Chapter 6 #2
I led him out of the collection wing and back through the living space.
He followed closely behind me as we entered one of the sitting rooms overlooking the ocean, the space arranged with low furniture intentionally positioned toward the glass rather than toward one another, as though conversation here had always been meant to happen alongside the horizon rather than in isolation from it.
I gestured toward one of the chairs nearest the windows.
As he sat, I began, “For clarity, this position would not resemble your internship.”
He let out a small breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Yeah, that’s pretty clear.”
“The systems here operate continuously,” I continued.
“They require monitoring across multiple environments, multiple temperature gradients, and several feeding schedules that cannot be automated without compromising animal welfare. There are quarantine protocols, observation rotations, seasonal adjustments, equipment redundancy checks, and structural maintenance that must be performed on a recurring basis.”
As I spoke, I could see him mentally assembling the schedule.
“So, full-time,” he surmised.
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly, taking a steadying breath. “Okay.”
“I assumed that would be acceptable.”
“It is,” he said quickly. “It just means I wouldn’t be able to start right away.”
“I’m well aware. We will continue to make due until you’re able to begin.”
He looked relieved. “My internship runs another few weeks, and I can’t start here before that finishes.”
“That’s expected,” I told him, before moving on to the next subject. “You should also be aware that the compensation you receive here will reflect the scope of responsibility.”
His fingers twisted together in his lap. “Okay.”
I named the number.
He stared dumbfoundedly at me.
“No—” He then stopped, shook his head, and laughed under his breath in a way that suggested he thought I might be testing him. “That’s triple the salary I’d make if I stayed at the aquarium.”
“I’m not seeing the problem.”
“It’s just that… That’s just—”
I frowned. “Usually people like being paid more.”
“It’s not that I don’t,” he said quickly, his hands lifting in a small defensive motion before settling again in his lap, fingers still loosely tangled together like he hadn’t decided what to do with them yet. “It’s just… I didn’t expect something like that.”
“That number reflects the scale of the responsibility,” I replied. “Not your expectations.”
He watched me carefully when I said that, as though trying to determine whether there was something hidden beneath the statement that he had missed.
There was not.
“It also reflects the degree of discretion I require,” I added after a moment, thinking that could potentially help him understand. “I’m a very private person, Cove. And private people tend to pay more to ensure that privacy.”
“Oh,” he said quietly, nodding slowly to himself, seemingly absorbing that explanation. “I guess that makes sense.”
We sat for a moment after that, the ocean moving steadily beyond the glass while Cove adjusted, recalibrated, and reorganized the shape of his future around what I had just offered him.
He knew he’d be stupid to refuse.
Still looking out the window, he murmured, “I really am grateful for this.”
“I’m aware,” I answered, to which he smiled softly.
I continued before he could redirect the conversation elsewhere.
“There are several administrative steps that must be completed before your start date,” I said. “A background check will be required for security clearance, and you’ll also be issued credentials for the gate and internal access systems.”
“Okay.”
“And,” I continued, “you should begin considering which guest room you’d prefer.”
He froze, a look of confusion spreading across his features. “What..?”
“The guest rooms,” I repeated. “There are several available. You may choose whichever—”
“I can’t live here.”
The interruption came with such certainty that I stopped speaking.
For a moment I simply looked at him.
“You can.”
“I can’t,” he repeated, more quietly this time, though the conviction remained unchanged. “That’s a really kind offer, but there’s no way I can live here.”
“There is no expectation attached to it,” I told him. “It would make your work significantly easier.”
“I know,” he said. “I just… couldn’t. I mean, does Ben live here?”
“No—” I started, getting cut off by him.
“Then there’s no reason I can’t commute. Plus, you’ve already told me that you don’t like people being in your house.”
I felt urged to tell him that statement did not apply to him.
Instead, I sighed, “Right. Then I at least must insist that I handle your transportation.”
He hesitated this time—not rejecting the idea immediately, but ultimately shaking his head.
“I really appreciate that, but I’d rather handle getting here myself.”
“That will require a significant commute.”
“I don’t mind.”
“It will be inefficient.”
“I don’t mind inefficient,” he repeated with a chuckle, smiling in a way that suggested he understood exactly what I meant by the word and was choosing not to accept it anyway. “But there’s such a thing as work-life balance, isn’t there?”
No.
Both should be occurring here, where I can observe.
And yet, I gritted out, “Very well. We’ll proceed according to your preferences.”
Relief softened his posture.
“I can still come early some days if something’s going on with the systems,” he added quickly. “Or stay late if needed. I just don’t think I should live here.”
“You won’t be required to,” I assured him, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.
That seemed to settle the matter.
For now.
Cove looked back toward the ocean, his attention drifting outward through the glass the way it always drifted toward water when he needed space to think.
“Do you think I should wait for my supervisors to tell me I won’t be staying, or should I tell them that I’ll be leaving? And do I mention that I’ll be working for you? I’m not sure…”
The question greatly pleased me.
He wanted my advice.
Mine.
“I think,” I said, taking a breath, “that waiting would place you in a weaker position than necessary.”
He turned back from the window, giving me his full attention again as a glare from the water lit up his alabaster skin like a spotlight.
“You do?” he asked quietly, nibbling at his bottom lip.
“I do,” I replied.
“I was kind of expecting them to offer me something permanent,” he admitted after a second. “At the beginning of the internship, I mean. That was the impression everyone gave me.”
“That’s reasonable.”
“It just… stopped feeling like that after a while.”
He spoke the sentence with quiet restraint rather than resentment, but the distinction did not make the implication less clear.
“I don’t think anyone ever said I wasn’t being considered,” he continued, shoulders drooping.
“It was more like the conversations changed. Or stopped happening. I kept thinking maybe I was just reading too much into it, or maybe they were waiting until the end of the placement. But then people started saying stuff like ‘while you’re here’…
and well, yeah… That’s when I started thinking maybe I just didn’t fit in the way I thought I did,” he went on, his gaze drifting briefly back toward the horizon before returning to me again, a sense of aching loneliness in his expression.
“Like maybe it was a company culture thing. Or maybe I wasn’t what they were looking for long-term. ”
I grunted my disagreement.
He tilted his head, brows scrunched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Institutions frequently fail to recognize individual value until it has already left them.”
He looked vulnerable as he asked, “You really think I’m valuable?”
“Very much so,” I answered, locking eyes with him.
He held my gaze as he softly murmured, “Thank you.”
“There’s no need to thank me for being truthful.”
He smiled, the faintest pink dusting his cheeks.
I cleared my throat, pushing away the thoughts about how pink I could make him elsewhere, and went back to answer his original question. “I think it would be appropriate for you to speak with your supervisors directly rather than waiting for them to initiate the conversation.”
“Why?”
“Because it demonstrates intention,” I said.
“You are not leaving because you were overlooked. You are leaving because you accepted a position that better reflects your abilities. It also prevents them from assuming you remained available,” I added.
“Ambiguity benefits institutions more than it benefits individuals.”
“Okay…”
He leaned back in the chair then, running his thin fingers absently through his hair as though reorganizing the timeline in his head.
“I guess I should probably tell them soon then, right?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated again before continuing. “And… do I tell them I’ll be working here?”
That question required more consideration.
“You may,” I said. “Though it isn’t required.”
“I don’t want it to seem secretive.”
“It wouldn’t.”
“But it kind of is secretive,” he said, glancing around the room with a small smile that acknowledged the scale of the house without quite naming it again.
“The position itself isn’t,” I grinned.
His smile widened, eyes creasing at the corners as he laughed. “I just don’t want them thinking I disappeared or something.”
“That seems unlikely,” I said. “However, you may tell them you’ve accepted a private aquarist position if you prefer.”
“A private aquarist position,” he repeated thoughtfully.
“Yes.”
“That sounds kind of impressive.”
“It is.”
He looked at me again then, studying my face with the same careful curiosity he brought to the tanks earlier.
“I really didn’t know what I was going to do,” he admitted quietly. “When it started feeling like they weren’t going to keep me. So, thank you. Really.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
And I meant that.