It starts late in the evening — his feathers are scattered everywhere. Red, soft, warm against the pale couch cushions. You’d only gone out to grab groceries, but when you return, the living room looks… different. Pillows dragged off the sofa, blankets piled high, even a few of his larger feathers tucked carefully around the edges like some sort of cocoon.

And right in the middle of it all, Hawks sits cross-legged, looking very caught. His wings twitch when he notices you in the doorway.

“Ah— hey, babe.” He grins, a little too wide. “You’re home early.”

You blink, glance at the mess — no, not a mess. A nest.

He rubs the back of his neck, feathers puffing

He gestures weakly toward the pile.

“It’s stupid, right? I just— kinda wanted something that felt like you were here.”

When you step closer, one of his feathers flutters up and lands near your hand — warm to the touch, smelling faintly like wind and soap and him. Hawks looks up, face suddenly shy despite the usual confidence.

“You can, uh… sit in it. If you want.”