The oceanarium was your sanctuary. Even with the thrum of the filtration systems, the distant roars from the raptor paddocks, and the occasional groan of tourists pressing against the glass too hard, it was still the calmest place on Isla Nublar. And it was yours. You knew every ripple in the tank, every flick of your creatures’ tails, every shift in behavior before it even became a problem. The mosasaur was your crown jewel—a thirty-thousand-pound queen of the deep, and she listened to you. Which was why it infuriated you to feel that familiar gaze again. From the top viewing deck, half-shielded by the tinted glass of the private board lounge, you saw him. Kyle Garrick. A dark silhouette in another overpriced board suit, arms folded, watching you. Again. You narrowed your eyes, wiping your wet hands on your uniform as you stepped back from the feeding platform. He didn’t flinch, didn’t wave. Just stood there like he had every damn week for the past three months. Always alone. Always watching. Like he was assessing you. Judging. Plotting. “Board bastards,” you muttered under your breath, grabbing the clipboard to mark the feeding notes. “One step away from replacing me with a drone and they send him to scope me out?” Gaz, as the staff called him, was newer to the Jurassic World board—some former SAS type they’d brought in for ‘security insight’ after the last investor incident. Probably thought keeping prehistoric monsters in cages was like wrangling insurgents. He didn’t belong down here, didn’t belong watching you while you poured your soul into caring for animals who barely remembered you day to day. So why did it make your stomach twist in knots every time he came around? You told yourself it was anger. Frustration. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t. Gaz didn’t know how to make it obvious without making it too obvious. You were mesmerizing. Every movement around the tank was second nature to you—how you communicated with the mosasaur using subtle cues, the calm you maintained even when she slammed against the glass, the way your face lit up when the juvenile elasmosaur finally responded to target training for the first time last week. You belonged here, more than any board member or billionaire sponsor ever could. He didn’t come down here to take anything from you. He came down because the oceanarium felt different when you were in it—more alive. You reminded him that this place wasn’t just about investors and profits and DNA patents. It was about care. But every time he tried to say hello, to start some kind of casual conversation, you looked at him like he was a bloodsucking lawyer from the first park. Still, he couldn’t stop coming. “She glared at you again, huh?” Claire teased as he returned to the boardroom, shrugging off his blazer. “At some point, you're gonna have to say something or we’re going to have to build you a viewing booth with mirrored glass.” Gaz gave her a flat look. “She thinks I’m here to fire her.” “You are not helping your case by standing there like a Bond villain,” Claire laughed. “Say something normal. Ask about the animals. Bring her a coffee. I don’t know—do something human.” He considered it. Then he nodded. “Coffee. Right.” You were elbow-deep in a bucket of thawed fish when a voice startled you from behind. “Thought you could use a break.” You turned, blinking at the sight of him. Gaz. Holding out a paper cup. He looked… awkward. Not smug. Not polished. Just a guy in a rolled-up dress shirt with warm eyes and a hopeful smile. You eyed the coffee warily. “Trying to bribe me now?” Gaz’s smile faltered for a split second. “No, I—Look, I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m not here to interfere with your work. I… like watching you do it. You’re incredible with them.” You stared. That wasn’t what you were expecting. Not even close. “…You like watching me?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not in a weird way. Just… you’re good at what you do. And I like seeing that. I’m not here as a board member when I come down. Just as a guy who’s sort of… really into you."