Page 46 of Evermore

Evermore

River

R iver woke before dawn, pulled from restless sleep by something unnamed that hummed beneath his skin.

Not the familiar knot of anxiety that had taken residence in his chest—that old companion of sleepless nights and worry—but something else entirely.

Anticipation, maybe. Hope wearing a disguise he barely recognized.

He lay still for a moment, listening to the lighthouse beam sweep across the cottage walls with its eternal rhythm. The empty space beside him no longer felt like an accusation. Strange, how absence could transform from wound to waiting.

Something had shifted in the air overnight. He felt it the way sailors sense weather changes, the way tide pool creatures know when the ocean's coming home.

Dawn called to him through salt-stained windows. River pulled on yesterday's clothes and stepped outside, letting instinct guide his feet toward the beach. The sky wore watercolor shades of rose and gold, the sun climbing hesitant over the horizon like a child peeking around a doorframe.

And there—God, there—sitting beside the tide pools where they'd first explored together, was Finn.

River's heart forgot how to beat for one terrible, beautiful moment.

Finn looked... settled. That was the word.

Not the displaced, flickering presence of his episodes, but solidly, completely here.

He wore the same clothes from months ago, but they looked fresh somehow, as if time itself had been gentle with him during his absence.

At the sound of footsteps on sand, Finn turned. His face broke open with a smile that hit River like sunlight after storm—no confusion clouding those copper eyes, no temporal displacement lurking behind his gaze. Just joy, pure and uncomplicated.

“Hey,” Finn said, simple as breathing, as if he'd only stepped out for morning coffee instead of vanishing for months into the impossible.

River approached like a man walking on water, afraid each step might shatter the moment. What if this was another episode? What if touch would trigger disappearance? But Finn read his hesitation and reached out first, hand steady as bedrock.

“I traveled our entire relationship backward,” Finn explained, voice carrying a new centeredness that made River's chest tight with wonder. “Every moment from end to beginning. I saw how much you love me, River. I saw the real love underneath all that beautiful, terrified fear.”

Finn's fingers found his, warm and solid and impossibly present. No flickering, no temporal drift—just choice, conscious and clear.

“I watched your hands shake when you helped me through episodes,” Finn continued, thumb tracing circles on River's palm like he was writing love letters on skin.

“Saw the tears you tried to hide when you thought I was getting worse. Every attempt to control my condition—it all came from terror of losing me, never from wanting to change who I was.”

River felt tears threatening, his throat closing around words that felt too small for this moment. He'd prepared for every outcome except this: Finn returning with understanding instead of blame, with grace instead of anger.

Their embrace carried different weight than any before. Not desperate or fearful, but peaceful in its acceptance of whatever came next. River buried his face in Finn's shoulder, breathing in books and salt air and home, finally letting himself believe this was real.

“I'm sorry,” River whispered against Finn's neck, words torn from someplace deep and raw. “Christ, I'm so sorry for trying to fix you instead of just loving you.”

Finn pulled back to meet his eyes, and River saw something that stole his breath. Not forgiveness—because there was nothing to forgive. Just love, pure and uncomplicated as morning light.

“You were trying to save me the only way you knew how,” Finn said, palm cupping River's face with infinite tenderness. “But I don't need saving, River. Never did. I just needed someone brave enough to love me exactly as I am.”

River kissed him then—slow, thorough, tasting salt and something sweeter. Hope, maybe. Or the simple relief of coming home. Finn kissed back with certainty that made River's knees forget their purpose, no hesitation or fear, just pure joy of connection.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Finn rested his forehead against River's. “We're going to be okay,” he said quietly. “We're going to be more than okay.”

For the first time in months, River believed him.

They walked back to the cottage hand in hand, morning sun warming their faces as tide pools caught fire with reflected light. River kept stealing glances at Finn, hardly daring to believe this was real, that the man beside him was truly home.

“Tell me about the temporal stream,” River said as they settled on the cottage's front porch with coffee that tasted like ordinary magic. “What was it like?”

Finn was quiet for a moment, eyes distant with memory. “Like being given hindsight while still living the story,” he said finally. “Every moment of our relationship from end to beginning, watching how love and fear got tangled together like fishing line in a storm.”

He sipped his coffee, expression thoughtful. “Experiencing it backward taught me something I never could have learned going forward. How much beauty we created even in the chaos. How much love lived underneath the medical monitoring and research papers and desperate attempts at control.”

River's chest tightened with shame, but Finn reached over and captured his hand.

“I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty,” Finn said gently. “I'm telling you because I saw your love, River. Even when it felt like control in the moment, I could see the love underneath. That love is what brought me home.”

River had to look away, overwhelmed by the magnitude of Finn's grace. “I turned our relationship into a research project,” he said, voice rough with unshed tears. “Made you feel like a condition to manage instead of a person to love.”

“You were scared,” Finn said simply. “You'd never loved someone whose brain worked differently, and you did the best you could with the tools you had. But now we both know better.”

River shared his own journey then, the peace he'd found in letting go of the need to fix or control.

“I spent so much energy trying to save you from your condition that I never considered maybe you didn't need saving. Maybe you just needed someone who could see your TPD as part of what makes you extraordinary instead of something that made you broken.”

Finn's smile was radiant. “That's exactly what I needed to hear,” he said. “Not that you'd found a cure or treatment or way to make episodes stop, but that you could love me with my TPD, not despite it.”

They talked about Future River then, processing the manipulation and interference that had shaped so much of their relationship.

“I forgave him,” Finn said quietly. “In the temporal stream, I saw how much pain he carried, how trapped he was in his own inability to let go. He wasn't evil, River. Just lost.”

River nodded, understanding that forgiveness didn't mean condoning Future River's actions, but recognizing the suffering that drove them. “He was trying to save us from his mistakes by making us repeat them,” River said. “Ultimate irony.”

“But it taught us something important,” Finn pointed out. “We saw exactly what our relationship becomes when fear drives choices instead of love. That's not a future either of us wants.”

They both acknowledged that Finn's TPD would always be part of their relationship, requiring adaptation and understanding rather than cure. Episodes might become less frequent or intense, but they would never completely disappear. For the first time, that felt like acceptance rather than defeat.

“I don't want to change your TPD anymore,” River said, words feeling like sacred vow. “I want to learn how to love you with it, how to support you through it, how to see it as part of what makes you who you are instead of something that takes you away from me.”

Finn leaned over and kissed him softly, lips warm and sure against River's. “That's all I ever wanted,” he whispered against River's mouth. “Just to be loved as I am.”

They kissed again, deeper this time, River's hands threading through Finn's copper hair as months of fear and separation dissolved into pure connection. When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Finn's eyes were bright with tears of joy.

“We're going to be okay,” Finn said again, and this time River felt the truth of it in his bones.

Maya arrived at the cottage to find them cooking breakfast together, domestic rhythm natural and unforced. She stood in the doorway watching her brother flip pancakes while River scrambled eggs, both moving around each other with easy familiarity of partners who'd learned to dance together.

“Thank God,” Maya breathed. “Finn, you asshole, you scared me to death.”

Finn grinned and pulled his sister into a fierce hug. “Sorry for the dramatic exit,” he said. “But I had some things to figure out.”

Maya pulled back to study his face, trained eye looking for signs of confusion or displacement. But Finn's gaze was clear and present, more centered than she'd seen him in months.

“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.”