Page 5 of Evermore

Crossing Currents

River

T hree days of shitty sleep and zero concentration finally broke River's resolve.

The letter kept burning a hole in his desk drawer, impossible to ignore and getting more painful by the hour.

Every logical argument he'd made for staying away from the bookshop crumbled against one simple truth: he needed to see that guy again.

The letter sat in his jacket pocket, folded carefully in a waterproof sleeve. Returning it was the smart thing to do. The responsible thing. The thing that would close this weird chapter and let him get back to his predictable routine of research and solitude.

But as River crossed the street, smart felt completely inadequate for whatever the hell he was walking into.

The brass bell above the door chimed like wind chimes when he pushed inside, and suddenly he was surrounded by the smell of old books and lemon oil.

Afternoon light streamed through tall windows, making dust motes dance between towering shelves.

The place was bigger inside than it looked from the street, stretching back into shadows filled with maritime histories and ancient maps.

Everything screamed careful attention and expert knowledge. Books weren't just alphabetical—they were organized by historical period and subject. The lighting was perfect for preservation. Even the temperature felt controlled.

“Can I help you find something?”

The voice came from behind a shelf of exploration narratives, and River turned to see the auburn-haired guy emerging with arms full of leather-bound books.

Up close, the impact hit even harder than through the window.

Warm brown eyes with gold flecks. Freckles scattered across his nose like constellations.

Ink stains on his fingers that said he still believed in actual handwriting.

But it was the way he moved that really got to River. Gentle, like each book was something alive that deserved respect. Careful attention, like River's words actually mattered. None of the impatience or fake politeness River had learned to expect from most people.

“Actually, yeah.” River pulled out the letter, its weight feeling both heavier and lighter than it should. “I found this a few days ago, and I think it might be yours. Or at least from your shop.”

Finn set down his books and took the letter, curiosity shifting to genuine confusion as he examined it. River watched for any sign of recognition, but Finn's bewilderment looked completely real.

“This is my handwriting,” Finn said slowly, turning the envelope over. “But I don't remember writing it. And I definitely don't know how it ended up wherever you found it.”

“Crescent Beach. In a bottle.”

Finn's eyes widened, and he opened the envelope with the delicate care he'd use on something centuries old. River held his breath, watching Finn read his own words.

But Finn's confusion only got worse as he read, his forehead creasing in a way that looked genuinely distressed.

“This has details about your life I shouldn't know. Personal stuff. Work stuff.” He looked up, meeting River's eyes with vulnerability that made River's chest tight.

“I'm sorry, but I have no idea how I could have written this.”

“Neither do I. That's why I wanted to bring it back. Thought maybe you'd have answers.”

“What's your name?” Finn asked suddenly.

“River Hayes.”

Something flickered across Finn's face at the name—not recognition exactly, but something deeper. Something that made his breath catch and his grip on the letter tighten.

“River,” he repeated softly, and the way he said it made River's name sound like something he'd been waiting his whole life to say.

They stood there in the narrow aisle surrounded by centuries of stories, two strangers who felt like old friends, holding a letter that shouldn't exist. River felt the pull toward Finn getting stronger—not just attraction, but something that felt like gravity, like coming home.

“You said you found this at a research station?” Finn asked, voice carefully controlled but his eyes still holding that impossible familiarity.

“I'm a marine biologist. I study coastal restoration at Beacon Point.” River gestured toward the harbor visible through the front windows. “Tide pool recovery, mainly.”

Finn's face lit up with genuine interest, and some of the tension in River's chest eased. Safer ground.

“Tide pool ecology,” Finn said thoughtfully. “Organisms adapting to cycles of exposure and submersion, right?”

River blinked. “You know marine ecology?”

“I read a lot.” Finn's smile was embarrassed, like he was apologizing for knowledge outside his wheelhouse. “And I find the parallels interesting. Marine organisms adapting to tidal cycles, books surviving damage over time. Different mediums, similar principles.”

The parallel was elegant and unexpected. River found himself looking at Finn with new appreciation, seeing past the vintage clothes and gentle manner to sharp intelligence underneath.

“That's actually beautiful,” River said, meaning it. “Most people think marine biology is just cataloguing fish.”

“Most people think book restoration is just gluing pages together.” Finn's smile became more genuine. “But really, it's about understanding how materials respond to stress over time. How careful intervention can strengthen rather than weaken the original.”

River nodded enthusiastically, recognizing the passion that drove Finn's work because it matched his own.

“Environmental restoration follows the same principles.

You can't just remove damage and expect everything to return to its original state. You have to work with what remains, support natural recovery.”

“Exactly.” Finn's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. “People want restoration to be about returning to some perfect original state, but that's not how healing works. Healing incorporates the damage, makes it part of the story.”

They were leaning closer as they talked, drawn together by shared understanding and genuine excitement. River realized he was having the kind of conversation he'd been craving for years without knowing it.

“Want to see some books that might interest you?” Finn asked suddenly, tone casual but his eyes holding an invitation that felt like much more. “I have maritime preservation texts that might be relevant to your work.”

River should have politely declined. He'd returned the letter, confirmed Finn was as confused as he was. Mission accomplished. Time to leave before this got more complicated.

But Finn was already moving toward a wall of environmental texts, enthusiasm infectious and knowledge compelling. River found himself following without deciding to, drawn by the promise of more conversation and the simple pleasure of Finn's company.

The maritime section contained books River had never seen outside specialized libraries. First-edition conservation manuals, historical restoration studies, ecosystem research that predated his training but demonstrated insights still relevant decades later.

“This might interest you,” Finn said, pulling a volume from a high shelf with the casual reach of someone who knew exactly where everything belonged. “1920s study of tide pool recovery after oil contamination. Methodology's outdated, but the observational data is remarkable.”

River accepted the book and opened it carefully, immediately recognizing its value. The author had documented recovery patterns that paralleled his own research, but with eight decades of hindsight.

“This is incredible,” River said, genuinely impressed. “How did you know this would be relevant?”

“Lucky guess.” Finn's smile was modest, but something in his eyes suggested the choice had been more deliberate. “Plus, your field notebook is sticking out of your jacket, and I can see the section headers.”

River glanced down. Finn was right—his research notes were visible, organized in his usual methodical format. But Finn's ability to interpret their significance suggested knowledge beyond casual reading.

“Are you sure you're just a book restorer?” River asked, half-joking but genuinely curious.

“I'm sure.” Finn laughed, but it carried an edge of uncertainty River didn't understand. “Sometimes I surprise myself with what I know, though. Like the information just appears when I need it.”

Something wistful in Finn's tone suggested the gaps in his knowledge troubled him, but before River could ask, Finn was already moving toward another section.

“If you're interested in restoration techniques, you should see the workshop upstairs,” Finn said, invitation carrying that same casual tone that felt like much more. “I could show you some methods for treating salt-water damage. Might be useful for your field equipment.”

River had already spent longer here than planned, and his truck was in a two-hour zone. But Finn's offer sparked genuine curiosity, and the prospect of more time in his company felt more appealing than returning to solitude.

“I'd like that,” River said, surprising himself with how much he meant it.

The workshop felt like stepping into a craftsman's sanctuary, where time moved differently and every tool had been chosen with reverence. Afternoon light streamed through tall windows, illuminating work surfaces covered with restoration projects.

River moved through the space fascinated, watching mastery in an unfamiliar discipline.

Microscopes and specialized tools occupied every surface, arranged with the same methodical care he brought to his own equipment.

The air smelled of preservation chemicals and aged paper, but underneath lay something warmer—the scent of someone who spent days surrounded by stories.

“This is where the real work happens,” Finn said, settling at his main workstation with comfortable familiarity. “Everything downstairs is presentation. Up here, it's about saving things that would otherwise be lost.”