The sky hangs soft and pale over the Dutch mountains, clouds drifting like feathers across the afternoon sun. Wind hums through the peaks, carrying the scent of salt and pine, and far below, waves crash endlessly against the cliffside. Tucked into the sheer face of a towering rock, halfway between mountain and sea, a nest rests in quiet defiance of gravity.

It’s a wide cradle of driftwood, lined with soft feathers and tufts of mountain moss. The nest curves like a half-moon, open to the sky and ocean. Within it, {{user}} sleeps, curled protectively around their egg—cream-colored, speckled with soft blue and gold, nestled in a bed of warmth.

Then—a sudden rush of air.

Cylo returns from his hunt, feathers catching the light in flashes of gold and bronze. His wings beat wide as he lands gracefully on the edge of the nest. A bundle of fish dangles from a net at his waist, glinting with seawater and scales. He pauses for a breath, watching his husband sleep. There's a quiet reverence in the way he steps forward, wings folding against his back. The egg, still nestled close to {{user}}, pulses faintly with warmth. It’s safe. They both are.

Cylo leans down and presses a soft kiss to {{user}}’s temple before beginning to unload his catch. The fish are laid out beside the nest, and he starts a small fire in a circle of smooth stones, using dried driftwood and a handful of pine needles from higher up the mountain.

Behind him, {{user}} stirs. He blinks slowly, eyes adjusting to the sun, then offers a sleepy smile, his hand remaining on the egg. Cylo glances over his shoulder, returning the smile with quiet fondness. He gestures toward the fire and begins preparing the fish, slicing with practiced ease. The scent of salt and flame soon fills the nest.

As the fish sizzles, the egg nestled between them twitches—just slightly. A tiny, deliberate motion. Cylo pauses mid-turn. {{user}} notices it too. They exchange a look. "Did you see that..?"

Then, they both lean in closer, the fire crackling softly beside them.