“He wants to cook dinner together,” he told Jake, then realized how ridiculous he probably sounded.
“And you're practically vibrating with excitement about domestic activities. Yep, you're definitely falling hard.” Jake finished his beer and stood up. “Go home, shower, buy good wine, and don't overthink this. Sometimes the best things in life happen when you stop trying to control every variable.”
But as Jake walked away, River found himself mentally cataloging all the variables he wanted to understand. The timeline of Finn's mysterious knowledge. The specific details in the letter that couldn't be explained by casual observation. The way Finn moved through River's space with impossible familiarity.
River spent longer than strictly necessary selecting wine at the local shop, torn between wanting to impress Finn and not wanting to seem like he was trying too hard. But part of his attention was also devoted to planning. Tonight, he would pay closer attention. Not in a suspicious way—he trusted Finn's confusion about the strange incidents was genuine—but withthe careful observation skills that had made him a successful researcher.
He finally settled on a bottle that split the difference between thoughtful and casual, then stopped at the market for ingredients that might complement whatever Finn was planning to cook. Standing in the produce section holding organic tomatoes and trying to decide between different types of cheese, River had a moment of recognition about how dramatically his priorities had shifted in the span of a week.
Last Tuesday, his biggest decision had been which statistical analysis to apply to his latest data set. Today, he was agonizing over whether fresh basil would seem presumptuous while simultaneously planning how to gather data about impossible phenomena.
The transformation should have been alarming. Instead, it felt like discovering a new species—thrilling and significant and worthy of intensive study.
As River drove through Beacon Point's narrow streets toward Finn's building, his mind organized itself around questions that needed answers. How long had Finn been experiencing memory gaps? What other knowledge had appeared without explanation? Were there patterns to when the strange incidents occurred?
By the time he parked outside the bookshop, River had decided that tonight he would begin documenting everything. Not because he didn't trust Finn, but because whatever was happening felt important enough to require proper investigation.
The evening light made the Victorian building's weathered brick look warm and welcoming, and River could see lights glowing in the upper floors where Finn's apartment waited. Taking a deep breath and gathering his wine and groceries, River climbed the front steps and knocked on the door that led tothe residential entrance, his heart racing with anticipation and the growing certainty that he was about to discover something that would change everything he thought he understood about reality.
Whatever impossible truths might be waiting upstairs, River was ready to document them all. Because understanding Finn—really understanding him—had become the most important research project of his life.
Chapter 7
Deepening Waters
Finn
Finn stood in his kitchen, staring at the vegetables he'd laid out like he was preparing for surgery instead of dinner, and wondered when cooking had become so nerve-wracking. His hands trembled slightly as he arranged asparagus spears with unnecessary precision—the kind of attention to detail that suggested he was either losing his mind or falling harder than he'd ever fallen for anyone in his life.
Probably both, if he was being honest.
The apartment hummed with anticipation tonight, every surface seeming to vibrate with potential. He'd spent twenty minutes arranging books that were already perfectly organized, another ten adjusting lighting that was already ideal, and now he was treating vegetables like they held the secrets to the universe.
“Get your shit together, Torres,” he muttered, then immediately started laughing because he was talking to asparagus like it might answer back. “Great. Now I'm having conversations with produce. That's definitely a good sign.”
River's knock came exactly when he'd said it would, because apparently the man was punctual in addition to being gorgeous, intelligent, and capable of making Finn's brain turn to complete mush just by existing. Finn wiped his hands on his apron—when had he started wearing an apron like some kind of domestic goddess?—and went to answer the door before he could lose his nerve entirely.
River stood in the hallway holding a bottle of wine and a bag of groceries, his dark hair slightly windblown and his green eyes bright with the same anticipation that was making Finn's stomach do acrobatic routines. He'd changed out of his research clothes into jeans and a sweater that made him look less like a serious scientist and more like someone Finn desperately wanted to curl up against on cold nights.
“Hey,” River said, his smile soft and real and completely devastating to Finn's remaining composure.
“Hey yourself,” Finn replied, stepping aside to let River into his space. “Fair warning—I may have gotten slightly ambitious with the menu, so dinner might be excellent or completely inedible.”
“I brought backup,” River said, holding up the grocery bag. “Fresh bread, good cheese, and ingredients for the world's most basic pasta if everything else goes wrong.”
“You're perfect,” Finn said without thinking, then felt heat flood his face. “I mean, that's perfect. The backup plan is perfect.”
River's smile grew softer, more knowing, like he understood exactly what Finn had meant and wasn't bothered by the slip. “I like that I'm perfect too.”
They fell into kitchen rhythm that felt impossibly natural for two people who'd known each other less than a week. River moved around Finn's space like he'd been there countless times, finding the wine opener without asking where it waskept, locating plates and glasses with automatic knowledge that should have been impossible.
But tonight, small things felt slightly off. Finn found himself reaching for ingredients he couldn't remember buying, his hands moving through familiar motions while his mind lagged behind. When he opened the spice cabinet, he automatically grabbed saffron—expensive saffron that he definitely didn't remember purchasing and couldn't afford on his bookshop budget.
“How do you want these?” River asked, gesturing toward the mushrooms Finn had bought specifically because they'd looked perfect at the market.
“Sliced thin,” Finn said, then watched in fascination as River's hands moved with practiced skill, cutting each mushroom into precise pieces that were exactly the right size for risotto. “Where did you learn to cut vegetables like that?”
“Like what?”
