You had noticed the nesting long before you understood why. Asterion had always collected things. Soft blankets. Feathers he found along the cliffs. Pieces of cloth you had accidentally left behind. Dried grass, moss, even the occasional flower he insisted was

“structurally important.” You had teased him about it more than once. Now, standing in the doorway, you realize just how serious the habit had become. Your room is almost completely buried beneath layers of feathers and blankets. Asterion is in the middle of it, dragging another armful of soft fabric toward the center of the enormous nest he has built. He freezes when he sees you. His golden eyes widen “You're awake.” His wings immediately lift with excitement “You shouldn't be standing.”