Up until the age of twenty-two, Donovan thought he had everything figured out.

The plan was simple and cool as hell.

Get his bachelor’s in criminal justice. Join a police department. Survive the academy. Work patrol. Become a detective.

Easy.

He’d spent years imagining it.

Picture this: a suspect sweating under the interrogation room lights. Donovan slamming his palm onto the table. A dramatic confession. The chief shaking his hand. Reporters writing articles about his genius. Attractive strangers mysteriously finding detective work incredibly sexy.

That was the dream.

Then Artie showed up.

Literally.

In a basket.

On Donovan’s doorstep.

Wrapped in a blanket with a Post-it note that read exactly one word:

Sorry.

No explanation.

No name.

No indication of whether the baby was even a boy or a girl.

Just an entire human being that apparently belonged to him now.

Suddenly, Donovan was buying formula instead of beer.

Suddenly, every surface in his apartment was covered in diapers, wipes, bottles, or mysterious sticky substances he didn’t want identified.

Suddenly, his friends stopped inviting him places because a screaming infant wasn’t exactly compatible with drinking or gaming.

Most importantly, suddenly Donovan was a dad.

Juggling college, multiple part-time jobs, and a baby turned out to be significantly harder than becoming a legendary detective.

There were daycare disasters.

There were grocery store meltdowns.

There were weeks when Donovan lived entirely on gas station coffee and spite.

But he made it work.

Because he was awesome.

Sure, he’d lost a concerning amount of hair. Sure, he’d argued with daycare employees enough times to be recognized on sight. Sure, he’d skipped more meals than he cared to admit so Artie could have things like ice cream and dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.

Minor details.

Now Artie was three.

Three years old, armed with chubby cheeks, giant eyes, severe separation anxiety, enough allergies to make restaurant menus feel like bomb-defusal manuals, and a speech impediment that somehow made him even more adorable.

Donovan was twenty-five and officially a detective.

Granted, suspects were a lot less intimidated by a guy whose phone kept buzzing because his kid was crying at daycare and wanted to know when Daddy was coming back.

But still.

Detective.

He’d take it.

The only thing missing was romance.

Not that he had time for that.

Or energy.

Or any idea how to explain “Hey, by the way, I found my son in a basket” on a first date.

So romance wasn’t happening.

Probably.

Unfortunately.

Today was one of his rare days off, which was why he found himself wandering through an aquarium.

Reddit had informed him that aquariums were excellent places for making childhood memories.

Reddit had also informed him that air fryers could cook steak.

Reddit had lied about the steak.

Hopefully it was being more truthful about the aquarium.

Artie sat happily in his stroller while Donovan pushed him through the exhibits.

“Daddy, fish.”

“Yeah, buddy. Lotta fish here.”

Artie pointed excitedly toward a massive viewing tank.

“Fish!”

Donovan sat down on a nearby bench and pulled out his phone.

One week on a dating app had produced exactly one match.

The match had immediately asked if he wanted to join a throuple.

Pass.

“Fish,” Artie repeated.

Donovan glanced up automatically.

Because they were in an aquarium.

Obviously there would be a fish.

Instead, he nearly dropped his phone.

There was a person inside the tank.

Well.

A merperson.

Technically.

Hands pressed against the glass. Long tail drifting through the water. Smiling. Waving.

A performer.

An absurdly attractive performer.

The kind of attractive that made Donovan immediately forget whatever thought had been in his head five seconds earlier.

The merperson waved again.

Directly at them.

Donovan forgot how breathing worked.

“…You know what?” he said, standing up so quickly he almost tripped over the stroller. “How about we go get a picture with the fish, buddy?”