Chapter Text
Nicholas adjusted the yellow plastic sign a few inches to the left. Squinted at it. Then nudged it another inch. The floor gleamed from fresh mopping.
“Hmph,” he said, stepping back. He wiped his hands on his coveralls and studied the sign.
One more nudge.
“There we go.”
He stroked his white beard, eyes crinkling, and shuffled out, whistling under his breath.
Behind him, the restroom floor shone.
Rafael Barba did not like the bus. He wanted to, in fact, to drop kick it straight into the sea. He wanted to shove it off the moon, peel off his helmet and howl with laughter as it spun away before his head exploded. He loathed it. Loathed it.
He hated the way it rattled. He hated that it was either far too hot or trying to freeze his balls off. He hated the smell of bitter, stale rest stop coffee mixed with wet coats that never quite dried. And, oh, how he hated the kid kicking the back of a seat two rows behind him with tireless, tireless, energy. His mother had to be funneling liquified E numbers into his eyeballs. There was no other possible explanation.
Most of all, he hated the paperback in his hands.
The Cowboy's Second Chance, he thought, looking down at it in the low, some might say borderline useless, light.
Jesus.
The cover showed a man in a Stetson, shirt half unbuttoned, boob muscles practically spilling off the page, leaning against a fence with a jaw so square it could win a Tetris line, staring all manpainy into the distance. This was the last time he trusted Amanda on book recommendations.
He scanned another paragraph about Jake, a war hero rancher torn up by his grandfather's gambling debts and a mysterious clause in a will that could save everything if he only opened his heart to the mysterious new veterinarian. Who was also super hot.
Ridiculous.
Along with the bus, Rafael Barba didn’t like silly romance stories. Love was, after all, for suckers.
Rafael Barba had been in love just once. Yelina. And that had ended the minute her eyes tracked over him to his tall, handsome best friend.
And look how all that ended.
Not that he ever had time for love anymore. God, no. It felt like every single day he woke up, shaved, pressed on a suit, then spent the full day Clockwork Orange eyelids pinned open to the worst brutality the world had to offer then went home to a microwave meal and recording of Passions.
What would love even look like in this world? How was he supposed to make time for it when the eighth floor seemed personally invested in crushing his spine and spirit in equal measure? This was the closest thing to a vacation he’d managed in ages, and it was a favour. And involved a bus.
God, maybe if he were headed somewhere warm with a significant other, the kind of place with tiny umbrellas in drinks and a pool boy he pretended not to ogle, which would start a ridiculous argument, which would tumble into spectacular make up sex, which would somehow roll straight into a sunrise proposal on the beach, toes in the surf, heart floating somewhere in low orbit, and…
He was not lonely.
He was not.
He sighed heavily, eyes drifting over descriptions of Jake’s glistening abs and “broad, rugged, permanently sun kissed hands.” Excellent, they would pair beautifully with “the feisty new veterinarian with eyes like summer storms and a stubborn streak wider than the Montana sky.” Meanwhile, the poor horse trying to give birth while these two slobbered over each other had to be praying for the strength to unleash a full double barrel kick straight at their throats.
Rafael rolled his eyes so hard his head almost cramped.
He examined the book. The spine was broken right at the middle. Hmm. Amanda had definitely spent time here. He flipped to the suspiciously worn section.
"Jake knew he should probably be ashamed of what he was doing, leaning against a bale of hay with his jeans around his ankles, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Not with Doc Matthews' lips around his cock. God, the way he sucked him like a damn popsicle, the way he moaned, the way--"
Rafael snapped the book shut, face glowing red.
"You ok there, buddy?" the woman across the aisle asked.
"Yes!" he squeaked. "Yes."
She made a noncommittal noise and went back to her magazine.
Rafael quietly marked the page over.
He should have been on a train. A beautiful, fast, warm train full of people who had heard of breath mints. Instead, the strike had frozen half the Northeast Corridor, and he had ended up on a long haul bus crawling toward Kingston, the nearest place he could still reach before catching a ride farther north. His mother had insisted, in that pointed way that never felt optional, that he go upstate to help her old friend Viola Haversham finalise a will.
"She has always been good to our family," his mother had said on the phone from Miami, where she was living now. "She trusts you. You are the only one she has."
He loved his mother. He could take or leave Mrs Haversham. What he absolutely did not love was making this trip on a bus with no Wi Fi and a book that was now giving him far too much insight into his colleagues’ reading habits. There were just… so many turned down pages. Christ. She must have ended up with an RSI.
The bus began to slow, coming to a judding stop.
"Rest stop. Fifteen minutes. Don’t be late, folks."
Rafael closed the book and tucked it into the pocket of the seat in front of him. Standing, he grabbed his coat and scarf, hesitated, eying his briefcase and overnight bag. For a moment he actually considered hauling everything with him, then he looked around the bus. Half asleep passengers. A tired driver. Kicky kid picking his nose with focused determination.
It would be fine.
He left his things where they were and stepped off the bus into the cold, the snow drifting around him in a thin little drizzle.
Rafael sidestepped a cluster of teenagers and scanned the snack and espresso kiosk. He patted one pocket, then the other.
Oh, for goodness…
He had left his wallet on the seat. And his phone because he was just desperate to make a police report apparently. Fine. Whatever. Never mind. The bus toilet was already dead and coffee would only make a bad situation worse.
Speaking of…
He turned toward the gents just as a man with a white beard stepped in front of him.
“I wouldn’t,” the man said, lowering his voice“Still cleaning it after… well, a stag party passed through, earlier.” Rafael grimaced in sympathetic solidarity. “But the staff restroom’s open. Door by the corner freezer. They usually let folks use it when things get hectic.”
He pointed toward the far corner where a plain door sat half-hidden behind a couple of beef jerky displays.
“Oh! That’s kind. Great, thanks.”
“Not a problem,” the man said with a genial nod. Then, with an easy smile that seemed more like habit than intent, he added, “Hope your night turns around.”
Rafael headed to the other door and stepped inside. It was spotless, which felt like a minor miracle in a rest stop. No blood, no bodies, no one mid needle. He would have accepted at least one of those with resigned understanding. He did what he needed to do, skimming the seatbelt PSA while he handled his business, then washed his hands and finally lifted his gaze to the mirror, bracing himself for whatever fresh hell might be waiting there.
He looked… old.
Not ancient, but older than he felt in his head. Lines he didn’t remember forming. Shadows under his eyes. The weary slope of a man who spent too little time in daylight.
For a second, something in his chest dipped.
He looked old and tired.
He was.
Every single day, he pushed a rock up the hill. Some days he reached the summit, sweat-streaked and gasping. But triumph? Joy? Those had vanished long ago. He’d stare at the rock, scarred, battered, unhealed by the climb, and then down at the endless pile waiting below.
He was slipping. Making rash decisions more often than not, heart over head. McCoy had bumped the performance review to just after Christmas, and Rafael knew exactly what was coming: a rocket aimed square at his backside.
He should care. Should feel the sting of dread, the chill of a career teetering on the edge.
Instead, it was just another rock.
He shook the water from his hands and shoved them under the hot breath machine until they were sort of dry. Fine. Perfect. While on the subject of hands, time to return to Jake and his gigantic man sized ones.
He turned and stepped onto a very, very sparkling piece of tile. A very sparkling, wet piece of tile.
There was a sudden, sickening slide. His arms flailed. The world spun. He had a moment of absurd clarity in which his last thought, on what might be his final day on earth, was that he hadn’t even finished the damn book.
Then his head hit the floor.
Everything went black.
The world slammed back into focus with a throbbing pulse behind his eyes.
He blinked against the harsh glare. He was flat on his back, staring up at a ceiling he didn’t recognise and its water-stained tiles. Cold ground bit into his shoulders. For a moment he simply watched the light stutter, trying to stitch the scattered fragments in his skull into something that made sense.
He pushed up on his elbows and winced. Pain lanced through his head, thick and woolly, as if someone had packed it with damp cotton.
A restroom. He was in a restroom.
Okay.
Why was he in a restroom?
He rose slowly, one palm pressed to the nape of his neck. The mirror caught him off guard: a stranger in a rumpled suit, tie askew, green eyes wide and glassy with confusion. He took a startled step back, shoes squeaking on the wet floor.
What the hell is going on?
He… He needed to find someone.
He shoved through the door and stumbled into the rest stop’s main hall. Empty.
He peered behind the counter for a second, half expecting a clerk to pop up from behind the lottery display. Nothing. Just a half finished coffee steaming faintly beside the till. The wall clock read 2:07 a.m. Weren’t these things meant to be 24/7?
What was going on?
Outside the plate-glass windows, fresh snow fell in fat, lazy flakes. No cars. No trucks. No sign anyone had ever been here.
A cold that had nothing to do with the weather slid down his spine.
“Hello?” His voice echoed back, thin and useless. “Is anyone there?”
He tried the exit, slightly worried he was locked in also but the door opened with a soft pneumatic sigh, thank God, so at least he wasn’t about to become the star victim of some rest stop serial killer. The night slapped him awake as he stepped out, and the orange glow of the highway lights smeared across the sky.
Okay. He was a man. He was in the middle of nowhere. Those were facts. Solid, boring facts. There had to be something else. Something he could hold on to. Wallet. Phone. Anything. He patted down his coat, checked every pocket, and came up with nothing but lint.
He must have left them on the… The thought slid away before he could catch it.
Okay. Okay.
Don't panic. Don't panic.
Panic ignored him and wrapped around his heart and squeezed.
Across the dark stretch of road, a small cluster of lights glowed in the distance.
A town. People!
His thoughts came in pieces that didn’t quite fit together.
Focus.
Town. People. Help.
He started walking.
The wind knifed through his coat. Snow muffled his dress shoes, soaked the cuffs of his slacks. Every step made a soft crunch, and, ah yes, great, now the cold was seeping into his shoes. He tried to remember something, anything, but the thoughts slipped out of reach like wet soap.
The lights ahead glowed a little brighter but still looked annoyingly far away. His teeth started chattering. Maybe he should turn back…
Tires crunched behind him, and headlights washed the snow in a warm gold. He slowed, turning as a pickup with Mistletoe County Sheriff stenciled across the door rolled up beside him, matching his slow, miserable plod.
“Evenin’,” the driver called, voice warm enough to thaw frostbite. But unfortunately not literally.
He glanced over. The man behind the wheel had light brown hair, a kind face, and eyes that were aimed at him and full of concern.
“You all right there?”
“Yeah,” he said, the word scraping out. “Just… uh… I’m just walking.”
“That I noticed.” The truck crawled beside him. “That’s an A-plus in observation. Mind telling me where you’re headed?”
He tipped his chin toward the distant glow. “There.”
“And ‘there’ is…?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. “I… don’t know.”
The driver’s brow creased, not unkindly. “Do you know your name?”
“Yes? Of course I know my name, it's…it’s…” His tongue felt thick. “It’s--” The word lodged behind his teeth. “Damn it.”
“Beautiful. Family name?”
“I can’t remember.” He turned and looked at the driver. “I-I think I hit my head?”
The truck rolled to a stop. The driver killed the engine and hopped out. Up close he was taller, and handsome. Very, very handsome. He stepped in close, close enough that he caught the faint scent of his aftershave and gently tilted his head, fingers probing the tender spot at the base of his skull.
“No blood, no cuts,” he murmured. “You know what happened?”
He shook his head. The proximity was… making him forget he had bigger problems.
“Okay, Mr. Damnit.” The sheriff’s mouth twitched. “Name’s Sonny Carisi. I’m the sheriff around these here parts.”
He stared.
“Oh. I thought that might get a laug… nevermind. Listen. You’re out in this weather wearing a coat that wouldn’t keep a penguin warm. You’ve got no bag, no hat, those shoes, and you don’t know your name or where you’re going. Plus, now I’m hearing a salacious rumour about a head injury. That’s a hard no on the ‘walk it off’ plan.”
“Ah. Well. When you put it like that… I could use a hand.”
“That’s big of you,” Sonny said, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Hmm. I can tell that you’re the type who’d rather freeze solid than ask for help, aren’t you. Even when you’re half icicle already.”
Maybe. Maybe he was. He honestly had no idea.
“Hop in.” Sonny jerked a thumb toward the passenger side. “Clinic’s still open. They’ll check that head.”
“No, no. I don’t need a hospital.”
“Oh, my mistake. Please feel free to stroll until hypothermia sets in, at which point I’ll scrape you off the roadside and then take you to the hospital. Unless the brain bleed gets you first.”
That was a good point. Maybe he was a stupid person? There was compelling evidence to suggest so.
“…Okay,” he muttered. “Okay.”
“Great. Amazing,” Sonny said, grinning like he’d won a pot. “Come on.”
The ride was quiet except for the heater’s rattle and the occasional squeak of wipers.
Sonny tried and tried and tried, but every question landed like a pebble in a well. After another blank stare, and shrug, he let the silence ride.
Finally, they pulled up to a low brick building with a hand-painted sign: Mistletoe Community Clinic.
Snow slid off the roof in soft avalanches. Sonny killed the engine, circled the truck, and offered a steady arm. He took it, wincing as his soaked shoes slapped the salted walkway.
Inside a huge tree was drowning under ornaments, the ceiling covered back and forth in hanging decorations and a lifesize Santa stood at the door greeting people. He was quietly irked to discover the jolly giant stood taller than he did.
The on-call doctor was brisk, tired, and kind. After brisk introductions, she ushered them into a cubicle and eased him onto the bed. She clicked on a penlight and raised it to his face
“Follow the light for me.”
He did. It hurt.
“Name?”
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. “I don’t know.”
Her brows rose. “Date of birth?”
“I look… thirty? Thirty five?” He glanced at Sonny for help and got a barely smothered snort in response.
“Oh, you’re seri… Yeah, totally. You could be thirty five.”
“Hmm. Where are we?” she asked.
He turned toward the window. Even the stop sign had tinsel on it. “Somewhere that takes Christmas very seriously.”
“Mistletoe,” the doctor said. “Population twelve hundred, give or take a reindeer. And before you ask, no, that is not a joke.” She clicked off the light. “You appear to have retrograde amnesia. No visible trauma to the skull, no swelling, no signs of a concussion that would be severe enough for complete memory loss.”
“So I forgot everything without hitting my head hard enough to deserve it?” he said.
“It…happens,” she replied.
“In soaps during sweeps, usually,” added Sonny.
“It,” she carried on, ignoring him, “could be stress, could be shock, could be psychogenic. Could be your brain saying no thank you to whatever nonsense you got yourself into today.” She tapped his temple lightly with her pen. “Brains are drama queens.”
Sonny nodded gravely. “He does have the look. As well as absolutely passing for thirty-five.”
The doctor ignored that too. “We can do an X-ray, but keeping you overnight isn’t an option. I don’t have any beds left. Three cases of flu, one sprained elf from the mall Santa event, and a man who tried to deep fry a frozen turkey indoors.”
Sonny winced. “Oh yeah. That guy.”
She continued, unfazed. “You’re not bleeding, your vitals are good, and nothing appears cracked, which means you might start remembering things in a few hours. Or days. Or during a nice meal. Or in the middle of brushing your teeth. Hard to predict.”
He stared at her. “That’s the medical plan?”
“That is the human brain,” she said. “Personally I would blame holiday stress. Do you get overwhelmed by festive environments?”
He glanced at the little Santa taped to her stethoscope.
“I think I do now,” he muttered.
She scribbled something, then looked at Sonny. “No ID, no phone. You found him on foot?”
"Yeah. Looked like a snowman someone forgot to finish. I’ll file a report, see if anyone is missing him." Sonny glanced at him. "In the meantime, we can’t exactly turn you loose."
"I’m not a puppy," he said.
"No, but you are possibly concussed, confused, and in my jurisdiction," Sonny replied lightly. "We have a spare room at my place. It’s fine."
The doctor shrugged. "If the X-ray is clean, that works for me, but you need to keep an eye on him. Check in with me tomorrow and the next day."
Sonny nodded. "I can do that."
The protest rose in his chest, something like I don’t belong here, and died before it reached his mouth. He had no counteroffer, no address, not even a name he trusted.
"All right," he said quietly.
Sonny’s hand settled warm on his shoulder. "Come on, cowboy. Let’s get you dry."
He froze, seized with a sudden spark of joy, grabbed Sonny’s hand, and announced, bright as a revelation, "Jake! My name is Jake."
Sonny’s house sat at the edge of town, perched on a gentle slope with a sweeping view of what was unmistakably a Christmas tree farm behind it. Strings of white and red bulbs lined the porch. A wreath hung on the door, perfectly centred, like someone had measured it with a laser level.
It was a perfect Christmas card.
Literally. Like the illustrator had just finished the final brushstroke, packed up his easel, and walked off humming. It was ridiculous.
But... beautiful.
Inside, the air wrapped around him like flannel straight from the dryer. The living room was crammed with mismatched furniture and a certifiable amount of decorations. A frankly enormous tree dominated the room, decorated as if the Rockefeller crew had swung by on their lunch break. The bannister was smothered in ribbons and bows that absolutely violated several safety codes. A nativity set shared the mantle with a framed drawing of what might have been a llama in a Santa hat, looking aggressively festive.
"Home sweet overkill," Sonny said. "We go hard on Christmas around here."
"I never would have guessed," Jake replied.
"Bella!" Sonny called. "We got company!"
A blur of pink socks and pigtails came skidding around the corner. A little girl, her dark hair escaping from a holiday headband with antlers, stared up at Jake with wide brown eyes.
"Hi," she said. "I’m Bella."
"Hi, Bella. I’m Jake."
"We think," Sonny added. "Bella, this is my friend. He has a little bump on the noggin and is confused, but he’s gonna stay here for the night."
Jake smiled at her.
Then froze.
Was Sonny out of his mind? Was he an idiot? He had just brought a... a possible drifter into a house with a child in it, and this man was the sheriff. If Liv heard...
Who was Liv?
The thought struck hard, sharp, tugging at something deep in his chest. And underneath it lurked something else. A reflex. Like some locked box in his mind full of hurt and ugliness had heard its cue and started rattling, begging to be opened.
He didn’t know what was inside. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Yes, he wanted his name, his past, the facts of his life. But not that part. Not whatever lived in that dark little box shaking in the corner.
So he shoved the feeling aside, forced his shoulders to loosen, and offered Bella his hand. She slipped her tiny fingers into his without hesitation, and the box went quiet again.
"It’s very nice to meet you, Bella," he said.
"Are you a criminal?"
Jake blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Sonny only brings criminals home when he is arresting them."
"Why does he do that? Does he not understand that the job comes with its own jail?"
"It was one time," Sonny said, holding up a finger. "One. And it was my friend who was a little drunk and disorderly. I have done that once." He paused. "Twice now."
"So if you are not in handcuffs," Bella continued, undeterred, "are you a secret agent? Or a spy? Or a witness?"
Sonny groaned. "He’s a guest who hit his head. That’s all."
Bella stepped closer, eyes narrowed. "When you hurt your head, did you fall? Did you land on your face? Is that why it looks like that?"
"Uh..." Jake glanced helplessly at Sonny, who stared at the ceiling .
"Do you remember how many cookies are left in that?" Bella asked, pointing at a jar on the shelf.
"The cookie jar that I am seeing for the first time in my life, right now?" Jake replied. "That feels like a trick question."
Bella glared. "Good answer. Keep it that way. I don’t like jailhouse snitches."
Sonny sighed. "I regret letting you stay up for that Cagney marathon."
A young blonde woman stepped into the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She wore a dark plaid sweater, sturdy boots, and a kind expression.
"Gina," Sonny said. "This is Jake. Jake, this is my sister." As they shook hands, Sonny continued, "I found him out on the road in the snow. We thought he had a concussion or something serious, but the clinic says he is physically fine. He does have some memory gaps, though, and nowhere to go tonight. Can he stay in the spare room?"
"Oh, my goodness,” she exclaimed. “That’s terrible. Please, sit down. Let me get you some hot cocoa."
She herded him toward the couch with the force of someone who had decided he needed mothering and would be getting it whether he liked it or not. Before he knew it, a blanket was draped over his lap, a mug of cocoa was warming his hands, and a plate of cookies had appeared like magic.
He realised, somewhere around cookie number three, that he was starving and probably being a terrible guest. He still reached for a fourth. He had no dignity left anyway.
At some point, Sonny ducked down the hallway and came back with a neatly folded stack of clothes.
"These should fit," Sonny said, setting the folded clothes beside him. "Sweats, a shirt, socks. Tomorrow I can swing by the church basement, see if they have anything from the Goodwill drop-off that might work for you." He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. "I already called my deputy. We put out a BOLO and a missing-person description to the surrounding counties. If anyone’s looking for you, we’ll hear about it."
Who would miss him?
The thought came unbidden and with it a sadness. He frowned, tried to chase it and it vanished.
On the rug, Bella sat cross-legged, gently petting an extremely round cat named, inexplicably, Mistlepaws VI. While Gina chatted to Jake about the weather, Bella shot Jake a warning look, pointed two fingers at her own eyes, then at him, grabbed an extra cookie from the jar with impressive stealth, and shoved the whole thing in her mouth before Gina turned around.
"Listen, Jake. You’re welcome in this house as long as you need," Gina said, blissfully unaware of the cookie heist happening behind her. "We’ll figure out where you came from, but until then, you’re part of this household now. Like family."
Jake opened his mouth to argue, to say that was too much, that he didn’t want to be anyone’s responsibility. But the word family hit something soft and unsteady in his chest, and the protest died before it formed.
Family.
“Come on, Jake,” Sonny said gently. “Let me show you your room.