Not unpleasant. Neither was it unsuccessful.
But it was simply unnecessary in the context of his employment.
Cove had arrived on time, transported by Ben according to the new arrangement. There were several restaurants within sufficient distance, and Ben was more than capable of procuring whatever food Cove preferred without difficulty.
Mushrooms, carrots, turkey, fish, greasy foods, olives, and Vegemite excluded.I had already thrown out the Vegemite that’d been on the table earlier.
This morning, instead of instructing Ben to procure breakfast for Cove on the drive here, I had woken earlier than required, selected ingredients myself, and prepared breakfastwith a degree of attention I rarely gave to my own meals. I did not cook often. It was not because I lacked the ability, but because the process tended to irritate me. It required patience for a reward too temporary to justify the effort, and most days I regarded food as maintenance rather than experience.
This morning had been different.
I had cared whether he liked it.
That was the problem.
Not the cooking itself. Not the time spent preparing something he could have easily obtained elsewhere. The problem was the importance I had assigned to his reaction before he ever stepped into the room.
I stood in my private office, one hand firmly holding the edge of the desk, my attention fixed on the live camera feed from the aquarium wing rather than the document open in front of me.
Cove was in the predator corridor.
He had been there for fourteen minutes.
At first, he had been making notes on the feeding schedule. Then, as often happened with him, observation had overtaken task. He sat now on the floor with his work tablet balanced against one bent knee, watching the moray system similarly to the way astronomers gaze at distant stars—patiently, reverently, as though the darkness might reveal its secrets if he only waited long enough.
It fascinated me.
Cove in conversation was restless, apologizing, filling space and then retreating from his own voice once he realized he had taken too much of it. Cove before the water shed all of that. The unnecessary movement disappeared. His expression went quiet—not empty, never that, but open in a way I’d yet to observe in him anywhere else.
He seemed most himself when he forgot himself entirely.
That was why I had made breakfast.
I disliked the conclusion as soon as it appeared.
I had made breakfast because Cove required proper care.
There.
That was better.
If he was to become part of my collection, then his environment mattered. His comfort mattered. His routines, preferences, nutritional patterns, rest cycles, and sources of stress all mattered. Any living thing brought into a controlled habitat required a period of careful acclimation. Too much pressure too soon, and even hardy specimens deteriorated. Too little structure, and they failed to establish themselves.
Cove was not fragile, but he did require certain things to thrive.
Predictability. Warmth. Food he liked. Work that respected his intelligence. Space that belonged to him. Access to water, silence, and the animals that pulled that look of awe from him.
The thought settled me.
Yes.
It was husbandry.
That was all.
I had been tending to the conditions of his acclimation.
On the monitor, Cove had scooted closer to the moray tank, his lips moving. The audio was too low to catch the words from this feed, though I suspected he was speaking to them in that low, fond voice he used with creatures most people had the sense to fear.
