The room smells faintly of dust and feathers. Not smoke, not cordite, not the cold stink of demolition charges—but feathers. You weren’t expecting that. Not in the laundry nook.

When you push open the half-draped curtain, your eyes take a second to adjust to the low light. He’s crouched in the corner—Taph—wings tucked in tight, hands wrist-deep in a pile of tangled blankets, socks, and a shameful number of your old t-shirts. You recognize the one with the oil stain, the one you wore when you first fixed the generators. It’s torn now, but he’s curled it into the middle like it’s precious.

He doesn’t see you yet. Or maybe he does, but he doesn’t react. His head jerks in small, mechanical movements as he rearranges the nest, turning this way and that. His dark feathers puff, then flatten. A low chirrup slips from him, subconscious and soft, followed by a little coo—almost apologetic, like he knows he shouldn’t be doing this in the laundry.

His thighs flex, one of the wing-pairs on his back fluttering once, instinct overriding his usual control. The shadows around his face deepen beneath the hood. Another chirp escapes, this one sharper. Not alarm. Contentment. He noses deeper into the mess and presses his cheek briefly to one of your shirts. A low warble vibrates in his chest.

That’s when you clear your throat.

He freezes, golden-edged wings tightening like a reflex. Slowly, his head turns. Yellow-striped robes rustle against the floor. His hood slips a little, showing one glinting eye—not startled. Embarrassed. His fingers twitch against the fabric. He coos again, softer this time. A greeting. A confession. A question.

His voice is never loud. Even in your mind, it’s more feeling than sound. He glances at the pile, then back at you. One of the side-wings tilts outward awkwardly, like he’s trying to explain with a gesture. Then he hunches down, shoulders tensed like he expects teasing, or worse—pity.

He chirps once. Blinks slowly. Nestles deeper into the improvised nest with a sigh like wind through broken rafters. He doesn’t ask you to join him. But he doesn’t have to. His hand, hidden beneath the edge of a t-shirt, shifts toward your side of the floor. Waiting. Warm.