Page 15 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Malcolm

I already knew it was Gideon on the other side of the shed wall—his voice had carried through earlier, the low, careful cadence of someone trying not to break while speaking to people who’d already decided he was the villain.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the sound that followed.

It wasn’t the restrained, brittle grief I’d heard from pet owners in my practice, that quiet ache you could cup in your hands. This was deeper, rawer—like something torn from the inside and let loose without permission.

It stopped me mid-step.

Not because I didn’t recognize it, but because I’d never heard him sound like that before. In the weeks we’d worked side by side, I’d seen him tired, guarded, even sharp around the edges. But not like this. Never like this.

Dennis must have heard it too. He was inside earlier, but now his soft whine carried through the crack in the door, the kind of sound that could undo you if you weren’t careful.

Technically, Dennis was Gideon’s dog, but somewhere along the way, I’d started feeling like we were co-parents. Like we were both responsible for making sure he was fed, safe, loved.

I pushed the door open.

The hinges complained—too loud in the stillness—and I half-wished I’d stayed outside. But it was too late.

Gideon sat on the floor, folded in on himself, arms wrapped tight like he was trying to keep his insides from spilling out.

His shoulders moved with uneven breaths, slow and labored.

Dennis lay beside him, stretched across the packed earth like a silent guard, ears angled back but head resting close to Gideon’s knee.

I stayed by the door for a beat, letting the air settle. The hay’s dry sweetness hung faintly in the shed, but under it was something sharper—an invisible weight that pressed low against my ribs.

I moved in slowly, letting my steps be deliberate, no rush, no intrusion.

When I sank to the ground, I kept a careful distance. Close enough to be there, far enough that it was his choice to close the gap if he wanted.

Dennis lifted his head, then, with a small huff, set it on my thigh. My hand found the warm spot between his ears almost without thought.

The silence between us felt full—not the kind that begged to be broken, but the kind that asked to be witnessed.

“I heard…” The words slipped out rough.

I caught Gideon’s profile, eyes lowered, face drawn. He didn’t move.

“I didn’t mean to listen,” I said more quietly, “but I couldn’t walk away.”

Nothing. Just the faint hitch of breath that said he was holding something heavy.

He swiped at his face—not in anger, not even to hide—the tired motion of someone worn down past pretense.

I waited. He didn’t owe me words.

A tremor passed through him. Small, but enough to make my throat tighten.

“If you need me to go, I will. But I’m not going to pretend I didn’t see you hurting.” My voice felt thick in my mouth.

His hand drifted toward Dennis, fingers brushing fur, staying there like it anchored him.

For a heartbeat, I wanted to reach over, close the distance, let my hand rest against the tense line of his back. But the wanting wasn’t enough to override what I knew—this had to be his choice. So I kept my hands where they were, letting Dennis be the bridge between us.

“Garrett,” he said. Just that.

The name landed like a stone in the quiet. He’d said it before, but this was different—the ache behind it, the way his whole body bowed like it was carrying someone else’s weight—told me. This was more than memory. This was grief.

“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.

He swallowed.

“You tried your best to save his life. That counts for something.”

“Does it?” he whispered.

I didn’t plan the next moment. My body moved before my mind caught up—before I could question why I was about to cross a line I’d never crossed with a man. But this wasn’t about desire. It wasn’t about anything physical at all. It was about giving him something words couldn’t hold.

I leaned in and pressed my lips to his temple to say as clearly as I could without speaking: Yes. You matter.

His shoulders trembled under the contact, then eased, the tension unspooling enough for him to lean into the space between us. He didn’t collapse. He simply… let himself rest there.

And I stayed with him, not rushing, not pulling away. We stayed until the ache in the air softened into something quieter. Something almost bearable.