Page 24 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Malcolm

Sheets clung in loose twists around our legs, the way we’d curled into each other sometime in the night.

The morning light had that soft, golden quality that made everything seem a little more subdued, a little slower.

Gideon slept with his cheek pressed to my chest, his arm draped across my stomach, breathing steady and warm. One bare leg hooked over mine.

His body was smaller than mine, but solid in the way I’d come to crave—his weight tucked up against me, the heat of his skin, the shape of his body fitting into mine like he'd always belonged there.

I didn’t move, and I didn’t want to.

Instead, I watched the faint crease between his brows, the softness of his mouth. He looked younger in sleep. More confident, somehow. Like nothing could touch him here.

This wasn’t just about lust. The way he let himself soften around me—emotionally, physically—was a kind of trust I didn’t take lightly. And I wanted to match it. Not just in bed, but in how I showed up for him.

I wanted to do something for him, take him on a date. So I had to think of something simple. Something intentional. Something that said : I see you. I appreciate you. You matter to me. Something just for us.

The problem was, I hadn’t dated a guy before and the stakes felt different.

I sifted through ideas in my head—dinner somewhere upscale (too stiff), a weekend drive to the coast (too much, too soon), a concert (too loud, too crowded). He wasn’t an extrovert. More of a laid-back, take-your-time kind of guy.

I needed something quiet. Intentional. Thoughtful.

Apple picking came to mind.

Family-run orchard outside of town. Peaceful. Private. Quaint enough to feel thoughtful. And maybe a little cheesy. He’d like that. I was almost sure of it.

Gideon stirred, shifting closer. His nose nudged against my chest. Then a soft, sleepy groan. “Mmm. Why’re you awake?” His voice rasped, cracked with sleep.

“Because I’m old and my body hates me,” I murmured, thumb brushing the top of his spine. “But you look too comfortable to disturb.”

“Flatterer,” he mumbled into my skin. He yawned, nuzzling closer. “Are you always this nice in the morning?”

“Only when someone drools on my chest all night.”

He jerked back, eyes wide. “I did not. ”

A grin pulled at my mouth. “You totally did.”

He blinked at me for a second, then buried his face in the pillow with a muffled groan. “Rude.”

“You like it.”

He lifted his head enough to give me a lazy smile. “Maybe.”

I let the moment settle—his sleepy smile, his bare shoulder catching the morning light, the warmth between us still humming like it hadn’t faded during the night.

“Had a good sleep, though?” I brushed a thumb over his shoulder.

He nodded into my chest. “Too good. Don’t want to move.” He grinned against my skin, then kissed it. A small press of lips near my collarbone. “Are we staying in bed all day? Because I can be convinced.”

I laughed quietly. “Tempting. But no.”

He pulled back enough to look up at me, eyes still half-lidded. “Again, rude.”

I pressed a kiss to his temple. “Get ready, baby. I’m taking you out.”

His brows lifted slightly. “What?”

“I’m taking you out.”

That woke him up a little more. “Like… out out ?”

“Yep.”

“Like—on a date?” His voice cracked slightly, sleepy-giddy disbelief edging in.

“A real one,” I said. “You know. Outside. In clothes.”

He pushed up on one elbow, the sheet slipping low across his hips. “You’re serious.”

“Mark your calendar. This is our first one.”

A flush crept across his cheeks. “I’ve never actually been on one.”

Something twisted in my chest. I pushed up enough to look him in the eyes. “Then I guess I better make it count.”

His smile turned softer. “You already are.”

I kissed him again, morning breath and all.

“You’ll love it.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile stayed on his lips. “You sound awfully confident for someone who used the phrase ‘mark your calendar’ like we’re eighty.”

“You’ll survive.”

Gideon leaned in and pecked me on the cheek. Then he pulled away with a grin. “You better feed me first.”

“Already planned to.”

“Now I’m scared.”

“Good,” I said, hopping out of the bed.

Forty-five minutes later, Gideon was in the truck, bare feet propped on the dash like he owned the place. Sunlight spilled across his thighs, warming the frayed edges of his shorts. I’d left him listening to music while I went inside Don't Go Bakin' My Heart to get some goodies for us to munch on.

“You were gone for an entire album,” he said, reaching for the brown paper bag in my hand.

I burst into laughter. “An entire album, my ass.” I checked my phone. I wasn’t even gone for ten minutes.

He rolled his eyes. “Can you blame me for losing all sense of time? I’m so damn hungry.” He cradled the bag like it was a damn treasure. “Tell me there are carbs.”

“Cinnamon rolls. Still warm.”

“God, yes.” Opening the bag, he continued, “I knew I let you wreck me last night for a reason.”

I slid into the driver’s seat, still grinning. “You keep saying things like that, and I’ll turn this date around.”

He bit into the roll before answering, a happy hum escaping his throat. “Where are we going?”

I pulled out of the parking lot, the scent of cinnamon filling the cab. “It’s a surprise.”

“You’re giving mysterious older man energy. Should I be concerned?”

“Only if you hate fun.”

“I love fun. I’m amazing at fun.” He took another bite. “Is it breakfast? Brunch? Hiking? One of those weird museums with taxidermy and salt art?”

“Nope.”

“Are you taking me to meet your secret wife and kids?”

“Guess again.”

He squinted at me, chewing slowly like he could analyze the clues in his pastry. “Somewhere outdoorsy?”

“Not the bug-spray-and-camping kind of outdoorsy,” I said. “Think sweeter. Literally.”

A beat of silence passed as he eyed the road ahead. I kept my hand on the wheel, the other on my thigh, tapping lightly to the rhythm of nothing.

Planning something for a man—for him—should’ve felt foreign. Instead, it settled into place like I’d done it before in another life. The kind of gesture I never thought I’d get to make. A morning like this. Some moments with him.

He reached for the center console, thumb brushing the touchscreen. “Do you mind?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Instead of the radio, he paired his phone with the truck’s Bluetooth, scrolling through a playlist called Road Snacks . A mix of mellow indie, older alt-rock, and a couple of questionable pop songs poured from the speakers.

By the time we’d worked through half the playlist, the landscape had shifted—golden hills giving way to green, the air a little crisper. Wooden signs started appearing at the roadside, hand-painted in looping script with names like Cider Ridge and Apple Hill Drive .

Another turn and the orchard came into view, rows of apple trees stretching across a gentle slope. Their branches bowed under the weight of red and gold fruit, neat and orderly in the morning light. The sign over the weathered welcome shack read:

Sweet Haven Orchard – Pick Your Own

Gideon hopped out first, boots crunching on the gravel. He stretched, arms overhead, then turned in a slow circle like he needed the whole place to sink in.

“This is…” His voice softened. “Way cuter than I expected.”

I came around the front of the truck, carrying the half-finished cinnamon rolls. “What’d you expect? A rotting field with sad trees?”

“I don’t know. Less charming. More bugs.”

“It’s early. Give it time.”

From the barn, a familiar bass line floated over the quiet. 00s R&B, smooth and nostalgic. I smiled automatically.

Gideon cocked his head. “You’re humming.”

“Guess so.”

He smirked. “You’re showing your age.”

“Proudly.”

“You know this song?”

“Every word. This was prom music.”

He whistled low. “Wow. You really are ancient.”

“Older,” I corrected, “and wiser.”

At the shack, a teenage staffer looked up from her clipboard and waved. “You guys picking today?”

“That’s the plan,” I said with a smile.

“Cool. We’ve got Gala and Gravenstein ripe this week. Rows four through seven are open. Pricing’s by the pound—$2.75. Ladders are at the row ends if you need ’em.”

The staffer handed over a laminated map, but I shook my head with a quick smile. “We’re good without one.”

Gideon raised a brow at me. “Are you planning on us getting lost?”

“That’s half the fun.”

The girl grinned. “Fair enough. Baskets are right there.” She pointed toward a stack near the fence.

We thanked her and stepped away from the shack. Gideon grabbed one of the wooden baskets before falling in beside me, brushing my arm as we headed for the first row.

“Let’s just meander,” I said. “No rush. We’ll see what looks good.”

He followed me down a dirt path lined with signs— Gravenstein – Ripe & Ready! , Honeycrisp Coming Soon —and then drifted toward the quieter end of the orchard, away from the few families with strollers and baskets already filling. The air smelled like crushed grass and sugar.

I reached up and plucked an apple from the nearest branch, dropping it into the basket Gideon carried.

“Granny Smith,” I said.

His mouth curved. “Confident.”

I shrugged. “Confident-ish.”

He gave me a sidelong glance. “You’ve got that tone that says you’re probably right.”

“Probably,” I said, grinning.

I held an apple out to him while I bit into another one, crisp and tart, in my other hand.

He ignored the one I offered. Took the one I’d just bitten instead and bit into the same spot without blinking.

Our eyes met.

That second hung suspended—silent, electric, unspoken.

Then he chewed slowly, swallowed. “Pretty good.”

“Yeah,” I managed, voice lower than before.

We strolled a little farther. He plucked an apple overhead and nudged it into the basket. A few more fell in with soft thuds.

“So,” he said casually, “is this your big move? Lure them into the orchard with baked goods and 2000s slow jams?”

I laughed. “You’re the only date I’ve ever brought here.”

“Lucky me,” he said, eyes glinting as he bumped my shoulder with his. “I get the cinnamon roll, the slow jams, and the orchard tour package.”