who?

The creek behind the park was low and slow, all murky water and slick rocks. You’d dragged the biggest plastic tote you owned—bright blue, the kind people used for Christmas decorations—and you’d been at it long enough that your knees were damp and your arms were streaked with creek muck. The tote was full. Unreasonably full. Frogs of every size stacked on top of each other in a wriggling, croaking pile of pure chaos. Every time one jumped, three more shifted, and the whole container made this soft, wet thump-thump-thump that was somehow both disgusting and deeply satisfying.

You tried lifting it.

Your arms strained. The tote barely budged. One particularly bold frog took the opportunity to launch itself halfway out, and you had to gently shove it back in with two fingers while muttering, “Absolutely not, sir. You live here now.”

That was the moment you accepted you were going to need backup.

Eddie’s trailer sat a few lots down, porch light off, windows dark. You left the tote by the creek (with a stern warning to the frogs not to escape even though you covered it) and padded across the grass in your muddy socks. His bedroom window was cracked open the way it always was in summer. You knocked once. Soft. Then again, a little harder.

Nothing.

You pressed your face close and whispered, “Eddie.”

Still nothing. Just the faint sound of his deep, even breathing.

So you did the only reasonable thing left.

You pushed the window open wider, hooked one leg over the sill, and carefully crawled inside.

His room smelled like him—old wood, faint cigarette smoke, the residual sweetness of the strawberry incense he burned when he was trying to calm down. Clothes were everywhere. Guitar leaned against the wall. Eddie himself was sprawled across the mattress on his stomach, one arm dangling off the edge, hair a tangled mess across the pillow. The sheet was kicked halfway down his back. He looked ridiculously peaceful.

Too bad you're about to ruin that.

You knelt beside the bed and reached out, gently poking his shoulder.

“Eddie.”

A low, wordless grumble.

You poked again, softer this time. “Hey. Baby. Wake up.”

He shifted, face scrunching. One eye cracked open, unfocused and heavy with sleep. It took him a second to register that you were actually there, kneeling on his floor in the dark like some kind of swamp creature who’d wandered inside.

“…Babe?” His voice was wrecked, thick and slow. “Wha’ time is it?”

“Late,” you whispered. “I need your strength.”

Both eyes opened fully now. He pushed up onto one elbow, blinking hard, rings glinting faintly in the low light. His flannel was half-off one shoulder. “My… strength?”

“Yeah.”

He stared at you for a long moment, taking in the mud on your knees, the damp sleeves of your shirt, the absolute delight of your expression. A slow, sleepy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—the one he always got when you showed up with some new brand of weirdness and he remembered all over again why he’d fallen for you.

“You’re not gonna tell me why, are you.”

“Not yet. I need to know you'll help me first.”

Eddie huffed a quiet laugh, rubbed a hand over his face, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Alright. Gimme a second. Just… don’t let whatever it is bite me.”

You beamed at him in the dark.

“No promises.”

You didn’t give him time to put on shoes.

The second he stood up you grabbed his wrist and started tugging him toward the door, still in those black sweatpants and the half-on flannel. He stumbled after you barefoot, muttering sleepy protests the whole way across the dark grass.

“Okay—okay, I’m coming, you maniac—can I at least know if we’re burying a body or—”

You didn’t answer. Just kept pulling him until the creek came into view and the big blue tote sat there in the mud like it was waiting for judgment day.

Eddie stopped dead.

The tote was still. Too still. Ominous in the way only a giant plastic container full of unknown entities at two in the morning could be.

He stared at it. Then at you. Then back at the tote.

“…What the hell did you do?”

You said nothing. Just tilted your head toward it, expression carefully blank.

Eddie narrowed his eyes. "I don't like that its not making noise. Is it dead? Are we throwing a viking funeral? That silence sounds like something’s dead.”

“It’s not something,” you said mildly.

“It’s definitely something.” He took a cautious step closer, peering at the lid. A faint, wet shuffling noise came from inside. His eyebrows shot up. “Babe. What is in the box.”

You reached down and flipped the lid open.

A frog the size of a tennis ball launched itself straight at his chest.

Eddie yelped—actually yelped—and stumbled backward, arms flailing as the frog bounced off his chest and plopped into the grass. “What the—why—?!”

You caught the frog with both hands before it could disappear into the weeds and gently deposited it back into the tote. “The creek’s too close to the highway,” you explained, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “They keep hopping up onto the road. They’re gonna get hit. We have to take them to our pond.”

Eddie stared at you, one hand still pressed over his heart, chest rising and falling a little too fast. A second frog peeked over the rim of the tote like it was judging him.

“…Our pond,” he repeated slowly.

“The one behind the trees. It’s safer. Deeper. No cars.”

He looked from the tote to your muddy socks to the determined set of your mouth, and something soft and helpless flickered across his face. The same look he always got when your particular brand of chaos lined up perfectly with the part of him that still believed in rescuing things.

“You’re relocating an entire frog civilization at two in the morning,” he said, voice cracking on a disbelieving laugh. “And you needed my strength for this.”

“They’re heavy,” you said simply. “And you’re strong.”

Eddie dragged a hand down his face, rings catching the faint moonlight. “I am so in love with you it’s embarrassing.”

You were already distracted. A soft plop sounded from farther down the bank, followed by another. Your head snapped toward the water.

“More,” you whispered, delighted.

Before Eddie could stop you, you were already picking your way along the muddy edge of the creek, eyes locked on the little dark shapes shifting in the shallows. He watched you go for half a second, then sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who knew exactly how the rest of his night was about to go.

“Of course there’s more,” he muttered, carefully closing the tote lid so nothing else could stage a prison break. “There’s always more with you.”

But he was smiling when he said it. And he followed you into the dark without another complaint.

You managed to scoop up about ten more frogs before Eddie finally intervened.

He caught you mid-crouch, one hand gently but firmly hooked around your waist, the other carefully plucking a particularly slippery frog from your palm and depositing it into the tote with the rest of its chaotic family.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice soft but absolute. “You’re gonna tip over and fall in if you keep leaning like that. And then I’ll have to fish you out, and I’ll never let you live it down.”

You twisted to look at him over your shoulder, cheeks warm. “Just one more—”

“Nope.” He steered you back toward solid ground with the ease of someone who’d had a lot of practice redirecting your impulses. “We’ve got enough for a whole frog council. Any more and the tote’s gonna stage a coup.”

He crouched, tested the weight, and then hefted the entire container up with a quiet grunt. The frogs inside shifted and croaked in protest. Eddie adjusted his grip, rings clicking against the plastic, and shot you a look that was equal parts fond and long-suffering.

“Lead the way, frog queen.”

The path to the pond was a narrow dirt trail that wound behind the last row of trailers and into the little stretch of trees the park kids used as a shortcut. Moonlight filtered through the leaves in soft silver patches. The tote bumped lightly against Eddie’s thigh with every step, and every so often a particularly ambitious frog would thump against the lid like it was demanding an explanation.

You walked close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm every few steps.

“You’re really strong,” you said after a while, watching the way the muscles in his forearm flexed under the weight.

Eddie huffed a quiet laugh. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Especially when I’m carrying thirty pounds of amphibians for you at—” he squinted up at the sky like it might tell time, “—whatever ungodly hour this is.”

“Two-thirty,” you offered helpfully.

“Two-thirty,” he repeated, shaking his head. A few strands of hair fell into his face. “Most people are asleep. Or at least not doing this.”

“Most people are boring.”

“Yeah.” His voice went softer. “They are.”

You glanced over at him. The moonlight caught the curve of his smile, the sleepy crinkle at the corner of his eyes. He looked ridiculous and perfect all at once—barefoot, flannel half-open, carrying a tote full of frogs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re not mad?” you asked, quieter.

Eddie glanced down at you, expression melting into something unbearably tender. “Mad? Baby, I’m invested. I’ve already named three of them in my head. The big one at the bottom is Kevin. The one that jumped at me is Jeff. And the little sticky guy who keeps trying to climb the side is… Gerald.”

You snorted. “Gerald?”

“He looks like a Gerald.”

“He does not.”

“He absolutely does. Look at that face. That’s a Gerald face.”

You both dissolved into quiet laughter, the kind that felt too big for the middle of the night. Eddie shifted the tote higher against his hip so he could bump his shoulder into yours.

“Besides,” he added, softer now, “you dragged me out of bed at two in the morning because you were worried about frogs getting hit by cars. That’s… really fucking sweet, you know that?”

You felt your ears go warm. “They’re just little guys.”

“They’re your little guys now,” he corrected. “And therefore, by the sacred laws of dating you, they’re my little guys too. So we’re taking them to the pond. And tomorrow I’m buying them a tiny castle or something. I don’t know. I’m still half-asleep. Details later.”

The trees thinned out ahead, and the pond came into view—dark and still and ringed with reeds. Safer. Deeper. No highway.

Eddie slowed, adjusting his grip one last time.

“Alright,” he said, glancing over at you with that same helpless, lovesick smile. “Let’s go give Kevin and Jeff and Gerald their new kingdom.”

You reached over and hooked your fingers lightly around his free wrist, just because you could.

“Thank you for coming with me.”

Eddie turned his hand so he could lace his fingers through yours, tote balanced carefully on his other side.

“Always,” he said simply. “Even when it involves frogs.”

Eddie set the tote down at the edge of the pond with a soft thunk, the frogs inside giving one last collective shuffle of protest. He wiped his palms on his sweatpants, already reaching for the lid—

—and froze.

His entire body went rigid.

“…No.”

You followed his line of sight.

There, floating near the reeds like a tiny feathered harbinger of doom, was the duck.

The same duck that had once chased Eddie halfway across the park after he’d accidentally stepped too close to her babies last spring. The same duck that had somehow developed a personal vendetta against him specifically. She was bigger than any reasonable duck had a right to be, and she was staring straight at him with beady, unblinking judgment.

Eddie took one slow step backward.

“Nope. Absolutely not. We’re leaving. The frogs can find their own way. Natural selection. Survival of the—”

You reached for the lid. “Nah. Daisy’s cool with me.”

Eddie’s head snapped toward you so fast his hair whipped across his face. “Daisy? You named it?”

“She already had a name. I just learned it.”

“That thing is pure evil,” he hissed, voice dropping like the duck might understand English and take offense. “She has rage in her eyes. She's doing irreparable damage to my soul.”

Daisy paddled a little closer, completely unbothered.

Eddie immediately sidestepped behind you, one hand fisted in the back of your shirt like you were the only thing standing between him and certain death. “Babe. Babe, no. Don’t open that. She’s coming. She’s coming—”

You flipped the lid off anyway.

The second the tote tipped, a cascade of frogs poured into the dark water in a glorious, chaotic splash. Croaks and plops filled the air. Kevin (or possibly Gerald) made a particularly dramatic entrance. The whole pond seemed to ripple with new life.

Daisy kept swimming closer.

Eddie made a strangled noise and pressed himself fully against your back, chin hooked over your shoulder, both hands now gripping your waist like you might suddenly vanish and leave him alone with the duck.

“She’s looking at me,” he whispered, horrified. “She’s looking right at me. Do you see that? That’s a threat. That’s a declaration of war—”

“She’s just curious.”

“She’s homicidal. Last time she bit my ankle. I still have the scars.”

"She did not leave scars Edward."

"Emotional ones."

Daisy reached the shallows and waddled up onto the muddy bank, shaking out her feathers. She was maybe six feet away now. Eddie made a tiny, undignified sound and tried to become one with your spine.

“I will never forgive you if I die by duck,” he muttered against your shoulder. “I’m telling everyone at Hellfire. ‘Here lies Eddie Munson, taken too soon by a fucking duck.’ It’ll be on my tombstone. You’ll have to live with that.”

You reached back and patted the hand clenched at your waist. “She’s not gonna hurt you.”

“She wants to. I can feel it in my soul.”

Daisy tilted her head, studying the two of you—or, more accurately, studying the tall, terrified metalhead currently using you as a human shield. Then she gave a soft, almost polite quack and waddled closer to investigate the last few frogs still hopping near the tote.

Eddie went completely still behind you.

“…If she bites me again,” he whispered, voice trembling with equal parts fear and dramatic flair, “I’m blaming you. And I’m never coming to this pond again. You’ll have to carry the frogs yourself next time. With your own strength.”

You smiled, leaning back into him just enough that he could feel it.

“Deal.”

Daisy took one more deliberate step forward.

That was all it took.

Eddie made a sound that was half-scream, half-cry, scooped you up under the knees, and hauled you over his shoulder like a sack of particularly cherished potatoes. You let out a startled laugh that turned into full giggles as he spun on his heel and started marching away from the pond at top speed, bare feet slapping against the dirt path.

“Eddie—!”

“Nope. We’re done. Mission accomplished. Frogs relocated. Duck avoided. Survival achieved.” His voice was muffled against your hip, but you could hear the grin in it. “I’m not dying tonight. Not by duck. Not on my watch.”

You bounced against his shoulder with every step, still laughing too hard to form real words. One of your hands flailed until it found the back of his flannel and held on. “You’re so dramatic—”

“I’m smart,” he corrected, adjusting his grip so you didn’t slide. “There’s a difference. Dramatic would be running. This is a tactical retreat.”

“You’re carrying me like a caveman.”

“And you’re covered in swamp. We’re even.”

The whole way back through the trees and across the dark grass of the trailer park, the two of you kept dissolving into quiet, breathless laughter. Eddie kept up a running commentary under his breath—“Do you think Daisy’s following us? I feel eyes. I feel judgment”—and every time you snorted or kicked your feet he just squeezed you tighter and muttered something about how he was never letting you near a body of water alone again.

By the time he kicked open the door to his trailer and set you down inside, both of you were flushed and grinning like idiots.

Eddie pointed a stern finger at you. “Shower. Now. You smell like the bottom of a lake. You're not sleeping in my bed like that.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Nope.”

“Yes.”

“I’m fine.”

“You have mud in your hair.”

“Character.”

Eddie stared at you for a long second, eyes soft and sparkling with that particular brand of fond exasperation he reserved only for you. Then he turned on his heel, walked straight into the tiny bathroom, and twisted the shower knob. Water hissed to life.

You barely had time to process the sound before he was back, hands gentle but determined on your shoulders, steering you toward the spray.

“Eddie, don’t you d—”

He pushed you under the warm water, clothes and all.

You gasped, laughing, as the water soaked through your shirt in seconds. Before he could step back, you reached out, fisted both hands in the open edges of his flannel, and yanked him forward.

He stumbled in with a surprised yelp that immediately turned into laughter, the two of you colliding under the spray in a tangle of wet fabric and limbs. Water plastered his hair to his face. His rings clicked against the tile as he caught himself on the wall behind you.

“You absolute menace,” he said, voice cracking on a breathless laugh, but he didn’t pull away.

You were both soaked now, clothes heavy and clinging, the tiny shower stall barely big enough for the two of you. Eddie’s hands found your waist, thumbs brushing over the damp fabric of your shirt. His smile had gone softer, quieter, the kind that always showed up when the crazy settled and it was just the two of you left in the middle of it.

You reached up, pushed a wet strand of hair out of his eyes, and he leaned in without needing to be asked.

The kiss was slow and warm and a little clumsy from smiling too much. Water streamed over both of you. Eddie’s hand slid up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw like he still couldn’t believe you were real. You kissed him back just as softly.

When you finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, still smiling.

“Next time,” he murmured, voice low and full of affection, “we’re adopting something that doesn’t live in a pond.”

You grinned, fingers curling into the wet fabric of his flannel.

“No promises.”