Chapter 6
Tobias
From the moment he stepped through my front doors and began moving through the house as though it already belonged to him as much as it did to me, I had recognized the inevitability of this outcome with a clarity that bordered on certainty.
Still, hearing him say it aloud—seeing the decision arrive in his posture, in the steadiness of his voice, in the way his gaze remained fixed not on the filtration arrays or the glass walls or the sweeping architecture of the collection, but on me—produced a distinct and unfamiliar warmth somewhere beneath my ribs.
“I’m pleased,” I replied.
It was not an adequate sentence.
It was, however, the most appropriate one available.
Cove laughed softly under his breath, as though he had expected something more elaborate in response, then turned back toward the tank nearest him with an expression that was already shifting from decision to curiosity again.
He stepped closer to the glass where the ray had passed moments earlier, lifting his hand again in that unconscious hovering gesture he seemed unable to prevent himself from making whenever he approached water.
“You’ll need to adjust the feeding schedules slightly if you’re running this many predator rotations through the upper levels,” he said, already thinking ahead, already inhabiting the role he had just agreed to accept as though it had been waiting for him.
“Otherwise, the activity spikes are going to stack.”
“They have been,” I said. “And please, feel free to make any changes you feel are necessary.”
Cove then turned again, moving deeper into the corridor of tanks, his steps slowing as his attention moved from one system to another with a familiarity that would have taken most professionals hours to develop.
He tracked the current direction without checking the pump placement.
He noticed shadow behavior in midwater schooling patterns.
He adjusted his path through the space as though he instinctively understood how the animals perceived motion beyond the glass.
I followed him, not because he required supervision, but because he was exuding such radiance that I felt I couldn’t stand to miss.
He paused beside the larger reef system midway down the corridor, leaning forward a bit to examine the branching structures near the back wall where circulation shifted subtly between zones.
“You’re running alternating gyre patterns here,” he hummed, smiling at the tank. “That’s why the coral extension is so even.”
He stepped sideways to observe the tank from another angle, pushing his hair back behind his ear absently as he adjusted his line of sight along the flow path.
“The return placement must be hidden behind the secondary rockwork,” he murmured.
“Yes, it is.”
“That’s clever.”
It was.
But the satisfaction I experienced hearing him say that was disproportionate to the statement itself.
We continued walking together through the wing, moving quietly enough that the rhythm of the pumps became almost indistinguishable from the sound of the ocean beyond the glass walls of the house itself.
Cove asked questions sporadically, showing how his thoughts moved through systems rather than around them.
“How long did the cycling take on this structure?”
“Longer than expected.”
“Did you seed it from wild substrate or cultured stock?”
“Both.”
He nodded once, approving, before stopping again beside one of the deeper systems where filtered light fell in long, shifting ribbons across the rock faces below.
“You must’ve spent a fortune on all of this,” he murmured.
I had, but the cost had been nothing more than a drop in a bucket for me.
“I spare no expense for the upkeep of my belongings,” I answered, almost adding that soon, that would apply to him as well.
He turned back toward me again then, and for the first time since accepting the position, there was something like uncertainty in his expression—not hesitation, but awareness.
“This is… a lot,” he said, biting the inside of his cheek. “How have you been maintaining everything?”
“I’ve hired different caretakers in the past. But as I mentioned, I dislike having strangers in my home, so when they were let go for one reason or another, the work fell on Ben and me.”
Cove cocked his head. “Ben helps you with them?”
I nodded. “Yes, but he’s not very knowledgeable about aquariums. We do what we can, but it’s not enough. We’ve kept all of my collection alive, but they’re not thriving as they should be. You will make them flourish, Cove.”
He looked at me for a moment after I said that, his expression caught somewhere between pride and disbelief, as though he hadn’t yet decided whether he was allowed to accept that kind of confidence from someone else.
“I hope so,” he said quietly, the sincerity in that statement reaching me as he turned back toward the next-closest system and stepped closer to the glass.
He knelt forward, bracing one hand against the edge of the cabinet beneath the tank while his eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting inside the enclosure. Most people never noticed the movement in that system unless it chose to present itself.
Cove did.
“How..?” he breathed, startled in a way that was unmistakably delighted rather than alarmed. “This is a ghost shark, right? I’m not hallucinating?”
“Do you like her?”
He turned to give me a bewildered look before going back to follow the movement of the creature’s long, tapering tail.
“I love her. I didn’t even know private collectors could get one,” he murmured.
“They usually can’t,” I answered bluntly, deeply enjoying his excitement.
The chimaera, or ghost shark, as Cove called it, drifted once more through the dim enclosure, its ribboned tail trailing behind it like a slow-moving thought, and Cove followed the motion with a focus so complete that he seemed briefly removed from the room altogether.
“You stabilized her pressure transition yourself?” he asked after a moment.
“Although I’d like to take credit for that—no. She’d already stabilized before she came into my care.”
“Still…”
He glanced back at me again—not politely impressed, not socially obligated to admire—but genuinely reassessing me, which I found most gratifying.
He rose slowly to his feet, still watching the tank as though reluctant to leave it behind.
“What else are you keeping in here?” he asked, voice near-dripping with anticipation.
I smiled and led him farther down the corridor.
The next enclosure occupied an entire recessed wall section, the lighting kept low and directional so that movement within the tank appeared only in fragments at first—curves slipping through shadow, disappearing behind rock structures designed to mimic submerged shelf terrain.
Cove stopped abruptly. “Sea snakes?”
One of them turned slowly in the water column, its body moving with a quiet elegance that made its lethality feel almost theoretical.
“They’re so calm,” he added softly, more to himself than to me. “But their venom is—”
“I’m aware.”
He looked back at me again, brows lifting faintly. “I figured you probably were. Do you have antivenom on hand?”
Only for you.
“Yes, I’ll show you the first aid station later so you’re familiar with it,” I said, recalling when my last caretaker was begging for it.
As long as he was good, Cove wouldn’t be suffering any…
accidents under my roof. Well, I suppose he could actually suffer from a genuine accident, in which he would be given whatever medical treatment necessary.
But he certainly wouldn’t be falling into the sea snakes’ tank like a handful of his clumsy predecessors.
“I also have antivenom for these,” I led, gesturing for Cove to follow me over to a large circular flow tank.
“Whoa…” he muttered, bypassing me to step up closer to the curved viewing surface.
Inside, pale-blue, translucent, cube-shaped bells drifted in slow suspension, their long, thread-like tentacles trailing behind them in the water.
“I feel like you should be on some sort of watch list,” Cove said jokingly, unaware of how correct he was. “But I also am sorta thrilled that I’ll be taking care of animals who could easily kill me.”
“Adrenaline junkie?” I asked, walking us over to the last tank I’d show him today.
Inside the enclosure, the flamboyant cuttlefish hovered just above the substrate, its body shifting through slow waves of color—gold to crimson to violet to white—each pulse traveling across its skin like thought made visible.
When Cove saw the creature, he practically wiggled, and his mouth that’d been open presumably to reply to my question forgot what it was doing and let out an exuberant squeal. I had to lift a hand to my mouth to stifle a chuckle.
“She’s incredible,” he sighed, looking at the animal in adoration. He lifted his index finger to give it a tiny, adorable wave. “Hello,” he called softly. “I love you.”
The cuttlefish changed color again, responding to him.
Watching him stand there—completely absorbed, completely unguarded, completely at ease inside a house most people found overwhelming—I experienced once again that same unfamiliar tightening beneath my ribs.
Yes.
This had been the correct decision.
Inviting him here had been the correct decision.
Allowing him to stay would be even better.
I looked at him for a few seconds longer than necessary before turning toward the corridor that led back into the main body of the house.
“There are still a few practical matters we should discuss,” I said. “Would you mind continuing this conversation somewhere more comfortable?”
He blinked a few times, like he was waking up from a dream, then nodded quickly. “Yeah. Sure.”