Page 22 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Malcolm

Something behind the reception desk beeped.

I didn’t register what—the autoclave finishing its cycle maybe, or the low rattle of the fridge compressor humming to life.

It didn't matter. Not when Gideon stretched in front of the treatment table, arms reaching over his head, shirt riding up enough to show a sliver of ink and the ridgeline of his waist.

I forgot how to think for a second.

The heat hit first, low and slow. Familiar now, but no less inconvenient.

I glanced away, turned to the laptop open on the counter, willing my brain to reboot.

I was a grown-ass man with patients to see, medications to log, and an assistant who kept reaching for things like his spine didn’t curve like a work of art.

He said something I missed, voice low and light. Probably asking about the pain meds for the terrier with the cracked molar. I nodded like I’d been paying attention. “Yeah, second drawer,” I managed, and cleared my throat when it came out too rough.

He moved past me, close enough that his scent—clean and citrusy, like the soap I’d bought on sale and he’d claimed—clung to my nostrils.

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t afford to, with my dick half-hard and no hope of willing it down, and I didn’t plan to spend the rest of the day shifting uncomfortably behind counters and exam tables.

This was ridiculous. I was thirty-six, not thirteen. But Gideon had this way of making time fold in on itself. Every sideways glance felt like the first time anyone ever looked at me like I was worth something. Every brush of his hand lit a fuse in my spine.

The bells above the door broke the tension like a crack across ice. I exhaled hard and moved toward it, grateful for the interruption.

“Morning, Mrs. Cross,” I said as the older woman stepped in, tugging a wheezy pug along beside her.

Gideon slipped into place beside me. He smiled at the woman, crouched beside the dog with practiced ease.

“You again,” he said to the pug, rubbing behind its ears. “What’d you eat this time?”

Mrs. Cross rolled her eyes. “He got into the trash again. I swear, it’s like living with a goat.”

Gideon chuckled, warm and easy, and the dog’s tail thumped against the tile.

I hung back for a moment, watching them. It wasn’t just the way Gideon handled animals—gentle, patient, with a kind of reverence that didn’t fade even on long days. It was the way people relaxed around him, too. He made them feel seen. Safe.

Even me.

The next few hours blurred—dogs with skin issues, a cat with an abscess, a hissing iguana whose owner refused to admit it was obese.

We barely had time to eat, let alone sneak off into a closet like some hormone-riddled teens.

Probably for the best. I wasn’t sure I had the strength to pretend I didn’t want him otherwise.

Still, every time our hands brushed over a clipboard or passed a syringe, it lit a fire in my chest. We moved around each other like gravity had turned personal.

But when clients were in the room, we didn’t miss a beat.

I gave instructions, he followed. He asked questions, I answered.

No slip-ups. No lingering stares. Just two professionals doing their jobs.

By mid-afternoon, the rush had thinned out. Gideon was restocking antibiotics. I stood by the front desk, scanning the schedule.

I glanced toward him. “I’m heading to the office for a bit.”

He nodded without looking up. “Cool.”

Cool. Right. Except nothing about what was inside my scrubs felt cool.

I slipped into the office, shut the door behind me, and leaned against it for a beat before crossing to the desk.

I tapped Mom with three heart emojis, and the line rang twice before she answered, her voice bright and familiar.

“Well, look who remembered he has parents.”

I smiled, dropping into the rolling chair behind the desk. Every week, I made this call—though Mom still acted like it was a rare event. Her sense of humor was boundless.

“Hey, Ma.”

“Are you eating enough?” she asked immediately. “You sound thin.”

I huffed a laugh. “I’m pretty sure sound doesn’t have a weight class.”

“Don’t sass me. I’m your mother.”

“I know,” I said, softer this time. “How are you and Dad?”

“Oh, we’re fine. I’ve got you on speaker—your father’s here too. He was messing with the gutters again, even though his back?—”

“I heard that,” Dad’s voice called in the background. “And it’s my spine, not my back. Get it right if you’re going to gossip.”

“Same difference,” she muttered, before adding louder, “Anyway, we’re fine. But your sister’s dating again.”

I leaned back in the chair, grinning. “Oh really?”

“Boy, don’t you lie to me. I can hear your face doing that thing.”

That made me laugh. “What thing?”

“That thing —the one where you try to sound innocent, but your whole face is lying out loud.”

She wasn’t wrong. Camille had already texted me a week ago. Sent a picture of the guy and everything. He looked decent. Not that I said that out loud.

“Has she brought him around yet?” I asked.

“Last night. He’s tall. Really polite. A vegetarian, though.” Her tone made it sound like he’d confessed to grand larceny.

Dad piped up again from somewhere farther away: “Tell her to keep this one longer than a houseplant.”

I snorted. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m practical,” he replied. “That girl can’t keep a succulent alive.”

Mom sighed, half-exasperated, half-affectionate. “Ignore him. You know how he gets.”

My hand curled around the phone tighter, warmth blooming in my chest. It always surprised me how much I missed this—hearing my parents bicker, hearing them be .

Then Mom’s tone shifted enough to feel the weight under the words. “So... are you seeing anyone?”

I hesitated. I wanted to tell her. But… I didn’t know what to tell her.

“I’ve met someone interesting.”

Quiet on the other end. Not heavy. Just... tuned in.

“Oh?” she said, soft and careful. “Interesting good, or interesting you’re-not-sure-yet?”

“Good,” I said, and that part came easy. “It’s just... new.”

Still no judgment. Just another beat of thoughtful silence.

“Well,” she said eventually, “when you’re ready to bring her around, we’re here.”

My breath caught a little.

“And how’s the guy helping out at the clinic?”

I blinked at the ceiling. “Gideon?”

“If that’s his name. You mentioned him once. Said he was competent.”

“Still is.”

A pause. “And how are you ?”

I huffed a laugh. “I’m fine, Ma.”

“There’s a little more sunshine in your voice than usual. It’s throwing off my rhythm.”

I grinned. “Must be a glitch in the system.”

“Well, don’t fix it. I like this version.” She was quiet for a beat, then added, “You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m glad to hear you sounding more like you.”

My chest tightened a little in that way it does when your mother somehow reaches through the phone and straight into your ribcage.

“I’ll call you next week,” I said after a moment. “Tell Dad to take care of himself.”

“He’s still here. Eating peanuts. Making a mess.”

I heard him in the background: “I’m conserving energy.”

“Sure you are, Dad.”

Mom laughed. “I’ll let you go. Love you, son.”

“Love you too, Ma.”

The smell of coffee drifted into the hall, rich and sharp.

I leaned on the kitchen doorway and let myself watch him.

There was nothing sexual about the way he made coffee—except maybe the way his forearms flexed when he filled the pot.

And the way my stomach dipped when he smiled at something in his own head.

Okay. Maybe there was something.

What the hell was I doing? This wasn’t me—at least, not until lately. But there I was, staring at him like the caffeine wasn’t the thing I wanted most right now.

I stepped inside, close enough for our arms to brush. “Smells good.” The word slipped out before I could catch it. He blushed, but his chin tilted up like he wasn’t going to let me see him flustered.

Two mugs waited on the counter, steam curling from both. His hands were empty now. I should’ve said thanks and walked out. Instead, I stayed right there, my pulse doing that steady thump-thump in my throat.

On impulse I hugged him from behind, my chest brushing his back, my palms finding the slope of his hips. He stilled, but he didn’t move away.

“Do you mind?”

“N–No…”

My nose brushed the spot beneath his ear; his breath caught.

The scent of him was warm skin and soap, and under that—want. My want.

He leaned back a fraction, enough that I felt the flex of his thigh against mine, his ass against my groin. I slid one palm lower, tracing the line of his waistband, not quite inside.

He leaned back into me. I felt his weight settle against my chest, the flex of his thigh against mine, his ass against my groin. My palms found his hips, thumbs brushing the warm strip of skin where his shirt had ridden up. He stilled, but it wasn’t revulsion; it was arousal.

My mouth was close enough to his ear that I didn’t have to speak loud. “Do you always make coffee this distracting?”

He gave a little huff, like he was trying not to smile. “Pretty sure that’s your problem, not mine.”

“Could be,” I said, letting my hands slide lower, fingertips teasing the line of his waistband.

He twisted his head to glance at me over his shoulder, lips twitching. “You realize we’re at the clinic? We’re supposed to be working.”

“Correction,” I said, leaning in so my words brushed his skin, “you’re supposed to be working. I’m the boss.”

That got him to snort. “You are the worst boss.”

“And yet…” I dragged my thumbs an inch further inside his waistband, “…here we are.”

Color climbed his cheeks. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stalling.”

He let out this half-laugh, half-sigh that hit me low in the gut.

I knew what he felt like naked against me—we’d already done that much.

But I didn’t know what his dick felt like in my bare hand.

I wanted to. Badly. I wanted to wrap my palm around him, feel the weight, make him tremble when I stroked him just right.

“Turn around,” I murmured.

He shifted in my arms until we were face to face, barely an inch between us. I kept one hand low on his hip, the other brushing his jaw, my thumb lingering there long enough to make his eyes go heavy.

“Can we… make it mutual?” he asked, voice quiet but sure.

My chest tightened—not from nerves, but from something hungrier, heavier.

“Mutual?”

He nodded. “I want to—while you’re…” His gaze dropped, heat flickering there.

I didn’t need him to finish the sentence. I understood perfectly. And God help me, I wanted it too.

When he reached for me, fingers skimming the edge of my scrubs, every nerve seemed to tune to that single point of contact.

The fabric rasped softly under his knuckles, the air between us warming with the mix of our breaths.

I felt my own pulse jump, thick and deliberate, as his hand slipped beneath the waistband.

Skin to skin.

The first brush of his fingers along my shaft made my lungs stutter.

Warm. Curious. Not tentative—deliberate, like he was learning me, mapping the weight and shape for himself.

My breath dragged rough through my throat, catching on the edges of a groan I didn’t let out.

I could smell coffee cooling on the counter, the faint bite of disinfectant from the clinic hall, but mostly I smelled him—his skin, the soft hint of his shampoo.

I slipped my hand inside his waistband. I curled my hand around him. Skin to skin, his soft exhale shivered against my cheek.

He was hard and warm and twitching in my hand, the weight of him resting fully against my palm. He inhaled sharply, mouth parted, head tipped back.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It just—feels… big.”

I swallowed a laugh. “I’m relieved that you think so.”

He huffed a breathless sound. “I meant… new.” Then, he glanced deliberately down at me, a spark of mischief cutting through his blush. “But that is big too.”

We both broke into quiet, incredulous laughter, the kind you only get when you’ve got your dick out in the workplace with the clock ticking down, but neither of you care enough to stop. The kind that reminded us that we didn’t have to know everything yet.

“God,” he breathed. “Is this—am I supposed to?—?”

“No rules here.”

We stroked each other in unison, watching the way our hands moved, the way our bodies responded. Gideon’s forehead dropped to mine, our noses brushing, breath shared in shallow bursts.

He bit his bottom lip, then blurted, “Do people make eye contact through this?”

I choked on a laugh, my grip stuttering. “Is that what you’re worried about right now?”

“I don’t know, man, it’s just—intense.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

His eyes were half-lidded, gaze warm. “Good.”

His hips flexed into my hand. Precum slicked his tip, making every stroke easier, more fluid. He did the same to me, and it was all I could do not to fall apart.

Then he said, “Malcolm—” in this small, amazed voice that hit something low in my gut.

I leaned in, pressed my lips to his cheek. “Almost there?”

His breath shuddered. “Yeah.”

He came first. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in a soft, strangled sound. His release streaked my knuckles, and I watched the way his body shook, how he curled inward, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a moan.

I followed a few seconds later, burying my face against his neck, muffling a curse into his skin.

We stayed like that for a moment—breathing, laughing a little, catching each other’s eyes and then looking away, grinning like idiots. A glance at the clock told me we had eight minutes until the next appointment.

“Guess we were… productive,” he said.

I smirked. “Best staff meeting I’ve ever had.”