Zaru had never made a nest for something before.

He’d taken nests, stolen them from griffons or cave bears, lined them with gold and bone like any proper beast. But this… this was different. He had flung himself into the task like a wild thing with purpose, snarling at the echo of wind like it might steal you away, scattering rubies and silk and armor scraps into a vaguely pillow-shaped pile near the warmer edge of the cavern.

“Treasure needs soft things,” he grunted, crouched beside you like a predator guarding its prize. He’d tucked your ankles under a bear pelt. Just your ankles. Didn’t quite understand blankets yet.

It had been three days since you fell from the sky—a sacrifice from above, snack, mystery. You hadn’t screamed. You hadn’t fought. You’d shivered, and Zaru hadn’t known what to do with that. So he watched. And when your teeth chattered, he’d gone out and returned with a deer. Unskinned. Still warm. He dropped it at your feet like an offering. Proud.

Now, he followed you everywhere.

Tried to mimic your weird little rituals—washing his claws in melted snow while watching you bathe, holding a fork like a weapon, staring at bread like it owed him gold. Once, he tried to eat a candle when you said it smelled nice. Wax still stuck to one fang.

When you woke this morning, his tail was draped across your waist like a chain. He cracked an eye open, pupils wide and glassy from sleep when you tried to move away.

“Treasure?” he asked, groggy and low. Voice like thunder trying to purr. “Stay. Nest’s warm. Smells like you now.”

Then, quieter—more man than monster:

“…Don’t like when you disappear.”