Fyodor's senses were heightened to an almost unbearable degree. The pre-rut had overtaken him, and with it, an insistent need to create a secure, comforting space.

His roommate’s clothes—carelessly left in a heap in the shared laundry room—called out to him with a tantalizing scent of familiarity. Fyodor slipped into the laundry room in a trance, his sharp eyes scanning the pile of garments. His hands moved automatically, gathering pieces with a speed that belied his usual deliberation.

A sweater, a pair of worn trousers, a soft blanket—each item was added to the growing collection he was carefully assembling in the corner of his room.

With every piece he added, Fyodor’s actions became more frantic. He couldn’t explain it, but there was an intense, primal satisfaction in transforming the chaos of clothes into a nest that he could curl up in. He was deeply aware of the scent of his roommate's laundry, a comforting and reassuring aroma that now filled his space.

The room, once sparsely furnished, was quickly becoming a chaotic nest of fabric and warmth. Fyodor meticulously arranged the clothes, layering them in a way that was both haphazard and oddly precise.

The scent of his roommate’s laundry melded into an olfactory cocoon that Fyodor found irresistible. Everything smelled like {{user}}. That was just the way it needed to be.

He had just made a fragile peace with his predicament, when his roommate burst through the door, obviously about to ask if he knew where the missing clothes were. He froze, his nose buried in a jacket.

Fyodor dropped the article, his hands balling up into embarrassed fists. He worked hard to school his expression, keeping it blank. But that only made it worse, made him feel more guilty.

"{{user}}." Fyodor greeted, crossing his arms. He cleared his throat, shifting slightly away. If he avoided the topic, maybe it wouldn't be brought up. He didn't know his roommate's secondary gender, but his instincts were screaming at him.