The kiss happened without conscious decision, born from emotion too big to contain in words. River's lips were soft and warm, moving against Finn's with gentle hunger that sent electricity through his nervous system. But more than physical attraction, the kiss carried emotional weight that took Finn's breath away.
Recognition. That was the word that came to mind, though it makes no rational sense. Not the recognition of someone he'd kissed before, but something deeper. Like his soul recognizingits other half, like coming home to a place he'd never been but had always belonged.
But as they kissed, the disconnected feeling grew stronger. Finn felt like he was experiencing the moment from multiple perspectives simultaneously—kissing River for the first time, but also remembering kissing him countless times before, in different contexts, different settings.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing unsteadily, Finn felt tears on his cheeks that he didn't remember shedding.
“Hey,” River said softly, his hands coming up to cup Finn's face with infinite gentleness. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong,” Finn said, though his voice came out shaky with emotion he couldn't name. “Everything's right, and that's what's terrifying.”
River studied his face with concern, and Finn realized he was experiencing something that went beyond normal attraction or even early relationship intensity. He felt like he was grieving and celebrating simultaneously, mourning something lost while rejoicing in something found.
“Finn,” River started, but before he could finish the thought, the disconnected feeling suddenly intensified.
The room began to shift around them in ways that made no physical sense. Colors became too bright, then too dim. River's voice sounded like it was coming through water, then from very far away.
“River,” Finn said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. “Something's happening.”
“What kind of something?” River's hands tightened on his face, anchoring him to the present, but the pulling sensation was getting stronger.
Finn tried to explain, but words felt inadequate for what he was experiencing. Time seemed to be becoming unstable around him, past and present bleeding together in ways that made nosense. He could see River's face in front of him, concerned and beautiful, but also see other versions of the same face in different contexts, different times.
Images flashed through his mind—underwater scenes that felt like memories but couldn't be real, conversations in settings he'd never been to, moments of intimacy that seemed to span years instead of days.
“I can't—” Finn started, then felt the world slide sideways.
For several minutes that felt like hours, Finn existed in a space between moments, aware of River's voice calling his name but unable to respond coherently. The visions came in waves—diving through kelp forests with equipment he'd never used, research data that made perfect sense despite being about subjects he'd never studied, quiet domestic moments in River's cottage that felt like coming home.
When the episode ended, he found himself sitting on his couch with River kneeling in front of him, green eyes dark with worry and something that tasted of blood in his mouth.
“There you are,” River said, his voice rough with relief. “You've been out for about ten minutes. How do you feel?”
Finn touched his nose and his fingers came away red with blood he didn't remember starting. “Like I just went through a blender. What happened?”
“You seemed confused about where you were, when you were. You kept talking about diving and water temperature readings, research data about kelp restoration.” River's hands were gentle as he helped Finn clean the blood from his face. “Does any of that ring a bell?”
Finn shook his head, then immediately regretted the movement as dizziness swept through him. “I don't remember anything after feeling disoriented. But this is exactly what I was talking about—the episodes I've been having.”
“Has it ever been this intense before?”
“I don't know. If I don't remember the episodes, I can't really judge their intensity, can I?” Finn attempted a weak smile, but River's expression remained seriously concerned.
“We need to get you to a doctor.”
“I've been to doctors. They think it's stress.”
“Then we need to find better doctors,” River said firmly. “This isn't normal stress response, Finn. This is neurological, and it needs proper evaluation.”
Finn wanted to argue, to insist that doctors had already dismissed his concerns and another consultation would just result in more recommendations for rest and anxiety management. But the blood on his hands and the exhaustion weighing down his limbs suggested River might be right about needing more serious medical attention.
“Will you stay?” Finn asked, hating how small his voice sounded. “Tonight, I mean. I don't want to be alone in case it happens again.”
“Of course,” River said without hesitation. “I'm not going anywhere.”
River helped him settle more comfortably on the couch, then disappeared into the kitchen to make tea and clean up the dinner dishes they'd abandoned. Finn listened to the domestic sounds with gratitude that went beyond simple appreciation for help. River was choosing to stay, choosing to take care of him, choosing to get involved in something that was clearly more complicated than either of them had signed up for.
When River returned with tea and settled beside him on the couch, Finn found himself curling against his side with automatic trust that should have been impossible after such a short acquaintance.
