“Thank you,” he said against River's shoulder. “For not freaking out, for not leaving, for making me feel like I'm not crazy.”
“You're not crazy,” River said, his arm tightening around Finn's shoulders. “Something's happening that we don't understand yet, but that doesn't make you crazy.”
As the evening settled around them and Finn felt himself relaxing into River's warmth, he realized that whatever was happening to his brain, whatever mysterious episodes were disrupting his life, he was no longer facing them alone. River's presence felt like a lighthouse in a storm—steady, reliable, guiding him home even when he couldn't see the shore.
The thought should have been comforting, and it was. But it was also terrifying, because caring about someone this much after such a short time felt like another symptom of something being fundamentally wrong with his perception of reality.
Or maybe it was the first thing that had been completely right in years.
Either way, he was too tired and too grateful to analyze it tonight. Tonight, he would just let himself be held by someone who made him feel safe, and worry about the implications tomorrow.
Chapter 8
Turbulent Currents
River
River stood in Finn's kitchen at six AM, holding a mug of coffee he'd made with automatic familiarity, and tried to convince himself that what had happened last night fell within the realm of normal human experience. The morning light streaming through the windows made everything look deceptively ordinary—dish towels draped over the sink, books scattered across the counter, the lingering scent of last night's risotto still hanging in the air.
But nothing about this situation was ordinary, starting with the fact that he'd known exactly where Finn kept his coffee filters despite never having seen him make coffee before.
From the bedroom came the soft sounds of Finn sleeping peacefully, which was more than River had managed on the couch. Every time he'd started to drift off, his mind replayed the moment when Finn's eyes had gone unfocused and distant, when he'd started talking about water temperatures and diving protocols with knowledge he shouldn't possess.
River took another sip of coffee and admitted to himself that he was scared shitless. Not just about Finn's condition, but about his own reactions to it. The protective instincts that had kicked in last night felt way too intense for someone he'd known less than a week. The way he'd immediately started planning medical consultations and research strategies felt like behavior reserved for family members or long-term partners, not for someone who was essentially still a stranger.
But Finn didn't feel like a stranger. That was the problem.
“River?” Finn's voice came from the bedroom, thick with sleep and confusion. “Are you still here?”
“Kitchen,” River called back, setting down his mug and moving toward the bedroom door. “How are you feeling?”
Finn appeared in the doorway wearing rumpled clothes from last night, his auburn hair sticking up in directions that should have looked ridiculous but instead made River want to smooth it down with gentle fingers. His brown eyes held the cloudy confusion of someone trying to piece together memories that didn't quite fit.
“Like I got hit by a truck,” Finn said, rubbing his forehead with a grimace. “And like I'm missing pieces of last night. I remember dinner and...” His cheeks flushed slightly. “I remember kissing you. But after that, everything gets fuzzy.”
River felt his chest tighten with sympathy and growing concern. “You had an episode. Similar to what you've been experiencing. You were disoriented for about ten minutes, talking about things that didn't make sense in context.”
“What kind of things?”
“Marine biology. Diving procedures. Technical stuff about underwater research that you shouldn't know.” River watched Finn's face carefully, noting how the color drained from his cheeks. “You also had a nosebleed.”
Finn's hand went automatically to his nose, though the bleeding had stopped hours ago. “I don't remember any of that.”
“That's what's worrying me.” River moved closer, his protective instincts overriding any concerns about overstepping boundaries. “We need to get you to a doctor. A real doctor, not someone who's going to dismiss this as stress.”
“River, I've been to doctors. They all say the same thing—grief reaction, anxiety, maybe depression. Nobody takes the memory gaps seriously.”
“Then we find doctors who will take it seriously.” River's voice came out more forceful than he'd intended, but the idea of Finn facing this alone made something fierce and desperate rise in his chest. “This isn't normal stress response, Finn. This is neurological, and it needs proper evaluation.”
Finn studied his face with an expression that was part gratitude, part confusion. “Why do you care so much? I mean, I'm grateful that you do, but this is heavy shit to take on for someone you just met.”
The question hit River like a punch to the gut, because he didn't have a rational answer. By any reasonable standard, he should be backing away from this situation, not diving deeper into it. But the thought of abandoning Finn when he was clearly struggling felt physically impossible.
“Because when I look at you, I don't see someone I just met,” River said, the honesty surprising him. “I see someone I've been looking for without knowing I was looking. And I'm not walking away from that just because things are getting complicated.”
Finn's eyes filled with something that looked like relief mixed with disbelief. “Even if I'm losing my mind?”
“Especially if you're losing your mind. That's when you need people most.” River reached out to touch Finn's face, noting the way he leaned into the contact like he was starving for gentletouch. “Get dressed. We're going to the clinic, and I'm not taking no for an answer.”
