Page 14 of Evermore

As the evening progressed and wine made both of them more relaxed, their conversation turned more personal.

River shared stories about growing up in a Coast Guard family, about learning to navigate both literal and metaphorical storms. Finn found himself talking about his restoration work with passion he usually kept carefully contained, describing the satisfaction of bringing damaged books back to life.

“It's like being a time traveler,” Finn said, surprising himself with the poetry of the comparison.

“Every book contains the thoughts and experiences of people who lived in completely different worlds.

When I restore something, I'm not just fixing physical damage—I'm preserving connections across centuries.”

River leaned forward with obvious interest. “That's beautiful. I never thought about conservation work that way, but you're right. We're both in the business of maintaining connections—you across time, me across species.”

The parallel felt significant in ways Finn couldn't articulate, but as he reached for his wine glass, another one of those strange disconnections hit him.

For just a moment, he saw the scene differently—River across from him at a different table, in different clothes, the conversation familiar like they'd had it before.

The feeling passed quickly, but it left him slightly disoriented.

“Can I ask you something personal?” River said, his voice gentle but curious. “You mentioned your mother died a couple years ago, but you never said how. And some of the things you've told me about your memory issues... I'm wondering if there's a connection.”

Finn felt his chest tighten with familiar grief and the terror of finally saying the words out loud to someone who mattered.

“She had early-onset dementia. Started showing symptoms when I was seventeen, but it took two years to get a proper diagnosis because she was so young. Everyone kept saying it was stress or depression.”

River's face went very still, like he was processing something significant. “Dementia. At that age. Jesus, Finn.”

“It was like watching someone disappear gradually,” Finn continued, the words spilling out now that he'd started.

He'd never told anyone the full story, had never trusted someone enough to share the details that still haunted his dreams. “First she'd forget recent conversations, then faces of people she'd known for years.

She'd stand in our kitchen looking completely lost, like she'd never seen it before.”

“That must have been terrifying for both of you.”

“The worst part was that she'd have these moments of clarity where she'd realize what was happening.

She'd look at me with complete awareness and apologize for forgetting who I was, like it was her fault instead of her brain betraying her.” Finn's voice cracked slightly.

“She died two years ago. Complications from pneumonia, but really she'd been gone long before that.”

River reached across the table and took Finn's hand, his grip warm and steady. “I'm so fucking sorry. That's not fair at any age, but to watch that happen to your mother when you were still a teenager...”

“The thing is,” Finn said, finally voicing the fear that had been eating at him for months, “I think I might be developing the same condition. The memory gaps, the lost time, finding evidence of things I don't remember doing. What if it's genetic? What if I'm going to end up like her?”

As he spoke, Finn felt that disconnected sensation growing stronger. The edges of his vision seemed to blur slightly, and River's voice sounded like it was coming from farther away than it should.

“Memory issues can have lots of causes,” River was saying, his voice concerned but distant. “Stress, grief, sleep deprivation—none of which necessarily point to genetic disease.”

“But what if they do?” Finn asked, and his own voice sounded strange to him, like he was hearing it through water.

“Then we'll figure it out together,” River said, his voice firm with conviction that took Finn's breath away. “Whatever's happening, you don't have to face it alone.”

The simple offer of support broke something loose in Finn's chest, some knot of fear and isolation he'd been carrying since his mother's diagnosis.

But along with the emotional relief came a growing physical disorientation.

The room seemed to be shifting around him, like he was on a boat in rough seas.

“Why?” he asked, the word coming out raw with emotion he couldn't contain. “Why would you want to get involved in this mess? You barely know me.”

“Because the person I barely know is incredible,” River said simply. “Because you make me laugh and think and feel things I thought I'd forgotten how to feel. Because when I'm with you, everything makes sense in ways it hasn't for years.”

Finn felt tears burning behind his eyes, overwhelmed by the kindness and certainty in River's voice. But he also felt something else—a pulling sensation, like he was being drawn away from the present moment by forces he couldn't understand or control.

“I'm scared,” he admitted, his voice starting to sound distant even to himself. “About my brain, about losing myself the way she did, about dragging someone else into something that might get really ugly.”

“I'm scared too,” River said, and his face was starting to look blurry around the edges. “About caring this much about someone I just met, about the weird stuff that keeps happening around us, about the possibility that this could all disappear as suddenly as it appeared.”

River was standing now, moving around the table toward him, but Finn felt like he was watching through thick glass. “But I'd rather be scared with you than safe without you,” River continued, his voice growing more distant. “If that makes any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Finn whispered, then found himself moving around the table toward River before conscious thought could interfere, though his movements felt clumsy and disconnected.

River's arms were around him, solid and warm, but Finn could feel himself slipping away from the moment despite the anchor of physical contact. River's hands smoothed down his back with careful tenderness, and Finn tried to focus on that sensation, to use it to stay present.

“Thank you,” Finn said against River's shoulder, breathing in salt water and something that was purely River. “For not thinking I'm crazy. For not running away. For making me feel like I'm worth taking care of.”

River pulled back just enough to look at Finn's face, his green eyes intense with emotion that made Finn's heart race. “You are worth taking care of. You're worth everything.”

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 recognizing its 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 no sense.

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.

“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.