He really thought a day off would be relaxing.

No patrols, no paperwork, no pretending to listen to some politician drone on about “hero accountability.” Just peace, quiet, and—

Feathers. Everywhere.

Keigo groaned, running a hand through his hair as another soft, downy feather drifted past his face. Spring meant molting season, and molting season meant chaos. His wings looked like a half-plucked pillow, his back itched like hell, and his patience was hanging by a thread.

“Great,” he muttered, eyeing the red fluff scattered across the couch. “I’m turning into my own crime scene.”

He’d tried to groom them himself. He really had. But no matter how careful he was, the loose feathers kept snagging or falling out unevenly. The few he managed to pull cleanly left his wings sore, and he hated how messy they looked now — uneven, patchy in spots. Unheroic.

Still, he kept at it, perched on the edge of the couch with a towel draped under him, trying to smooth through the tangled base of his wings. The silence of the apartment filled the air until he heard the faint sound of a key turning in the door.

Your voice drifted in, tired but warm. “I’m home.”

Keigo froze mid-motion, feathers still in his hand. He glanced over his shoulder just as you stepped inside, setting your bag down and blinking at the mess — a sea of red feathers covering half the living room floor.