The idea of creating distance from the person who made him feel safe and grounded felt impossible, but maybe that was exactly the problem. Maybe his inability to imagine functioning without River's support was evidence that Maya's concerns were valid.
“I don't know what I want,” Finn admitted. “I just know that I'm scared of losing you, and I'm scared of destroying what we have by needing too much too soon.”
“Then let's figure out how to make this work sustainably,” River said. “Not by creating artificial distance or pretending we don't care about each other, but by building something that can weather whatever comes next.”
Two days later, Finn found himself packing a bag for an extended stay at River's cottage, trying to convince himself that this was a practical solution rather than evidence of complete dependence on someone he'd known for such a short time.
The lighthouse cottage welcomed him with familiar warmth—ocean views and comfortable furniture and the steady rhythm of the beacon that had begun to feel like home in ways that should have taken months to develop. But along with the comfort came growing awareness of how much his life had reorganized itself around River's stability and support.
“This feels like giving up my independence,” Finn said, settling his belongings in River's bedroom while trying not to notice how natural it felt to see his clothes hanging beside River's in the closet.
“This feels like accepting help when you need it,” River corrected, though his voice carried understanding of Finn's complicated feelings about the arrangement.
They established routines designed to help Finn stay grounded—regular meal times, constant communication about his mental state, activities that might reduce the emotional stress that seemed to trigger episodes. River approached Finn's care with methodical attention, documenting patterns and adjusting strategies based on what seemed most effective.
“This is nice,” Finn said that evening as they prepared dinner together, noting how naturally they moved around each other in the kitchen, how easily their conversation flowed between serious topics and gentle humor.
“It is nice,” River agreed. “But Maya wasn't completely wrong about the timing being unusual. Most people don't move in together while managing medical crises after knowing each other for two weeks.”
“Are you having second thoughts?”
“I'm having thoughts about whether we're building something sustainable or just responding to crisis.” River paused in chopping vegetables, his expression thoughtful. “But no, I'm not having second thoughts about wanting to be with you or help you through this.”
“Even though my brain is systematically betraying both of us?”
“Especially because your brain is systematically betraying both of us.” River's smile was soft with affection and determination. “This is when you find out what love actually means, when things get difficult and complicated and scary.”
That night, lying in River's bed with the lighthouse beam sweeping through the windows and River's breathing steady beside him, Finn realized they'd crossed some invisible line between dating and partnership, between casual affection and committed love. The circumstances weren't conventional, but what they'd built felt real and strong and worth protecting.
Even if it was happening faster than normal. Even if it was built on crisis and need rather than typical relationship development. Even if Maya was right about the risks of depending so completely on someone he'd known for such a short time.
Because sometimes love didn't follow reasonable patterns or conventional timelines. Sometimes it arrived in the middle of impossible circumstances and demanded that you choose between safety and connection, between protecting yourself and opening your heart to someone whose presence made everything else bearable.
Finn had made his choice. Now he just had to trust that River had made the same one, and that their love was strong enough to weather whatever came next.
Chapter 12
Scientific Pursuit
River
River's laptop screen glowed at three AM, his eyes burning from hours of reading medical journals that all seemed to dance around the edges of what was happening to Finn without ever hitting the mark. His coffee had gone cold, but he kept taking sips anyway, the bitter liquid keeping him focused on search terms that yielded increasingly esoteric results.
“Come on,” he muttered, clicking through another abstract that promised breakthrough insights but delivered nothing but academic jargon. “There has to be something.”
The lighthouse cottage felt different with Finn sleeping while River worked obsessively in the living room, surrounded by printouts and notebooks filled with observations about episode timing and triggers. What had started as helpful documentation had become an all-consuming quest to solve the mystery through pure intellectual force.
His phone buzzed:
Jake
Haven't heard from you in a week. Everything okay up there?
He stared at the message, trying to remember the last time he'd thought about anything other than Finn's medical situation. When had he last checked in with friends, responded to social invitations, or engaged with the world outside their increasingly isolated bubble of crisis management?
River
Things are complicated right now. I'll call you soon.
