“You look different,” she observed. “More... solid.”
“I feel different,” Finn agreed. “I finally understand that my TPD isn't a flaw to be ashamed of. It's just part of how my brain works, and that's okay.”
Maya's eyes filled with tears as realization hit. “I spent so much time trying to protect you from your condition that I never considered whether you needed protecting,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “Made you feel like your episodes were medical emergencies instead of just... part of who you are.”
“You were trying to keep me safe,” Finn said gently. “But sometimes protection becomes its own kind of prison.”
Maya nodded, understanding the distinction. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I promise to do better. To support you instead of trying to manage you.”
River felt profound sense of family in that moment, watching the Torres siblings navigate their new understanding with such love and grace. This was what he'd been afraid of losing—not just Finn, but this sense of belonging, of being part of something larger than himself.
Captain Torres arrived later that morning, weathered face creased with worry that transformed into relief when he saw Finn whole and present. For the first time since Finn's diagnosis, the Captain didn't look like he wanted to flee from conversation about temporal displacement.
“I've been running from this family's medical history too long,” he admitted, voice rough with emotion. “Your mother, your episodes... I thought if I didn't acknowledge it, it would hurt less. But that just left you kids to handle it alone.”
Finn embraced his father with surprising warmth. “You're here now,” he said simply. “That's what matters.”
Dr. Voss appeared that afternoon, usual scientific fervor tempered by something that looked like respect. She examined Finn with professional thoroughness but without the desperate intensity that had characterized her previous visits.
“I'd like to continue studying TPD,” she said carefully, “but as collaboration, not cure-seeking mission. If you're willing, Finn, your experiences could help other people with similar conditions understand they're not broken—just different.”
Finn considered this thoughtfully. “I'd be open to that,” he said. “But as partner in the research, not subject.”
Dr. Voss nodded, and River saw genuine smile cross her face for the first time since he'd known her. “I think I could learn a lot from that approach,” she admitted.
Jake arrived with Thomas and Stella, and River watched as their small community rallied around Finn's return with joy rather than medical concern. Thomas brought books from the shop, Stella brought soup, and Jake brought his steady, calming presence that made everything feel more grounded.
“This is how it should be,” Stella said, looking around the cottage filled with friends and family. “Community that accepts people as they are, not as we think they should be.”
River felt something click into place—not just his relationship with Finn, but his sense of belonging in this coastal town. These people weren't just tolerating Finn's TPD; they were embracing it as part of what made their community richer and more complex.
As afternoon wore on and friends began to leave, River found himself alone on the porch with Finn, watching sun begin its descent toward horizon.
“We have people who love us,” Finn said quietly, hand finding River's. “People who see us as we are and choose to stay.”
River brought Finn's hand to his lips, pressing soft kiss to his knuckles. “We're not doing this alone anymore,” he agreed.
They kissed as sky turned pink and gold, lips warm and sure against each other, and River felt solid ground of community beneath his feet for the first time in months.
Over the following weeks, River and Finn established new routines that accommodated Finn's TPD without turning their home into a medical facility. They created anchors and safety measures that supported Finn during episodes without restricting his freedom or autonomy.
But it wasn't seamless. Some nights, River still woke in cold sweats, reaching for Finn's hand to make sure he was still there. Some mornings, Finn stared at his reflection like he was trying to convince himself he was real. They both carried the weight of what they'd been through—trauma didn't disappear just because love conquered fear.
River returned to his marine biology work, but with different perspective. Instead of using research as escape from uncertainty, he found himself drawn to studying adaptation and resilience in marine ecosystems. How organisms learned to thrive in changing environments rather than simply surviving them.
Finn reopened his bookshop gradually, starting with limited hours and trusted customers. River loved watching him work with people who had no idea about his condition. Finn's unique perspective on time gave him insights into books and stories that amazed people, his ability to sense a book's emotional history turning casual browsers into devoted customers.
“You see stories in ways other people can't,” River told him one evening as they walked home from the shop. “Your TPD doesn't take anything away from your ability to connect with books—it enhances it.”
Finn smiled and leaned into River's side. “It took me years to see that as gift instead of burden,” he said. “Having you believe it made all the difference.”
Finn's episodes still occurred, but less frequently and with less distress. Sometimes triggered by stress, but just as often by intense joy or emotional connection. River learned to recognize the signs—not to prevent them, but to provide support when needed.
During one particularly gentle episode, River sat beside Finn on their bed, holding his hand as Finn's consciousness drifted through time. Instead of panic or urge to intervene, River feltonly peaceful presence, trusting that Finn would return when ready.
“Where did you go?” River asked softly when Finn's eyes focused on present again.
“I visited the first night we spent together,” Finn said with smile. “Got to experience falling asleep in your arms from both perspectives—as it happened, and knowing how much love was still to come.”
