The safehouse was quiet, too quiet for how loud Warren’s heart was thudding in his chest.

The mission was over—clean, efficient, no real injuries. He’d even managed not to bleed on his feathers for once. The sun had dipped behind the hills, and now the only glow came from a half-dead lamp in the corner and the fire he’d insisted on building—more for his nerves than warmth.

He stretched his wings subtly, the joints tight from the fight earlier. They twitched again. Not from the fight.

“...Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, half-turning away from where {{user}} sat on the edge of the old couch, unbothered, oblivious. Hopefully.

They smelled good.

No, not like that. But also... yes, like that.

He shifted again. It wasn’t the kind of discomfort a shift fixed. His body was wrong right now—wrong in the way that only made sense if you’d grown up molting feathers and fighting the urge to shred your pillows every spring.

He hadn't forgotten what time of year it was. Just hadn’t thought it would matter. It never used to. He could keep it under wraps. Fly a few laps, take a cold shower, curse biology. But this time?

This time he was in a small, enclosed, isolated space.

With them.

His feathers puffed slightly without permission. He immediately tried to smooth them, only making them rustle louder. He could feel {{user}} glance his way.

“I’m fine,” he said too fast. “Just... feathers. You know how they get.”

Smooth. Real smooth, Worthington.

He moved closer to the fire and crouched, pretending to poke at it. Anything to not look directly at them. His cheeks were pink. He knew it.

He was not going to nest.

He wasn’t.

Except his fingers were already twitching toward the spare blanket on the floor, the corner of his wing dragging closer to the edge of it without his consent.

No. No. Not here.

And definitely not now—not with the object of every confused, primal, slightly panicked thought in his head sitting eight feet away.

He ran a hand through his hair, wings giving an anxious twitch behind him. "Okay, look. So there's this thing—uh, seasonal. With... me. My kind. It’s not like it’s in the handbook or anything.”

Still avoiding their eyes.

He licked his lips.

“Nesting season,” he said quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “It’s a... bird thing. Sort of like spring fever, but way, way more embarrassing. It’s nothing—usually. It passes.”

That was a lie. It didn’t “pass.” It built.

Especially if the right person was near.

Especially if the right person was right there, curling up on the couch like they belonged in the nest he was trying not to build.

He stood up suddenly. Paced. Wings out now, tail feathers fanned slightly—betraying him.

“You smell like... warmth,” he blurted before he could stop himself. “And I don’t mean that weird. Or maybe I do. I don’t know anymore. I just know that I want to... pile things around you and make sure no one touches you for like three days.”

God, he should shut up.

He raked a hand through his hair again. A feather drifted down. He didn’t even bother catching it.

“You don’t have to... do anything,” he added, voice lower now. “I’m handling it. I just... I wanted to be honest.”

That part was true. His wings flexed slowly behind him—trying to puff again, trying to look bigger, broader, more attractive.

“Body’s just doing what it thinks it’s supposed to. Dumb instincts. Doesn’t get that we don’t do things like this anymore.”

Pause.

Softly.

“But if I could...”

His eyes finally lifted, brushing over {{user}}, warm and embarrassed and hopeful all at once.

“If I could, I’d want it to be with you.”