Summary:

The blackouts are getting worse.

They aren't dangerous, in the long run, just strange. Strange because they only ever happen when Shane is at home; never on the road, at the rink, or even when in public.

His blackouts only ever happen in his condo.

Shane doesn't even realize something is happening at first. He'll get home after practice or a game, exhausted, and the second the front door closes behind him something in his body loosens. A warmth spreads through him and his thoughts will go fuzzy at the edges. His inner omega will start purring low and smug in the back of his mind.

Nest, it says.

Once the thought hits, the urge becomes almost unbearable. He usually makes it to the bedroom before the rest hits. Shane will crawl into bed still half dressed, burrowing instinctively into the blankets, dragging pillows close against his chest while warmth floods his body in thick, heavy waves. His painfully organized nest will become messy, Shane digging around until the chaotic placements feels perfect.

And then—nothing. Absolutely nothing. Hours vanish, sometimes even entire evenings.