Page 28 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Gideon

Steam curled around us, softening the light and fogging the mirror behind the glass.

Water ran in slow rivulets down Malcolm’s chest, catching on the curve of his pecs, trailing lower.

I’d washed him before—dozens of times now—but it still hit me, this quiet awe.

The trust in how he let me touch him. The ease in the way we moved together, slipping in and out of reach, fingers brushing skin slick with soap.

He turned slightly, letting me lather his shoulders, his back. My hands moved with care, kneading tension from his muscles. I pressed my mouth to the space between his shoulder blades. He hummed, low and quiet.

“Gideon,” he said, voice blurred by water and warmth.

I didn't answer right away. My fingers drifted down his spine, over the dip of it, resting on his hips. Heart thudding. Mouth dry despite the steam. I swallowed.

“Can I—” My voice came out rough. I tried again. “I want to try something.”

Malcolm turned, water slipping down his face, beading in his stubble. He didn’t joke or tease, just searched my eyes.

“What is it?”

My pulse fluttered like wings under skin. “I want to… go down on you.”

A moment passed. “Are you sure?”

I nodded, then bit my lip. “I’ve never done it before. To anyone. But I want to. I want it to be you.”

“You don’t have to prove anything, Gideon.”

“I’m not trying to.” I touched his chest. “I think about it. I want to know what it’s like to—taste you. To give you that.”

His hand curled gently around the back of my neck. “Okay.”

I kissed the center of his chest, then his stomach, sinking slowly to my knees.

Cool tile beneath me. Steam curling up, clinging to my skin.

Water pattering steadily, but muffled now by the pounding in my ears.

Malcolm’s scent—clean and fragrant—wrapped around me until I couldn’t breathe anything else.

I looked up. He was watching. Eyes darkened, lips parted, like each breath carried my name.

Fingers trembling a little, I touched him first. Just to feel the weight of him in my palm. It was a weight I knew well. He was already halfway hard, skin hot and silken, and my stomach fluttered with nerves and anticipation. My tongue flicked out, tentative, tasting salt, skin, soap.

Malcolm let out a breath. “That feels good.”

I wrapped my lips around him, careful, reverent. My jaw ached slightly as I took more of him in. Tried again, slower. Every inch tasted like something I couldn’t name but wanted to feast on for the rest of my life.

He groaned softly. His fingers curled but didn’t tighten. “Jesus, Gideon.”

I pulled back to catch my breath, looked up again. Water ran down his stomach in lazy streams. His eyes met mine—half-lidded, molten, and something like wonder flickered there. That look gave me courage.

I tried again. Deeper. Let myself explore, adjust. My tongue mapped him like a devotion. He twitched slightly when I dragged it along the underside. I did it again. Felt him throb. Heard the sharp breath he took in.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmured, voice gone rough. “You don’t have to take all of me. Just… ughh… this is perfect.”

The praise made my face burn in the best way. My fingers squeezed his thighs. I found a rhythm—slow, deliberate, learning what made him moan, what made him mutter my name like he’d forgotten everything else.

And when his body tensed, when his breath came short and sharp, he warned me—voice ragged. “Baby, I—I can’t hold back. You don’t have to?—”

For a second, I wondered if I could handle it. What if I didn’t like it? What if I disappointed him? But then I remembered that this moment was above me, him, us. I tightened my grip, meeting his eyes for a heartbeat, letting him see the answer there: I want this.

And when it happened, when he shuddered and gave in, all I felt was the rush of warmth, the startling intimacy of it, and the pulse of pride that I hadn’t pulled away. That I hadn’t let fear win.

Malcolm braced himself against the tile, his other hand cradling my jaw with a tenderness that made my chest ache. His eyes were hazy, awed. “Holy hell,” he whispered. “You just…” He didn’t finish, just looked at me like he’d never seen anything more precious.

I stood carefully. He kissed me, deep and grateful.

Then he dropped to his knees.

My breath caught. “You don’t have to?—”

“I want to,” he said. “I’ve never… I’ve never done it either. But I want to because it’s you.”

That heat in my chest flared, full and achy.

Malcolm’s mouth was gentle at first. Exploratory. Then bolder. I gripped the back of his head without meaning to, hips twitching toward him. My knees nearly buckled. My whole body became sensation—wet tile, trembling limbs, steam, his mouth, his mouth, good lord, his mouth?—

“Malcolm,” I gasped. “Oh—God, that—don’t stop?—”

I didn’t know it could feel like that. Nothing in my life had prepared me for the sheer undoing of it. I came with his name on my lips, hands in his hair, body curling toward his heat.

When he stood again, we held each other under the spray. He kissed my neck, my shoulder, my jaw, my lips. He sucked my tongue. It was pure joy to taste the essence of both of us. I reveled in it.

I didn’t say thank you . It wasn’t that kind of moment. It was something quieter, bigger. A vow passed between mouths and skin. It was safety and trust. It was vulnerability.

We toweled off in silence, touching more than we spoke. But everything I needed to say lingered between us.

I woke to the soft rustle of Malcolm pulling on his jeans.

Sunlight slanted through the blinds, painting him in honey and gold, and for a moment I lay there, watching the flex of his arms.

He lifted his head, caught me looking and smiled, the quiet curve of his lips warming me all the way through.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

My voice came out low, rough with sleep and something else. Contentment, maybe. Or wonder. Or the strange, grounding ache of wanting someone to stay longer even when you know they can’t.

He leaned down and kissed me. Just a brush at first, then firmer, like he was sealing something invisible in place. Like he was saying, I see you. I trust you.

“I’ve got to head out soon,” he murmured, thumb grazing the corner of my mouth. “Conference starts at ten. Takes me about two hours to get to Santa Rosa.”

I pushed up on one elbow. “I put your deodorant and cologne in the side pocket of your bag. You think we packed everything?”

His mouth curved, slow. “Yes, baby. We did.”

His hand lingered on my shoulder. “You okay being here on your own for four days?”

The words hit deeper than I expected. I swallowed. “You trust me with your clinic.”

“I do.” His gaze softened, no hesitation.

My laugh came out shaky, caught somewhere in my chest. He didn’t hand out words like that easily. He didn’t need to. The way he looked at me said more than a hundred speeches. Said: I know you’ve got this. I know you’ve got me.

Down in the kitchen, while he filled a travel mug with coffee, I fiddled with the hem of my T-shirt and watched him move around the space.

“Well you already know emails are slow on weekends,” he said, glancing at me. “But if anything urgent comes up, text. Otherwise, no pressure.”

I nodded. “Got it.”

He stepped close, crowding into my space in that way that never felt like too much, and kissed me again. This time slower, deeper. My toes curled against the cool tile.

“Take care of yourself, baby.”

“I will.”

Malcolm smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Then he kissed me once more—so deep, so thorough, that he almost snatched my breath—and stepped outside with his duffel over his shoulder.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And I was alone.

Forty-five minutes later, Dennis and I were at the clinic, me settling behind the front desk like I had a hundred times before. The difference was that Malcolm wasn’t in the back room if something went sideways. It was just me.

I couldn’t do the big stuff—no diagnosing, no prescriptions, no surgeries. But I could keep things moving. And I did. Phones answered. Appointments scheduled.

By the end of the work day, I closed out the register, swept up the exam room, and finished with a stock check—ticking through bottles and boxes, the rhythm itself a kind of grounding.

When I finally flipped the lights and locked the door, Dennis padded along at my side. My shoulders ached, my feet hurt, but underneath all that was something deeper, stronger: the knowledge that Malcolm had trusted me, and I hadn’t let him down.

When I got home, I sat on the couch and stared at nothing for a long time.

My brain wouldn’t shut up.

Not just about what Malcolm and I did last night. But about why it had felt so big. So— huge .

It wasn’t just the sex. It was Malcolm. It was the way he’d looked at me. The way I’d wanted to give that part of myself to him.

And the way I’d wanted to again, immediately after.

My laptop was on the table, still open from earlier. I pulled it closer, fingers hesitating over the keys.

I wasn’t sure what I was even searching for.

I typed:

Why didn’t I feel sexual attraction until I fell for someone?

Then:

Is it normal to not be into sex unless you’re in love?

And finally:

Types of sexual orientation.

It didn’t take long to find the word.

Demisexual.

I stared at it. Clicked on one link, then another.

Article after article described people who didn’t feel sexual attraction unless they had a strong emotional connection first. Who could go years without crushing on anyone.

Who didn’t care much about sex in theory, but in the right relationship, it could become something incredible .

My heart stuttered in my chest.

I wasn’t broken. Or weird. Or behind. I just… was .

All those years I thought I was missing something, watching people throw themselves into hookups and flirtations and situationships like it was the most natural thing in the world—I’d felt like I was on the outside of a joke I didn’t get.