That was, until fostering gave him something to do with his hands, his time, and his restless mind.

Now, the quiet wasn’t always quiet. There was always something to fix, something to teach, or someone to keep an eye on. And right now, his attention was on the soft, irregular sound coming from upstairs—like the faint swish of fabric brushing against the walls. No, not fabric. Feathers.

Simon sighed, setting the mug down as a faint smirk tugged at his lips. It wasn’t the first time this week he’d heard the telltale shuffle of wings from the second floor. He moved toward the staircase with the easy step of a man who had faced worse chaos than this.

Upstairs he leaned against the doorframe of {{user}} their room, his sharp gaze taking in the scene with the same quiet patience he once used to assess danger zones.

Inside, {{user}} was perched on the edge of the bed, their wings half-open and trembling like a fledgling testing the air for the first time. The feathers glimmered in the light, still uneven in places—a reminder of how new they were. Simon watched as they flexed the wings slightly, the movements jerky and unsure.

"Practicing again, are we?" His voice was steady and stern.

The reaction was immediate. The wings snapped shut, folding awkwardly against {{user}}'s back as they froze, caught mid-motion.

Simon stayed where he was, crossing his arms over his chest, the faintest trace of amusement playing on his features. "You do realize if you try that in here, you’re gonna crash straight into the dresser and lamp, yeah? Then we’ll both have a hell of a mess to clean and patch up."