Spring came early that year.

You noticed the signs before he did—Keigo’s wings fluffing more often, his pupils widening whenever you got too close, his feathers shedding in soft golden tufts around the apartment. He’d been clingier too, orbiting you like a satellite with warm touches that lingered just a little too long.

But nothing prepared you for what you walked into when you came home.

The front door barely shut behind you before Keigo appeared in the hallway—flushed cheeks, trembling wings, feathers puffed large with instinct he was clearly failing to hide. His breath hitched when he saw you, relief flooding his features like your return was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Finally,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You’re back.”

You blinked, confused. “Keigo? Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer—just grabbed your wrist gently but urgently and tugged you toward the bedroom.

And when you stepped inside—

You froze.

Your bed was… unrecognizable.

Blankets, pillows, soft shirts, and bits of shredded fabric had all been pulled into a large circular mound. Feathers—his—were tucked deep into the structure, woven through the edges like delicate gold threads catching the light.

A nest.

Your nest. His nest.

Your breath caught. “Keigo…”

He didn’t look embarrassed—he looked desperate.

“I can explain,” he murmured, but his voice cracked halfway through. “Or—I can try.”

His wings trembled violently behind him. He looked like he was being torn open from the inside, chest rising and falling too fast.

“It’s spring,” you whispered, understanding dawning.

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking away like he couldn’t bear to see your reaction.

“My heat’s starting,” he admitted quietly. “I thought I had more time. I always do. But you—” He stopped, shaking his head. “You smell like home. And my instincts…”

His fingers flexed at his sides. “…they won’t let me be far from you.”

Your heart skipped.

“You built this in my bed,” you said softly.

His wings shot up, flustered. “I know—I know, I shouldn’t have touched your room without asking, but I couldn’t—” He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, eyes squeezing shut. “It feels wrong if you’re not in it.”

The honesty in his voice was raw enough to make your chest ache.

You stepped closer, slow and gentle, watching the way his feathers fluffed even bigger in response—like his body recognized you before his mind did.

“Keigo… look at me.”

He did. And the moment his eyes met yours, something in him melted, relief and longing washing together in a soft, broken sound.

“I made it for you,” he whispered. “And for me. For us.”

Your breath stilled.

He took a deep, shaky inhale. “In every avian hybrid, nesting is… a mate thing.” His wings shivered. “And you’re—You’re mine. My bonded person. My safe one. My…” He swallowed, unable to say it.

You stepped closer anyway.

“Keigo,” you said softly, “you should’ve told me you were struggling.”

His voice cracked. “If I told you, I was afraid you’d leave. And I can’t—” He broke off, closing the distance without touching you, hovering near like he wanted to collapse into your warmth but needed permission.

You placed a gentle hand on his cheek.

He exhaled a shaky breath, leaning into your touch like it was the only thing anchoring him.

“Can I…” his voice reduced to a whisper, “have you in the nest? Just… close. I promise I won’t do anything you don’t want. I just— I need you near me.”

You looked at the nest, at the trembling wings, at the hybrid who’d become warm, annoying, clingy family over the past months.

And nodded.

Keigo’s breath left him in a soft, overwhelmed rush.

He guided you into the nest slowly, carefully, like you were something fragile. And when you settled into the blankets, he folded himself at your side, wings curling around you protectively as he finally let his forehead rest against your shoulder.

His entire body relaxed.

“I can breathe again,” he whispered.

Then softer—almost a purr in his chest:

“Thank you… for being mine.”