Page 3 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Malcolm

I caught his eyes again—the first time since I’d offered him the spare room. This wasn’t just a tired guy worn down by life. This was someone layered, complicated, with a story waiting to be told.

His dark hair was thick and tousled, like he hadn’t bothered with a mirror all day.

Jawline sharp enough to cut glass, the kind that would’ve landed him on a billboard if life had been fairer.

Those eyes—green with a touch of gray—held a quiet intensity, like sea glass battered by storm waves, rough but mesmerizing.

There was no flash or swagger in him. No sign that he knew how striking he was.

His mouth was pressed tight, maybe more out of habit than choice, giving away nothing.

The whole stance was subtle but honest—guarded, yet oddly vulnerable, as if he was always ready to vanish before anyone got too close.

He was attractive. Objectively speaking. The kind of attractive that even a straight guy could clock without meaning to.

I cleared my throat, shifting my gaze.

What the hell was I thinking?

Maybe it was the way he’d stood there in the exam room—back a little too straight, like he’d braced himself for rejection and didn’t want to flinch when it came.

Or maybe it was the exhaustion written in the fine lines around his eyes, the kind that doesn’t come from just one sleepless night but from too many in a row.

Either way, I’d already opened my mouth and offered the spare room before my brain could tell me not to.

I didn’t invite strangers to my home. Ever.

“This way,” I said. I stepped toward the back exit of the clinic—a sturdy door near the supply room that led to the narrow driveway behind the building.

The late afternoon sun still hung warm in the sky, but a light breeze stirred the leaves of the oak and maple trees lining the property, carrying the faint scent of freshly mown grass and dry earth.

Gideon followed closely as I moved along the concrete path separating the clinic from my house, which sat quietly a few steps away. The yard was neatly maintained, with trimmed shrubs and a patch of lavender blooming by the porch.

I unlocked the front door of the house and pushed it open, stepping inside. The faint, clean smell of wood polish and fresh linen greeted me. The soft hum of a ceiling fan blended with the distant sound of a neighbor’s lawn mower winding down.

I hope I don’t regret this. But… there’s something about him that makes me think I’m doing the right thing.

“Guest room’s down the hall—first door on the right,” I said, leading the way.

I opened the door to the spare room and stepped inside, gesturing for Gideon to follow.

A full-sized bed stood against the far wall, neatly made with crisp gray sheets and a thin, breathable quilt folded at the foot.

A small wooden dresser stood opposite, with a plain lamp resting on top.

The window was open, and a quiet fan circulated the warm summer air.

It’s a place to catch his breath.

“You’ll have some privacy,” I said quietly.

Gideon took it in with a nod, slow and deliberate. “Appreciate it.”

He dropped his bag by the bed—well-worn canvas, straps fraying, like it’d seen more miles than a truck tire. He didn’t move to sit. Just stood there, waiting, like he was still unsure if I might change my mind.

I cleared my throat and looked away, suddenly too aware of the silence stretching between us. “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall on the left. Kitchen’s through there,” I said, jerking my head toward the doorway behind me. “You probably haven’t eaten in a while.”

“A while,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You want something? I can put something together. Won’t be fancy.”

His mouth tipped into a faint smile. “Yes, thank you.”

I led the way to the kitchen, flicking on the overhead light. The space was small but tidy—stainless-steel sink, plain white cabinets, the faint scent of coffee still lingering from earlier. I pulled open the fridge. “Sandwich okay? Or I’ve got leftover chicken and rice.”

“Sandwich works,” he said, easing into one of the chairs at the table like his legs had been carrying him for far too long.

I set bread, cheese, and turkey on the counter, grabbing mustard from the fridge. “Water? Tea? I’ve got some juice.”

“Water’s fine.”

A few minutes later, I slid the plate toward him along with a tall glass. He murmured another thank-you before taking the first bite like he wasn’t sure if it was rude to eat too fast.

I’d made the same thing for myself, and we didn’t talk much while we ate.

When we finished, he gathered the plates and glasses without a word. The tap squeaked as he turned it on, rinsing everything before working up a small lather in the sink. A couple of minutes later, he’d set the clean dishes in the rack and wiped down the counter like he’d been here before.

“You can clean up in the bathroom whenever you’re ready,” I said, nodding toward the hall. “I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”

“Alright,” he said softly.

A few minutes later, the sound of running water filled the hall, and I found myself leaning back in my chair, wondering why it felt… different, having someone else here.

Back in my room, I sat on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, trying to work through what the hell just happened.

One night. That’s it.

He needed a place to crash. I had a spare room. Simple.

Except it didn’t feel simple. Not with the way he looked at me—like he expected nothing and everything at once. Like he’d already lived through worse than whatever I could throw at him.

I rubbed a hand over my face and sighed.

Sleep didn’t come easy.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting the slow turns of the fan blades above me.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Gideon’s face—the wary tilt of his mouth, the way his hand had rested so lightly on the scruffy mutt's back, careful not to startle him, like he knew exactly how much weight he could bear.

The dog had been a mess. Half-starved, skittish. But when Gideon spoke to him, something in him eased. Ears twitched, head lifted, the faintest wag of his tail. Like Gideon wasn’t just offering kindness—he understood his language.

That had gotten under my skin more than I wanted to admit.

I sighed and scrubbed a hand through my hair, feeling the old, familiar heaviness creep up. Not about Gideon. About me.

Back in San Francisco, sleep had been a luxury I couldn't afford.

Long nights under the cold fluorescent lights of the emergency vet hospital, shifting from trauma case to trauma case without room to breathe.

Hit-by-cars, rat bait poisonings, cats with urinary blockages crashing at two in the morning—one minute you were placing a central line in a dying dog, the next you were holding an owner's hand while they sobbed through a decision they never wanted to make.

No time to think. No time to feel.

Just keep moving, keep patching the holes, keep pretending you could save them all if you worked hard enough.

And then there was the marriage.

I willed the memories to fade, but they stayed, stubborn as old scars.

Me coming home after back-to-back shifts to a woman who barely looked up from her wineglass.

Conversations that felt more like crossing items off a list. Two strangers orbiting the same empty space, too tired—or maybe too numb—to fix what had cracked wide open between them.

In the end, it hadn’t been some explosive fight. No screaming, no slammed doors. Just a quiet, mutual shrug. Like neither of us cared enough to even pretend anymore.

Maybe that was worse.

I exhaled slowly through my nose, the sound loud in the quiet of the house.

Coming here was supposed to be a clean break.

Start over somewhere small. Somewhere I could remember why I got into this job in the first place.

Help a town that still needed help, even if it wasn't flashy.

Even if the emergencies were more "my cow’s giving birth in a ditch" than "massive internal bleeding. "

Simple.

Manageable.

Safe.

At least, it had been—until a man with too many shadows in his eyes showed up holding a trembling stray, his focus locked so fiercely on the animal it was… hard to look away.

I turned onto my side, punching the pillow once to reshape it.

One night. That's all it was. I'd done the decent thing. There was no reason to make it bigger than that.

Still, I didn't close my eyes.

And I didn’t stop listening for any sound from down the hall.