A quiet anger began to simmer beneath her exhaustion. Her father had let a stranger—an ex-con at that—move into their home without so much as mentioning it to her. She’d spoken to him on the phone just last month. Okay, maybe it had been two months ago. Maybe three. It had been a stilted five-minute conversation about nothing important, and he hadn’t thought to mention that he had a roommate.
“I see,” she said, her voice cooler than the December air outside. “And where is my father now?”
Beckett motioned toward the hallway. “His bedroom. The doctor wants him to rest as much as possible. Your room’s still there, though. Doesn’t look like he ever changed it.”
Your room. The words caught her off guard. She hadn’t thought of that bedroom as hers in years. It was a museum exhibit of her teenage self, a self she barely recognized anymore.
“I’d like to see him.” She reached for her medical kit.
“He’s on some pretty strong sleep medication. The doctor said not to wake him unless necessary. Later morning would be better. I can show you to your room, if you’d like.” His voice remained neutral, but there was a quiet firmness to it.
She wanted to argue and assert her authority as both a medical professional and a daughter. But the exhaustion of her shift and the long drive crashed over her in waves. Her clinical judgment, the one thing she could always rely on, told her that Beckett was right. Waking her father now wouldn’t help anyone.
“Fine,” she conceded, picking up her bag again. “But I want a full rundown of his condition, medications, and doctor’s instructions.”
Beckett nodded, no surprise or offense registering on his face. “Of course. I’ve got it all written down in the kitchen. His follow-up appointment is scheduled for the 27th.” He turned toward the hallway, then paused, glancing back at her. “It’s good you came. He’ll be glad to see you.”
The simple statement, delivered without judgment or expectation, somehow made the knot inside her tighten. She followed Beckett down the familiar hallway, past her father’s closed door, to the room at the end. Her room, apparently untouched in her decade-long absence.
He stepped aside, allowing her to enter first. “Bathroom’s stocked with fresh towels. Let me know if you need anything else.”
She nodded stiffly, too tired for proper gratitude, too unsettled for politeness. “Thank you,” she managed, but the words came out more clipped than she intended.
He dipped his head in a small nod and retreated, his footsteps quiet on the hardwood floor.
Alone in her childhood bedroom, she set down her bags and surveyed the space. Pale blue walls, faded posters of mountains and medical diagrams, and a bookshelf still lined with her old textbooks and paperbacks. The twin bed with its patchwork quilt that her grandmother had made. Everything was exactly as she’d left it, like a time capsule from another life.
She sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the familiar creak of the springs a ghost from her past. Outside, snow continued to fall, coating Sweet River Falls in silent white. Morning was dawning in a town she’d escaped, in a house now shared with a stranger, with her estranged father sleeping down the hall.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her burning eyes. She’d come to care for her father and be the nurse she’d been trained to be. She could do this. Clinical, professional, detached. Just another case to manage before returning to her real life.
But as she lay down on her childhood bed, still fully clothed, her homecoming settled over her like the snow outside. Quiet. Persistent. And impossible to ignore.
Chapter 2
Tessa woke with a jolt, her eyes flying open to unfamiliar shadows on the ceiling. No, not unfamiliar. Just forgotten. The glow-in-the-dark stars she’d stuck there as a child had long since lost their luminescence, but their outlines remained, faint ghosts of constellations past.
Her childhood bedroom. Sweet River Falls. Her father.
The events of the previous night came rushing back as she pushed herself upright, wincing at the stiffness in her neck. She’d fallen asleep fully clothed, her body finally surrendering after the marathon ER shift and the long drive through the mountains. Sunlight streamed through the faded blue curtains in a warm glow that felt both familiar and strange.
She checked her watch. 10:47 AM.
She never slept this late. Not even after night shifts. The realization made her push back the quilt and stand, her body protesting every movement. Her clothes were hopelessly wrinkled, and her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton.
Her duffel bag sat untouched where she’d dropped it. She rummaged through it, grateful that she’d had the presence of mind to pack a few essentials before leaving Denver. Clean clothes. Toothbrush. Basic toiletries. She’d packed in autopilot, the same way she prepared her go-bag for disaster relief work.
The bathroom was directly across the hall. She opened the door cautiously, half-expecting to find it occupied. It was empty, but not unchanged. The shower curtain was new, a simple navy blue instead of the sailing-themed one her father had kept for decades. A man’s razor sat on the edge of the sink. Beckett’s, obviously. At least he hung up his towel.
She would be sharing this bathroom with Beckett. The thought was oddly intimate, considering she’d just met the man. She closed the door and turned on the shower, letting the water run hot while she examined her reflection in the mirror.
Dark circles shadowed her eyes. Her chestnut hair had mostly escaped its bun, tendrils framing her face in a way that looked less artfully messy and more like she’d been dragged backward through a hedge. She looked every bit as exhausted as she felt.
The shower helped, washing away the hospital antiseptic smell that always seemed to cling to her skin after long shifts. She dressed quickly in clean jeans and a soft flannel shirt, twisting her damp hair into a fresh bun at the nape of her neck. No makeup. She hadn’t bothered to pack any.
Voices drifted down the hallway as she emerged from the bathroom. She heard low murmurs and the occasional clink of silverware against plates. She followed the sounds to the kitchen, pausing at the threshold to take in the scene.
Her father sat at the small oak table by the window, a newspaper spread out before him and a mug of coffee at his elbow. A cane leaned against his chair. He looked smaller somehow, his shoulders slightly stooped, and his hair was thinner and whiter than she remembered. But his eyes, when he glanced up and saw her, were clear and sharp as ever.
