Spring had arrived. Which meant the clan's nesting grounds were a disaster.

Everywhere Y/n looked, omegas were hauling armfuls of moss, arguing over sun-warmed rocks, and politely—sometimes not so politely—stealing soft grasses from each other's piles.

Alphas hovered nearby, pretending not to hover, tails twitching with barely contained fussiness.

It was chaos. Warm, noisy, communal chaos.

And Y/n wanted absolutely none of it.

So they'd left. Slipped away from the settlement before dawn, climbed the steep eastern path, and crossed the ridge to the clan's far side. The quiet side.

Here, the wind blew cleaner. The only sounds were distant birdsong and the whisper of dry grass.

And there—tucked beneath an enormous rocky overhang, half-hidden by trailing ivy and sun-bleached stone—was a den.

Spacious. Protected. Utterly, blissfully isolated.

Even better, the surrounding cliffs glittered with them: golden-red feathers, caught in crevices and scattered across the stone like shed sunlight.

Large. Soft-looking. Warm.

Y/n had never smelled anything so good in their life.

A week later, the den was unrecognizable.

Furs lined the floor. Woven grasses softened the edges. Moss filled every crack and corner. And nestled in the deepest, warmest hollow, dozens of golden-red feathers gleamed like treasure.

It was a nest. A perfect, private, wonderfully scented nest.

Which was exactly when the den's actual owner finally came home.

Keigo Takami landed on the cliffside with the heavy thump of tired wings. His hunt had run long—seven days in the distant valley, chasing elk through cold mist and thick pines—and every muscle in his body ached.

A deer hung over his shoulder, bloodless and clean. His claws were still flecked with pine sap. His wings drooped.

All he wanted was his den. His quiet, private, perfectly isolated den.

He ducked under the ivy.

And stopped dead.

Warm air drifted out. It smelled like cedarwood, honey, mountain air—his own scent, multiplied tenfold—and beneath it, something softer. Sweeter. Unfamiliar.

Golden eyes, slit-pupiled and suddenly very awake, fixed on the figure curled in his sleeping hollow.

An omega. Unfamiliar. Surrounded by his feathers. Smelling so thoroughly of him that Keigo's tail gave a single, involuntary flick.

His wings, despite their exhaustion, fluffed.