A smaller shark lingered, hesitant to approach. Cove’s smile softened before he lowered the pole a fraction, coaxing rather than commanding, eyes bright when the animal finally accepted its piece of fish.
By my fifth visit, I’d captured his attention. First, a pause in his routine glance, then a second look that settled on me milliseconds too long. I remained perfectly still—hands behind my back, suit uncreased, expression neutral.
He wiped his hands on a terry towel, and I saw his eyes in full color—chlorine-streaked teal, neither purely blue nor green like I’d first thought, almost as if the shade changed in response to his environment.
It was magnificent.
I inclined my head in the faintest nod. He saw, but instead of returning the motion, he looked puzzled, then turned away and returned to his task.
That evening, I reviewed the aquarium’s donor records and quietly increased my contribution. Visibility, when wielded correctly, could be a powerful tool.
At my next visit, the director greeted me by name. “Mr. Kelly, lovely to have you here again!”
Cove froze mid-tilt beside the tide pool exhibit, one sleeve rolled to his elbow as he righted a crooked placard. His hand stilled, and a tiny crease formed between his brows. His assistant followed his gaze to me, amusement flickering across her face before she whispered something that sent a faint flush through his freckles. He glanced at me again—too fast, in my opinion—then turned away with a pinched expression.
Over the next week, his awareness continued to sharpen. He didn’t stare, but he watched every time I entered the gallery.
A typical prey animal might have hidden.
He did not.
That interested me most.
It was time to learn more, and people reveal themselves most freely online. A five-minute search turned up an active social media account. The hair in his profile photo—loose on sun-bleached rock, copper strands lifted by wind—and the freckles across his skin made my confirmation immediate.
His feed was private, sensibly so. To bypass this, I created a fake account for a young marine-photography enthusiast newly relocated to Queensland, posted a handful of reef shots and a dive-boat stock image, then sent him a follow request.
Twelve hours later, I was in.
His posts formed clear patterns with sunrise tide pools, jellyfish drifting in quarantine tanks, macro shots of coral polyps under blue LEDs, and fleeting glimpses of him. Never posing, always candid. Mid-laugh, looking at something the viewer couldn’t see, brushing hair from his forehead. He shared meals with earnest commentary—mountains of ramen, icedcoffees extravagantly decorated, and an obsession with “the best cinnamon roll in Brisbane.”
I bookmarked the bakery’s address.
His captions brimmed with genuine affection. There were detailed explanations of moray-eel feeding rituals, candid frustration at coral bleaching, and protective irritation when commenters misidentified species.
He cared deeply about the sea, with the intensity of someone who called it home.
Some days, he rose before dawn, jogging the mangrove-lined river path a block from his rented flat, paused at the cinnamon-roll bakery for coffee, then arrived at work with a to-go cup in hand.
He drank iced coffee like water and collected marine-themed hair clips as if they were trophies.
Cove had no idea how much of himself he’d already revealed. Most people never do.
Given enough observation, even the wariest creatures eventually drift close enough to the glass to be understood—and, if desired, captured.
2
Cove
He was hereagain.
I tried my best to ignore it, but quite honestly, it was fucking hard to ignore a supposed millionaire whackjob who wore full suits to an aquarium he had no business being at so often.
I would’ve called the police on him if he were anybody else.
Instead, I rinsed my hands in the quarantine sink for the third time and pretended I had a perfectly valid reason to be lurking in the back rooms for the last twenty minutes.
The quarantine wing always smelled sharper than the rest of the aquarium—salt and disinfectant and the metallic tang of filtration systems working overtime. It was quieter, too. No crowds, no children shrieking every time something swam past them, no one stopping me to ask stupid questions.
