“Like you actually know what you're doing instead of just hacking away and hoping for the best.”
River paused, a slight frown crossing his face. “I'm not sure, actually. I don't remember learning knife skills, but my hands seem to know what they're doing.”
The familiar chill of recognition ran down Finn's spine. More mysterious knowledge, more evidence that both of them were experiencing things that defied rational explanation. But tonight, he didn't want to analyze or worry or question. Tonight, he wanted to cook dinner with a man who made him feel like himself for the first time in months.
“Join the club,” Finn said, stirring the risotto that was somehow turning out perfectly despite him having no clear memory of learning the technique. “Apparently we're both developing skills we didn't know we had.”
As he stirred, Finn felt a strange moment of displacement—like he was watching himself from outside his body. His hand moved the spoon in slow, practiced circles while he added stock in careful increments, but part of his mind seemed to be somewhere else entirely. Somewhere with the sound of water and the smell of salt air.
“You okay?” River asked, his voice cutting through the odd sensation.
Finn blinked, finding himself back in his kitchen with River looking at him with concern. “Yeah, sorry. Just zoned out for a second.”
They cooked together with the kind of easy collaboration that usually took couples years to develop, anticipating each other's movements, sharing tasks without negotiation or confusion. River seasoned the mushrooms exactly how Finn would have done it. Finn poured wine without asking if River wanted any, somehow knowing he did.
But the strange moments kept happening—little disconnections where Finn would find himself doing something without conscious memory of starting it, or reaching for utensils he couldn't remember owning.
“This is either really romantic or really weird,” River observed, watching Finn add stock to the risotto with movements that felt automatic despite being unfamiliar.
“Can't it be both?” Finn asked, then immediately regretted opening that particular door. Because yes, everything about their connection was weird, but it was also the best thing that had happened to him in years, and he wasn't ready to examine it too closely.
River moved closer to taste the risotto, his shoulder brushing against Finn's as he leaned over the pan. The contact sent electricity through Finn's nervous system, and when Riverhummed approval at the taste, the sound went straight to places that had nothing to do with cooking.
“God, that's good,” River said, his voice slightly rough. “Seriously, where has this skill been hiding?”
“Maybe it just needed the right motivation,” Finn said, then realized how that sounded and felt his face burn again. “I mean, cooking for someone else instead of just myself.”
River turned to face him fully, and suddenly they were standing close enough that Finn could see the gold flecks in his eyes, could smell the salt water that seemed permanently embedded in his skin. “Is that what I am? Motivation?”
Finn's mouth went dry. “Among other things.”
The moment stretched between them, loaded with possibility and questions neither of them seemed ready to ask. River's hand came up to touch Finn's face, gentle fingers tracing his cheekbone like he was memorizing the shape.
“We should eat,” River said finally, but he didn't step away.
“We should,” Finn agreed, making no move toward the stove.
They might have stood there indefinitely, caught in the magnetic pull that seemed to exist between them, but the timer chose that moment to go off with urgent insistence. Finn laughed and stepped back, grateful for the interruption even as his body protested the loss of River's proximity.
“Saved by the bell,” he said, turning off the heat and checking the risotto's consistency. “Perfect timing.”
“Perfect everything,” River murmured, and Finn wasn't sure if he was talking about the food.
Dinner was a revelation in more ways than one. The risotto turned out better than anything Finn had ever made before, creamy and rich with flavors that seemed to have developed from nowhere. But more than the food, it was the conversation that left him feeling like he'd discovered something precious.
River was funny in ways that caught Finn off guard—dry observations about academic politics, stories about underwater encounters with marine life that had distinct personalities, commentary on the tourists who visited his research station expecting him to be some kind of aquatic tour guide.
“Last week this family showed up during low tide,” River said, gesturing with his wine glass in a way that suggested the story was heading somewhere ridiculous. “Three kids, all under ten, and they wanted me to explain why the sea anemones weren't 'doing anything interesting.'”
“What counts as interesting to a ten-year-old?”
“Apparently shooting lasers or performing tricks. I tried explaining that their feeding behavior was fascinating in its own right, but that didn't go over well.” River grinned. “So I may have told them that sea anemones were actually alien scouts gathering intelligence for an underwater invasion.”
Finn nearly choked on his wine. “You did not.”
“I did. Complete with scientific-sounding explanations about their sensory capabilities and communication methods. The kids were riveted, the parents were horrified, and I probably traumatized an entire family's relationship with marine biology.”
“You're terrible,” Finn said, laughing hard enough that his sides hurt. “Those poor kids are going to be afraid of tide pools for the rest of their lives.”
