Chapter Two

 Chapter Two:  The River Between Us

Top Deck, Sunset Departure

The sun skimmed the rooftops as the ship drifted free of the dock, scattering gold across the railings like coins from a wishing fountain. Mark and Kimmy stood near the bow on the top deck, shoulders touching just enough to feel the awareness of it. The breeze pulled softly at her hair and coaxed the collar of his jacket. Kimmy took a breath like she was tasting the air. “I still can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” she said. “It feels like something characters in a movie would do. The part where the audience knows something’s happening before the characters admit it.” Mark smirked. “If this is a movie, I hope the soundtrack is doing something flattering. No ominous strings.” “Are you kidding?” she laughed. “This is definitely light piano. Maybe acoustic guitar. Something earnest but not too slow.” “As long as it’s not smooth jazz,” Mark added with a mock grimace. “I don’t think I could survive falling in love to a saxophone solo.” Kimmy nudged him with her shoulder. “So we’re calling it that now?” Mark didn’t step back from it. “I think we’ve been calling it that for a while,” he said. “Just not out loud.” She nodded, gaze drifting out over the water. “I think so too.” The city unspooled below them in warm tones—old stone, red rooftops, windows catching the sinking sun like tiny mirrors. They walked slowly along the rail, hands brushing now and then, both feeling the pull to close the last inch between them. “You know,” Kimmy said, fingers trailing the metal railing, “when I first met you, you were the first person who didn’t make me feel like I was ‘too much.’ Too curious, too emotional, too big for whatever box I was supposed to fit in.” Mark was quiet for a moment. “I saw you working so hard to be smaller,” he said. “Not physically. Just… like you thought taking up space was an inconvenience. I wanted you to know you could fill a room.” “That’s why I stayed in touch,” she admitted. “Not because I was clinging to the past. I just didn’t want to lose the version of myself I became around you.” “I worried about that sometimes,” Mark confessed. “Not hearing from you—God knows I liked that more than I admitted to myself—but that I might be something you needed to outgrow. I never wanted to be an anchor you had to drag behind you while you grew.” “You weren’t an anchor,” she said softly. “You were a compass. One I borrowed until I built my own.” Something in Mark eased. He hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders until that moment. “I used to look forward to your messages more than I should’ve,” he said. “And then one day I opened an email and it didn’t feel like hearing from a long lost friend anymore. It felt like hearing from someone who… saw me. Just me.” Kimmy smiled, a little crooked at the edges. “For me, it shifted when I started teaching. I stopped seeing you as the person with all the answers, and started seeing you as the person I wanted to share the questions with.” They paused at the rail, the river widening ahead of them, the wind carrying the faint scent of rain and stone. “I’m not trying to rewrite the past,” Mark said quietly. “As we stayed in touch, you became a friend I respected. And then…” “And then something new,” Kimmy finished. No blush, no flinch—just truth. “Yes,” Mark said. “Something new.” He let his hand drift toward hers on the railing. This time, when their fingers touched, Kimmy turned her palm and threaded their hands together like that was where they were meant to be. “You know what’s strange?” she asked, leaning into him slightly, shoulder to arm. “It doesn’t feel complicated now. Not standing here. Not anymore. It feels like we finally arrived at the same moment.” Mark turned just enough to meet her eyes. “It feels like the first moment that belongs to both of us,” he said. The ship carried them forward, not away from where they’d been, but deeper into where they were going.

Dinner on the River

The dining room glowed with amber light, soft enough to make everything gentler—the clink of glasses, the murmur of conversation, the edges of uncertainty between them. Through the wide window beside their table, the river passed like a moving mural: terraces, clustered houses, scattered lanterns waking up the shoreline. Kimmy sat beside Mark instead of across from him, her red sundress catching flecks of light when she moved. When she reached for her wine, her knee brushed his. She didn’t move it away. “You know,” she said, swirling the deep red in her glass, “I was convinced distance would make this easier. I thought I could say, ‘It’s impossible, we live in different states, end of story.’ Nice, tidy, responsible.” Mark raised a brow. “Mature,” he said. “Very adult.” “Exactly,” she replied. “Deeply boring, but very adult.” “Mature is overrated,” Mark said, lifting his glass. “Immature people seem to have more fun.” “Oh absolutely,” Kimmy agreed. “We should strive to be slightly irresponsible adults. Not enough to get arrested—just enough to kiss on river cruise ships.” Mark nearly choked on his wine. “You’re going to have to warn me before you say things like that in public.” “Never,” she said, grinning. Their laughter faded into a quieter warmth. Kimmy reached for his hand—her move, no hesitation. She laced their fingers together, her thumb brushing over his like she was committing the shape to memory. “I need to say this while I’m still brave,” she began. “This isn’t casual for me. You’re not casual for me. I’ve had crushes and flings and almosts. This is none of those.” Mark lifted their joined hands and pressed his lips to her knuckles, the gesture simple but reverent. “I like this version of us best too,” he said. “And I want to keep choosing it. Even when it’s complicated. Especially then.” Kimmy swallowed, eyes never leaving his. “I keep thinking about how we built this backwards,” she said. “First the distance. Then the messages. Then the occasional visits. Now we’re finally in the same place for more than a weekend. It feels like we’ve been sketching the outline for years and only just started filling in the color.” A waiter arrived with a basket of warm bread, setting it down between them. Kimmy glanced at it and muttered, “If this is sourdough, I might cry. Emotionally and gastronomically.” “If you propose before dessert, I’m blaming the carbs,” Mark whispered back. She snorted, almost ungracefully, and he loved her a little more for it. Their laughter softened again, making room for something quieter. “Can I ask you something?” Kimmy said. “Are you as excited as I am about this trip? Not the ports or the castles. Us. Being together all day. And night. For weeks.” “Yes,” Mark said, no hesitation. “Because I want to learn the shape of our days. I want to know what it’s like to wake up beside you and not have to count how many mornings we have left. I want to find out if we can sit in silence and still feel connected. If we can make coffee without turning it into a moment.” Kimmy’s thumb stroked the back of his hand. “I didn’t realize how much pressure I was putting on our short visits,” she admitted. “Like every minute had to be perfect because it was numbered. I don’t want that anymore. I want us to have room to be a little boring sometimes. To have off days. To be real.” “Romance is listening to someone snore and thinking, ‘Good. They’re still here,’” she added, half teasing, half serious. Mark’s chest tightened. “Then I hope you like snoring,” he said quietly. “Because I want to be the one still here.” She leaned her forehead against his, their joined hands resting on the table between them. “I do,” she whispered. “I really do.” Outside, the river kept moving, but inside, for a few long breaths, time seemed to settle around them like a held note that no one wanted to end.

Night on the Upper Deck

The air was cooler by the time they stepped back onto the upper deck, the sky stretched wide and dark above them, pricked with stars. String lights traced the railing, swaying gently with the ship’s slow, steady movement. The river had turned to ink, the moon painting a silver path across its surface. They walked hand in hand without hurrying, their steps matching a rhythm that felt new and deeply familiar at the same time. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like this,” Kimmy said, watching the moonlit water. “It feels like the world is being generous tonight.” Mark didn’t look at the river—he looked at her. “It is,” he said. “But honestly, the river’s got nothing on you.” She huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s biased.” “It’s honest,” he replied. He nodded toward the water. “Look at that. The way the moon touches everything, choosing what to illuminate. That’s what loving you feels like. Like I’m discovering light in places I didn’t know were dark.” Her breath caught, just enough to make her swallow before she spoke. “You see things in me I’ve never been able to see clearly on my own,” she said. “And I don’t mean compliments. I mean… you make me feel like I don’t have to apologize for existing the way I do.” They walked in silence for a few steps, their joined hands saying the rest. Mark slowed and turned her gently toward him. “I think you should know something,” he said. “I admire you—not just for the way you’ve built your life, but for the way you keep showing up with your whole heart, even when it’s scared.” Kimmy’s eyes softened. “And I admire you,” she replied. “Your steadiness. Your willingness to tell the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. Your ability to sit with hard things without trying to fix them immediately. I feel… safe with you. Not because you’re perfect. Because you’re steady.” He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, fingers lingering at her temple. “You’ve given me permission to be a person again,” he said quietly. “Not just a role.” She stepped closer, their bodies almost touching now. “You’ve given me permission to want more,” she said. “And to say it out loud.” For a long moment they stood there, the ship sliding silently through the night, the river and sky indistinguishable at the horizon. “I’m falling for you, Mark,” Kimmy said at last, the words steady, not rushed. “And if I’m honest… I think I have been for longer than I wanted to admit.” His hands came up to rest on her arms, warm and firm. “I feel the same way,” he said. “I’ve tried to be careful with it, tried to protect you from it, tried to protect myself from it. But I’m done pretending this is something small.” Kimmy let out a breath that sounded like release. “Then let’s stop wondering,” she whispered. “No more wondering,” he agreed. He pulled her into him, and she went easily, arms sliding around his waist. They held each other—not like two people clinging, but like two people who had finally arrived where they were meant to be. The wind curled around them. The world moved on, but for a while, their center of gravity was right there on that patch of deck. When they finally drew apart enough to meet each other’s eyes, Mark let one hand cup her cheek. “Come here,” he murmured. Their first kiss of the night was soft, a reaffirmation of everything that had already been spoken and everything that hadn’t. When they parted, she stayed close, her forehead resting against his. “One more,” she whispered. The second kiss was longer, deeper only in feeling, unhurried and warm. She slid her arms up around his neck; he wrapped both arms fully around her, holding her in a way that felt like a promise. They stayed that way, more embrace than kiss, the world narrowing to the sound of water and the drum of two hearts learning each other’s beat. When they finally let the moment breathe, she stayed tucked against his chest, his chin resting in her hair. “We should probably head back soon,” she said quietly, making no move to step away. “Probably,” he agreed. He tightened his arms around her just a little. “But not just yet.” They stayed a few minutes longer, letting the night hold them before they walked hand in hand back toward the warm glow of the ship.

An Unexpected Stop

The announcement about an unscheduled riverside stop had seemed like a small bonus at first. But as they stepped down the gangway together, hand in hand, Mark had the distinct feeling the night wasn’t done with them yet. The town looked like something out of a storybook—cobblestone streets still damp from an earlier rain, storefronts glowing with lamplight, flowerboxes spilling color from upstairs windows. Music drifted faintly from somewhere down the lane, a violin threading notes through the cool air. Kimmy looped her arm through Mark’s, hugging it close as they walked. “You realize,” she said, “this is prime ‘main characters walking through a European town’ material.” “As long as the camera doesn’t catch me tripping over the cobblestones,” he replied. “I have a reputation to uphold.” “You’re doing fine,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze. “For the record… I really like being with you like this. Not on a screen. Not counting hours.” His chest warmed. “I like it too,” he said. “More than I knew I would let myself.” They passed through an archway and into a small square centered around an old stone fountain, its figures worn smooth by centuries of weather and hands. Lanterns hung from wrought-iron posts, casting a soft glow across the water.  Mark slowed them to a stop. “You know,” he said, nodding toward the fountain, “there’s a tradition in places like this. You toss a coin in, make a wish, and supposedly the water carries it forward. Downriver. Out into the world.” Kimmy tilted her head at him. “Is that historically verified, Professor, or did you just make that up?” “Let’s call it historically flavored,” he said with a crooked smile. He reached into his pocket and produced two Euros. “Teacher perk. We come prepared.” She bumped his shoulder. “Some things never change.” He handed her a coin. Their fingers brushed, that little spark there again, familiar and always new. They stood at the edge of the fountain, arms still linked, shoulders touching. The water caught the lamplight and fractured it, turning the surface into a mosaic of gold and shadow. “Ready?” he asked. She nodded. They tossed their coins in unison. Two soft splashes, two sets of ripples crossing and then blending until you couldn’t tell which was which. For a moment, neither spoke. “Traditionally,” Mark said, “you’re not supposed to tell what you wished for.” Kimmy gave him a look. “And traditionally, I haven’t just flown across an ocean and gotten on a boat with someone I only texted and emailed with for the last few years. I think tradition can handle some flexibility.”

He laughed. “Fair point. Ladies first.” Kimmy drew in a breath, her hand still looped through his arm. “I wished for this,” she said simply. “For us. For the chance to see how deep this can go if we keep choosing it. I don’t want to be afraid of what it means anymore.” Mark’s face softened, every line of it. She wasn’t done. “And I wished,” she added, voice a little huskier now, “that I never stop being grateful for you. For who you were to me then, and who you are to me now.” She looked up, meeting his eyes. “Because I really, really like being with you, Mark. More than I’ve let myself say.” He lifted his free hand to her cheek, thumb brushing gently along her skin. “My turn?” he asked. She nodded. “I wished this wasn’t a dream,” he said. “Because it feels like one. And I don’t want to wake up back in the life I had before this. Before you. I want to keep living this—whatever this becomes—moving forward, not backward. With the woman of my dreams.” Kimmy’s breath hitched, her eyes shining with something deeper than surprise. “This is real,” she whispered. “We’re here.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead, lingering there for a moment. She lifted her face, brushing her nose lightly against his in a small, instinctive gesture that felt like it had always been waiting to happen. Their first kiss at the fountain was soft, a seal set gently over the wishes they’d just made. When they parted, they stayed close, hands still joined, hearts steady. Then she rose onto her toes and kissed him again—longer, unhurried, certain. His hands slipped to her back, holding her as though he finally believed he was allowed to. The lantern light blurred at the edges, the sound of the fountain filling the spaces that didn’t need words. When the kiss eased into an embrace, she tucked herself against his chest, and he wrapped both arms around her. “Whatever comes next,” he murmured into her hair, “I’m in. Fully.” “So am I,” she replied. They stood like that for another quiet moment, two coins behind them, countless possibilities ahead, before turning together to walk back toward the river and the waiting ship. (Fade to Black)

Stateroom, French Balcony

Their stateroom felt different when they returned—not because anything in it had changed, but because they had. The wishes at the fountain, the words they’d spoken, still hummed between them like a melody that hadn’t finished resolving. Kimmy disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes and came back wearing Mark’s white dress shirt again. The sleeves were rolled to her elbows, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, the neckline falling open just enough to look like an exhale. She didn’t make a show of it; she just stepped into the room as herself, comfortable and unguarded. Mark, already in his gray t-shirt and soft drawstring sweatpants, looked up from where he stood by the French balcony doors. His smile was immediate and warm. “You know,” he said, “I think that shirt has officially found its true owner.” She glanced down at herself, then back at him. “It’s outrageously comfortable,” she said. “You might not get it back.” “Good,” he replied. “I like seeing my things look happy.” She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she crossed the room. He held out his arms without thinking about it, and she walked right into them. They fit together like this, easily, her head tucked under his chin, his hands resting at the small of her back. The French balcony doors stood open behind them, sheer curtains breathing in and out with the river breeze. Moonlight spilled in silver across the floor, tracing the edge of the bed and the outline of their shadows. “It feels different now,” Kimmy said quietly. “Not heavier. Just… clearer. Like we stopped circling something and finally stepped into it.” Mark’s chin brushed her hair as he nodded. “At the fountain,” he said, “hearing what you wished for… I realized I’m done treating this like a question I’m afraid to answer. I don’t know exactly where we’re going, but I know I don’t want to go back to before.” She pulled back just enough to see his face. “Me either,” she said. “I’ve spent so much of my life trying not to want too much. Not to be too much. But tonight? I don’t feel like I’m asking for something unreasonable. I just want to keep waking up in a life that has you in it.” His hand lifted, fingers brushing her cheek with a tenderness that made her chest tighten. “You’re not too much,” he said. “You’re exactly as much as you’re supposed to be. And you don’t have to earn this. Not with me.” She smiled, eyes shining. “Then the truth is… this feels right,” she admitted. “Being here. With you. Not packing a suitcase tomorrow. Not counting down hours. Just… being allowed to stay.” “The truth is, it feels like home,” Mark said. “And I didn’t realize how much I’d missed that feeling.” He kissed her then—slow and warm, a continuation of the night instead of an escalation. She melted into it, her fingers curling lightly in the fabric of his shirt, her other hand resting over his heart like she was memorizing the rhythm. When they parted, they were both smiling, foreheads resting together. Eventually they moved to the bed, not rushed, not cautious—just natural. Mark leaned back against the pillows and Kimmy curled into him, her head on his chest, one leg thrown over his, her hand resting over his heartbeat. His arm wrapped around her back, palm spread between her shoulder blades, the touch grounding and sure. For a while they lay there in quiet, just listening—to the river outside, to the small, human sounds of the ship, to each other’s breathing. “I didn’t realize how exhausting it was, always knowing exactly when we were going to say goodbye,” Kimmy said into the fabric of his shirt. “How much pressure that put on every visit. Like we had to cram an entire relationship into forty-eight hours.” Mark exhaled slowly. “I used to start feeling the goodbye before it even arrived,” he admitted. “Packing, driving to the airport, walking you to security… It always felt like something was being cut short.” She shifted slightly, tilting her face up so she could see him. “We don’t have to do that here,” she said. “We get to have mornings and evenings and lazy hours where nothing big happens. And it still counts.” “I want that,” he said. “The ordinary days. The quiet nights. The moments that don’t need a highlight reel.” Kimmy’s fingers traced a small circle on his chest. “This feels like the start of something we don’t have to rush or defend,” she murmured. “Something we can just… live.” Mark bent his head and kissed her—soft, lingering, a goodnight that carried all the weight of what they’d said and all the hope of what they hadn’t yet found words for. When the kiss faded, she nestled back against him, his arm instinctively tightening around her. Outside, the river flowed on beneath the moonlight, carrying their ship, their wishes, and the fragile, steady beginning of something real. Fade to black

Budapest Morning, First Light

Morning arrived gently, announced not by an alarm or a flight time but by a thin ribbon of sunlight slipping between the curtains and across the sheets. Kimmy woke first. For a few fleeting seconds she didn’t remember where she was—only that she was warm and held and that the air smelled faintly of river and coffee from somewhere down the corridor. Then she felt the solid weight of Mark’s arm around her waist, the rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, and it all came back in a rush that made her smile before her eyes even fully opened. She lay there for a while, listening to his heartbeat, watching the way the light traced the edges of the room. There was no suitcase by the door waiting to be zipped, no rideshare app to open, no mental countdown. Just breath. Just him. Just this. Mark stirred beneath her, his hand tightening around her instinctively before he blinked awake. When he looked down and saw her watching him, his face softened into a sleepy, unguarded smile. “Morning,” she whispered. “Best one I’ve had in a long time,” he murmured, voice low with sleep. “You haven’t even had coffee yet,” she pointed out. “I’m looking at you,” he said. “Coffee can wait.” She nudged him lightly. “If you keep saying things like that, I’m going to get spoiled.” “Good,” he replied. “You deserve to be.” Later, dressed and awake, they stepped out onto the top deck with steaming cups in hand. The air was cool and bright, the kind of morning that felt both new and impossibly old. Budapest rose around them—Parliament glowing like a stone crown on the riverbank, bridges arcing across the Danube, hills dotted with spires and terraces. Kimmy moved to the rail, Mark at her side. “It looks unreal,” she said quietly. “It looks like a beginning,” he replied. She slipped her arm through his, leaning into him as the ship glided past the city’s waking lights. For the first time, the day ahead wasn’t measured in departures or goodbyes. Whatever the river carried them toward next, they would face it side by side.