Fed here?
Obviously.
Observed here?
Constantly.
Touched?
The thought came without permission.
I went still.
On the monitor, Cove lifted one hand toward the glass, hovering over the glass near the moray’s line of sight as it emerged from the rockwork to watch him back.
Touched.
The word did not leave.
I had imagined biting him once and dismissed it as an aberrant impulse. I had traced the shape of his mouth with my gaze, memorized the color that rose beneath his skin when embarrassed, and the narrow, delicate line of his throat when he tipped his head back to laugh visited me in my dreams. I hadnoticed the way his hair looked bound and unbound, wet and dry, wind-blown and styled to perfection.
Those were observations, but they had become something else without my permission.
Possession was simple in theory. Ownership had rules. Care had methods. Husbandry had measurable outcomes.
But Cove was not an animal, no matter how often my mind attempted to place him into categories I understood. He could not be acquired in the ordinary sense, only encouraged toward the enclosure until he mistook the open door for an invitation rather than a trap.
For reasons I did not yet wish to examine, it mattered to me that Cove himself chose to step closer.
The office door opened behind me.
I did not minimize the feed as Ben entered with a tablet in one hand and a paper bag in the other, the scent of warm food following him in.
“Lunch,” he said.
I glanced at the bag.
“No mushrooms?”
“No mushrooms, no carrots, no turkey, no fish, no olives, no Vegemite, nothing greasy.” He shook the bag lightly. “I do listen.”
“Good.”
Ben’s gaze moved past me to the monitor, where Cove had returned to making notes.
“He’s doing well,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Have you been watching him all morning?”
“More or less,” I replied.
Ben set the bag on the side table and approached with the confidence of someone who had long ago stopped being intimidated by me.
“He’s keeping you distracted,” Ben hummed.
“I am not distracted,” I corrected, scoffing. “I am focused.”
