Page 42 of Finding Gideon

“He was everything,” Gideon murmured. “You know? He was the kid with the flashlight under the covers, reading about atoms or galaxies or…” He swallowed. “He used to sneak into the kitchen and build science experiments out of baking soda and vinegar and food coloring.”

I could see him holding those memories the way you might hold a glass ornament—afraid to grip too tightly in case it shattered. His voice cracked, and he cleared it roughly.

“He walked into a room and made people laugh so hard they forgot why they were sad in the first place,” Gideon said. “Could beat anyone at chess. Ran like he had wings. Made the honor roll without trying.”

I could see the boy he was describing—not in clear detail, but in the shape of Gideon’s expression, in the softness that tried and failed to settle over his features.

His breath steadied for a moment, then dipped. “He loved nature. Could climb anything.”

A half-smile pulled at his mouth, brief as a flicker before going out.

“He was all light. And I didn’t mind,” he added quickly. “Never. I was just… glad to be there. To know him. To be next to him in a picture.”

My chest ached, the way it sometimes did after telling a grieving owner there was nothing more we could do—that awful helplessness of watching someone cradle something precious they couldn’t keep.

“You know what I mean?” he said, glancing at me now, finally, eyes rimmed red. “Like, some people shine so bright, it’s enough just being near them.”

I nodded.

And then Gideon told me. Not all at once, not in the kind of tidy sequence a stranger might expect, but in pieces that seemed to cost him each time he spoke. The hike. The slip. His hand catching his brother’s. The desperate hold that wasn’t enough. I could see it in my mind as clearly as if I’d been there, and it hollowed me out.

“And then he was gone,” Gideon said on an exhale of breath.

The words settled between us, heavy and unmovable. I’d heard grief before—in waiting rooms, in quiet phone calls—but never like this. This was grief stripped bare, with no place to hide, and it made me want to close the space between us without thinking about what it meant.

He went quiet again, but it wasn’t the slammed-door kind of silence. More like someone drawing the curtains before the sun burned too bright.

“Hey,” I said.

His gaze lifted to mine, heavy with things I couldn’t fix.

“You’re not the shadow Garrett left behind.”

A stillness passed between us.

“Your parents might not have seen it,” I said, “but I do.”

“Gideon, you’re the one who stayed late that night last week to help with the shepherd that wouldn’t let anyone near him,even though you didn’t have to. You’re the one who brings me coffee every morning like it’s just… a thing you do, not something that makes the start of my day better.”

A shadow of emotion passed over his face, his lips pulling as if he meant to deflect, only to let the truth of my words slip past his guard.

“You don’t just work hard. You care. Every patient. You treat them like they matter, like it’s instinct.”

His breath hitched, almost too soft to hear, but enough to make me want to close the space between us.

“I’ve only known you a short time, sure. But I’ve watched you. And what do I see?” I reached up, paused, and let my fingers just barely brush the curve of his cheek. The faint rasp of stubble met my palm—not unpleasant, just different from the smoothness I’d known in moments with women. Different in a way that lingered. “A good man, Gideon.”

That did it. His eyes closed for a moment, and he leaned in—just a little. Just enough that I could feel his breath warm against my skin.

Dennis shifted beside us and gave a low, tentative whine, then nosed his way gently between our knees like he couldn’t stand being left out.

Gideon let out something between a laugh and a gasp—a sound I hadn’t heard from him before.

I smiled. Couldn’t help it.

He pulled back enough to look at me. His eyes still shimmered, but some of the weight had moved. Like letting it out made more room in him.

“You didn’t let Garrett fall,” I said quietly.