Page 30 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Malcolm

Coffee sloshed against the side of the cup as I shifted in the too-small seat. It tasted like cardboard. Burned a little, too. Still better than falling asleep thinking about the way Gideon had looked at me last night. The way he wanted me—like he couldn’t get enough.

I kept my eyes on the panel, but the words blurred. Something about community partnerships. Shelter innovations. The guy at the mic had a voice built for white noise. I wasn’t even pretending to take notes anymore. My pen rolled uselessly across the program booklet in my lap.

I’d arrived later than I should have. Not late-late, but close enough that I had to slide into the nearest open seat instead of scoping out something better.

My fault. I could’ve left earlier. Should’ve.

But walking out that front door while Gideon was still blinking sleep from his eyes felt criminal.

I’d kissed him like I wanted it to last all day. Maybe all weekend.

My phone buzzed against my thigh. I didn’t even pretend I wasn’t checking it.

Gideon: Dennis is sulking. Keeps sitting by the door like he’s waiting for you. I might be projecting.

I stared at the screen, heat climbing my chest.

Me: Tell him I miss him too. And to stay the hell off my pillow.

Three little dots blinked like he was about to say more. Then they disappeared.

That was fine. He was probably checking on the in-house patients. Or finishing up the chart notes for that calico with the ear infection. Or arguing with the printer again. It didn’t matter. He’d thought of me.

I thumbed the screen off and sat back, folding one ankle over my knee. People around me were nodding along or scrolling quietly or typing without looking. The hum of professionals pretending they were completely engaged.

This used to be my thing. These conferences, these panels.

I used to eat them up. Sit in the front row.

Challenge the speakers. Network like hell.

Now I couldn’t stop thinking about the twenty-four-year-old back in Foggy Basin who fed squirrels by hand and who alphabetized the spice rack even though neither of us ever cooked anything more complicated than pasta.

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to focus.

The speaker’s voice rose, making a joke I missed. Laughter rippled across the room. I shifted forward, legs uncrossing, hands flat on the table in front of me.

I’d spent the better part of my adult life chasing one version of success. The career. The credentials. The impact.

And yet here I was, restless. My body in this chair, but my heart two hours north in a small town where a man with a big heart and a quiet strength was probably wrangling my clinic and talking to Dennis like he understood every word.

For the first time, the future I wanted didn’t look like a ladder I had to climb. It looked like a door I wanted to walk through, and Gideon was already holding it open.

A round of polite applause brought me back. I blinked, straightened up, and tried to look halfway interested. One more panel before the break. Then I could breathe.

Or at least get some coffee that didn’t taste like it came from a cardboard box in 1993.

During the break, I wandered outside with a half-full coffee cup and no real destination in mind.

The conference center overlooked a narrow stretch of garden—more decorative than useful—but there were a few benches tucked between potted succulents and some shady trees.

I needed a minute. I wasn’t overwhelmed or bored—just…

full. The way you get when your brain’s firing on all cylinders and you want to let it settle before packing more in.

“Malcolm?”

I turned at the sound of my name and found myself staring at a face I hadn’t seen since vet school.

“Eric Han,” I said, smiling automatically. “Wow.”

He laughed, then held out his arms, and before I could think twice, we hugged—quick, solid, familiar.

“Man, you haven’t aged a day,” he said.

I gave him a look. “That’s a lie, but thanks.”

Eric had always been easy to be around. Quick with a joke. Quick to listen, too. He wore a button-down that didn’t quite match his sneakers, and his conference badge hung sideways from a lanyard.

“Are you presenting today?” I asked.

“Nope. Just attending. I took a break from presenting stuff to recharge a bit.”

I nodded. “Same.”

He motioned toward the bench, and we both sat. My coffee had gone lukewarm, but I took a sip anyway.

“Last I heard,” Eric said, “you’d made it to San Francisco. Big hospital, trauma cases. Honestly, I never doubted you’d get there. You always had that drive.”

“Yeah,” I said, a smile tugging at my mouth. “I did make it there. For a while.”

Eric tilted his head, curious. “Still with Angela? You two were inseparable back then.”

My chest tightened. “We’re divorced.”

His expression shifted—not pity, not judgment, just a flicker of shared understanding. “I’m sorry, man. That’s rough.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “But it’s okay. I moved to a small town—Foggy Basin. Got my own clinic. I’m not making San Francisco money anymore, but…” I exhaled, glancing at him. “I’m happy. I like the practice and the people.”

Eric’s mouth lifted into a real smile. “Then you landed right where you’re supposed to be.”

We caught up for a few more minutes—talking about mutual classmates, the ways tech was changing rural vet care, the kinds of cases walking through our doors lately. Eric told me about his three cats and a seven-year-old daughter who’d named them all after Marvel villains.

“What about you?” he asked. “Any pets these days, or are you still claiming you’re too busy for one?”

That used to be true. All those years in San Francisco, working insane hours at the hospital, I hadn’t had the time—or the energy—to raise anything right. But now… now was different.

But then there was another truth. I could give Eric an easy answer.

In fact, one sat on my tongue. I could shrug and joke about having a roommate who had a dog named Dennis, and that would be more than enough.

That was what I used to do—sidestep, keep it safe.

But my chest tightened with something heavier than fear. Gideon deserved more than silence.

“Actually, yeah,” I said. “My boyfriend has a dog named Dennis. He’s…

basically part of the deal.” The word boyfriend came out certain, grounded, even as my chest tightened like I’d stepped onto a ledge.

It was the first time I’d said it outside of the circle that already knew about Gideon and me.

My pulse jumped, waiting for the air to shift, for judgment or surprise.

Eric’s expression softened, warm in a way that wasn’t pitying or patronizing. Just sincere. “That’s great, Malcolm. Really. I’m glad you’ve got that.”

Relief settled in, quiet and strong. Like loosening my grip on a truth I’d been holding too tight. “Yeah,” I said, voice low. “Me too.”

We let the conversation drift after that, but as Eric talked, part of me stayed back in Foggy Basin, curled on that too-small couch with Gideon’s head on my shoulder, the smell of clean laundry and his cologne in the air.

Eventually, someone rang a bell inside to signal the end of intermission. We stood, reluctant to cut the moment short.

“Good to see you again, man,” Eric said. “Don’t let another decade go by before we catch up.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s not.”

We traded numbers, shook hands, and promised to actually use them this time.

As I walked back inside, it hit me how easy it was to lose touch. And how much better it felt not to.

I sat through the next session with my notebook open, pen in hand, pretending to take notes. The topic was handling burnout—how to find balance in a job that never really ends. It should’ve been useful. It was the kind of thing I could use more of.

But all I could think about was Gideon.

He’d probably roll his eyes at the panel leader’s “wellness wheel” slide, but he’d love the part where someone talked about how care doesn’t always have to be big or flashy to be meaningful. That some days, showing up was enough.

I slid my phone out of my pocket and typed beneath the table.

Me: This panel’s about burnout. You’d like some of it. Especially the part where they said rest is part of the job, not the reward.

My phone buzzed a moment later.

Gideon: Oof. That’s a sermon.

Gideon: Also: have you eaten? Or are you pretending to survive on bad coffee again?

I smiled.

Me: Bad coffee and a banana muffin. So basically, thriving.

Me: Can’t wait to come home.

Gideon: Tell the muffin I said thank you for its service.

Gideon: Also, Dennis took over your pillow and growled at me when I tried to move him. Just saying.

Me: That dog’s lucky he’s cute.

Me: He can keep it warm for me.

I slid the phone back into my pocket and sat back.

I should’ve been paying attention. The panel wasn’t bad. Useful, even. But being away from Foggy Basin—away from Gideon—just made me more certain of what I wanted. Of what mattered.

And right now, none of it was up on that projector screen.

I wrote one line in my notebook before the session wrapped. Just one:

The work is hard, but I’m not alone anymore.

And that was enough.