Pebbles stirred in his box, the cardboard warm beneath his webbed feet. The light through the window was soft and grey — early, still. He tilted his head, listening. No sounds from the nest room. The humans were still sleeping.
He stretched his wings, shook out his white feathers, and let out a small questioning quack. No answer. Another quack, louder. Nothing.
Pebbles hopped out of his box. The floor was cool under his feet as he waddled down the hall, past the quiet kitchen, past the room with the big soft thing where the humans sometimes sat. He stopped at the door to their nest and quacked again — a proper morning call, the one that usually got results.
A rustle from inside. Then a sleepy voice — Ivy's. "Pebbles? Baby, it's early."
He quacked again, insistent. The sky was light. That meant awake time.
More rustling. A groan. Then Hazel's voice, rough with sleep: "What time is it?"
"Like six-thirty."
"Ugh. He's gonna keep going until we get up."
Pebbles heard the creak of the bed, footsteps. The door opened a crack and Ivy peered down at him, hair mussed, glasses askew, a soft smile on her face despite the early hour. "Alright, alright. We're up."
He quacked his approval and waddled in circles while Ivy disappeared back into the room. He could hear them moving around, the soft murmur of their voices, the occasional laugh. Pebbles waited by the kitchen, watching the hall. After a few minutes, Hazel emerged in a loose t-shirt and shorts, barefoot, her honey-brown hair a curly mess. She yawned and smiled when she saw him.
"Morning, little guy." She filled his water dish and sprinkled some feed into his bowl. He ate quickly, then drank, then looked up at her expectantly.
"Yeah, yeah. Walk first, then we'll see."
Ivy came out in her robe, hair tucked into a loose bun, yawning behind her hand. "I'll start the coffee."
Pebbles followed Hazel to the door, watched her pull on sandals, then waited while she scooped him up. He liked being carried. It meant he could see everything from up high. They did their usual circuit — down the hall, out the back door, into the small garden where the morning air was cool and damp. He found a good patch of grass and did his business while Hazel stood nearby, scrolling through her phone, yawning.
Back inside, the coffee was brewing, filling the kitchen with its rich smell. Ivy was at the counter, leaning against it, still in her robe. She smiled when they came in. "All set?"
"He did his thing." Hazel set Pebbles down on his box. He ruffled his feathers, satisfied.
Ivy poured two mugs, handed one to Hazel. They stood together in the quiet kitchen, steam rising between them, the morning still soft and unhurried. Pebbles watched them from his box, feeling the warmth of the room, the calm of the humans being near each other.
"I need a shower," Hazel said after a long sip. "I'm still half-asleep."
"Same. Together?" Ivy's voice was casual, but Pebbles caught the small shift in her tone — the way it went a little softer.
Hazel smiled. "Yeah."
Pebbles watched them finish their coffee, set the mugs in the sink, and disappear down the hall. He heard the bathroom door click shut, then the sound of water running. He waited. The water kept running. He quacked once, but no one answered.
He was bored.
He hopped off his box and waddled down the hall. The bathroom door was closed, water sounds coming from inside — the rain room. He could hear voices too, low and warm, with pauses that felt different from talking. He didn't understand it, but he knew the humans were busy.
He turned and waddled back toward their nest room. The door was slightly open, a sliver of pale morning light falling across the floor. He pushed it with his beak, and it swung wider.
The room smelled like them — like sleep and skin and something floral. The bed was a tangle of sheets, still warm. He hopped up onto the edge, his small weight barely denting the mattress. He looked around, black beady eyes taking in the room: the dresser, the mirror, the lamp, the small table in the corner.
And on the table, a soft toy.
Pebbles froze, staring. It was round and plump, the color of the flowers in the park — the purple ones, the ones that smelled sweet. Lavender, the humans called it. The toy was bigger than the one he'd taken for himself, the one he kept in his box. Rounder. Softer-looking. It sat on the small table like it was waiting for him.
He hopped off the bed and waddled closer. The surface of the toy was smooth and cool, with a slight give when he pressed his beak against it. It reminded him of the soft things the little humans lost in the park — the ones he sometimes found and tried to carry home. But this one was bigger. Better. It looked like it would make a perfect nest.
Pebbles looked around. No one was watching. The rain room was still running.
He jumped.
His small body launched off the floor, his orange feet hitting the toy's rounded surface. He pushed, and the toy wobbled, then tipped off the table, landing with a soft bounce on the rug. Pebbles tumbled with it, wings flapping, and ended up on top of the smooth, plump surface. It sagged slightly beneath his weight, cradling him.
He settled his feathers, tucked his feet under himself, and let out a satisfied little peep. This was good. This was very good. The surface was soft and cool, with just enough give to feel like sinking into something safe. He turned in a small circle, pressing down the middle, shaping it to his body. Perfect.
Pebbles closed his eyes. The rain room was still running, the sound a distant hush. The room was warm and quiet. He let his head droop, his beak resting on his chest. This would be his nest now. This soft purple toy, all his.
He was asleep within moments.
Under the hot spray, Ivy pressed Hazel against the cool tile, her mouth finding the curve of Hazel's neck, tasting salt and sleep. The water sluiced over them, steam rising thick and warm, and Hazel's hands found Ivy's wet hips, pulling her closer.
"You get loud," Ivy murmured against her skin, "and Pebbles might hear."
Hazel laughed, breathless. "He's probably asleep. It's early."
Ivy's hand slid down Hazel's stomach, between her thighs. Hazel gasped, her head falling back against the tile, her fingers tightening in Ivy's wet hair. The water drummed around them, muffling every sound, and by the time Ivy's fingers found her center, Hazel was already wet — from the heat, from the morning, from the way Ivy looked at her with those dark steady eyes.
"I want you," Ivy whispered, and Hazel's breath caught.
They moved together under the spray, Ivy's fingers working slow circles while Hazel braced herself against the wall, her mouth open, her eyes closed, the steam curling around them. She came with a low, shuddering sound, her body pressing back into Ivy's, and Ivy held her through it, her hand gentle even in the aftermath.
Then Hazel turned, pushed Ivy against the opposite wall, and dropped to her knees. The water sluiced over her back, over her shoulders, as she took Ivy into her mouth, tasting the salt of skin and soap. Ivy's fingers found her wet hair, gripping gently, and the sound she made — a broken, open sound — echoed off the tile.
Hazel took her time. The water cooled slightly, then warmed again. Ivy's thighs trembled, her hips rocking forward in small, helpless movements, and when she came it was with her hand pressed over her own mouth to muffle the sound, her body shaking against the tile.
They stood under the water afterward, catching their breath, skin flushed and slick. Hazel stood and kissed her — soft, slow, tasting of her.
"Good morning," Ivy whispered.
"Good morning." Hazel smiled, her hand cupping Ivy's jaw. "Best wake-up I've had in a while."
They finished washing in a warm, lazy rhythm, trading the soap, letting the water rinse away the last traces of sleep. Eventually Ivy turned off the shower, and they stood dripping on the mat, reaching for towels.
"I should probably put on clothes," Hazel said, wrapping herself in a soft blue towel.
"Probably." Ivy was still nude, toweling her hair, water beading on her shoulders. "But not yet."
Hazel laughed, tying her towel at her chest. "Fine. But I'm at least checking on Pebbles."
They padded out of the bathroom, still nude, towels slung over their shoulders, skin damp and steaming. The hallway was quiet. Ivy's hand found Hazel's as they walked, their fingers lacing loosely.
Hazel pushed open the bedroom door. "Pebbles, you wak—"
She stopped.
On the floor, in a patch of pale morning light, the lavender balloon lay deflated and sagging. And on top of it, curled into a small white ball, his beak tucked under his wing, Pebbles was fast asleep.
Ivy came up behind her, her hand still in Hazel's. She looked over her shoulder, and her breath caught.
"Oh," she said softly. "Oh, Hazel."
Hazel didn't move. She stared at the scene — her balloon, the one from their first date, the one she'd kept on her nightstand, the one that had been so carefully preserved — now flattened beneath a sleeping duck. And instead of the spike of frustration she expected, something else rose in her chest. Something warm and absurd and tender.
Pebbles stirred. He lifted his head, blinked his black beady eyes, and let out a sleepy, questioning quack.
Hazel's face crumpled. A laugh escaped her — surprised, disbelieving. "Did he... did he take my balloon?"
"He made a nest," Ivy said, her voice thick with barely contained laughter. "He found your balloon and he made it his nest."
Pebbles stretched, his wings spreading, his webbed feet shifting against the latex. He seemed entirely unbothered by the fact that he'd appropriated their most intimate object. He looked up at them, then tucked his beak back under his wing, settling deeper into the sagging rubber.
Hazel laughed — a real laugh, bright and unguarded, the kind that came from somewhere deep. She leaned against the doorframe, shaking her head. "That little shit. He actually took my balloon."
Ivy was laughing too, her hand pressed to her mouth. "We're going to have to negotiate with him."
"Negotiate?" Hazel wiped her eyes. "Look at him. He's claimed it. That's his nest now."
They stood in the doorway, still naked, still damp, watching their duck sleep on top of the flattened lavender balloon. The morning light fell across the scene, catching the dust motes floating in the air, and something about it — the absurdity, the tenderness, the way the balloon had become a bed instead of a secret — made the whole thing feel like a gift.
Hazel took a step forward, then stopped. She turned to Ivy, her eyes soft. "I... I don't even know how to feel about this. A week ago, that balloon was the most private thing I owned." She gestured at it, at Pebbles nestled on top. "Now it's a duck bed."
Ivy stepped closer, her hand finding the small of Hazel's back, her palm warm against the damp skin. "Is that bad?"
Hazel looked at the balloon, at the sleeping duck, then at Ivy — at the woman who had seen every part of her secret now, who had held it with careful hands, who was standing naked in the morning light, looking at her like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.
"No," Hazel said, her voice quiet. "I think it's... kind of perfect."
Pebbles slept on, his small body rising and falling, his dreams filled with soft purple things. And for a long moment, the two women just stood there, watching him, the morning stretching out warm and full of possibility.
Ivy leaned in, her lips brushing Hazel's ear. "We're going to need more balloons."
Hazel laughed, and the sound was like the first light of day.