Page 31 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Gideon

A bark echoed before the front door even closed. Dennis launched himself off the couch like a missile, nails scrabbling against the hardwood as he made a beeline for the entryway.

My pulse jumped. I stood, then immediately sat back down, then stood again. Ridiculous. I’d seen Malcolm four days ago. Talked to him. Texted. Watched a grainy video of him attempting to dance at a workshop social. But none of it felt like this.

He was back.

Shoots thudded against the steps as he climbed. Dennis’s tail wagged like it had its own motor. And then?—

Malcolm stepped into view, a duffel slung over one shoulder and a crooked smile pulling at his mouth.

I didn’t wait.

“Hey,” I said, but it came out breathier than planned.

He dropped the bag. Pulled me in tight, foreheads brushing for a second before I tucked into the curve of his neck. The faint trace of cologne clung to him, softened now by travel, but still him. Still home.

“Hi,” he murmured, lips brushing my hair.

“I missed you, Mal.”

His grip tightened. “Missed you too, baby.”

Dennis whined at our feet, pawing at Malcolm’s leg like he couldn’t believe his favorite human was back and had the audacity to greet someone else first.

Malcolm crouched down, both hands cradling the dog’s face. “Did you keep him in line while I was gone?”

The tail wagging intensified. A lick to Malcolm’s chin, then another. I laughed and tugged lightly on Dennis’s collar before things got too sloppy.

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll show you how things went.”

We headed to the clinic. Malcolm paused in the doorway, gaze sweeping the space like he was checking for cracks in the foundation. Dennis trotted ahead like he owned the place, nails tapping softly on the tile.

“Everyone’s still alive,” I said lightly. “So, I’m calling it a win.”

Malcolm arched a brow. “High standards.”

“Toast is doing great,” I added. “He let me clean his bandage without so much as a growl yesterday. Might’ve been the peanut butter bribe, but still.”

His smile touched his eyes this time. “That’s good to hear.”

We stopped by the recovery kennel where Toast perked up at Malcolm’s voice. He crouched beside his enclosure and murmured a soft greeting. His tail thumped twice before he flopped back down again, satisfied.

I shifted beside him. “There was one... who worried me a little. Rex. He stopped eating for a day and a half.”

Malcolm’s expression sobered, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I went through the checklist you left—ran vitals, tried switching his food, offered water by hand... I even played music.”

He looked up at me, surprised. “Music?”

“Yeah. It was that or Moby-Dick . I figured a chapter-long lecture on whale anatomy might push him over the edge.”

That earned a quiet laugh. “You did good.”

I swallowed the lump that rose unexpectedly. “Felt like guesswork most of the time.”

“It’s always a little guesswork,” he said, standing again. “But you handled it.”

His hand brushed mine.

I curled my fingers around his.

Later, Malcolm and I tangled up on the couch, his arm heavy around my waist, my face pressed to the warm spot between his jaw and shoulder.

It was ridiculous how good it felt, like my body had been waiting for this—waiting for him—for the past four days.

Just to hold him. To feel the rise and fall of his chest against mine.

The kind of ordinary closeness I’d once thought I’d never have.

Dennis had curled into his bed, nose tucked beneath his paw, out cold before the opening credits finished.

I tightened my arms around Malcolm, marveling at the simple truth of it: this man, this weight, this warmth, here with me. After days apart, nothing in the world had ever felt so right.

“How was the conference?”

He shrugged. “Long. A few useful panels. Mostly a lot of jargon, back-patting, and bad coffee. One of the breakout sessions got really heated about anesthetic protocols.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Scandalous.”

Malcolm grinned. “Yeah, high drama in vetland.”

A pause stretched between us. Not awkward—just... thick. Familiar.

Then he said it, voice quiet, almost casual: “It wasn’t as good as coming home to you.”

The truth of it threaded through me, simple and unshakable. My chest tightened, not from doubt but from the weight of how much he meant it.

“You make it sound like I’m the best part of your day,” I said, half teasing but unable to hide the hope behind it.

His smile softened.

“You are.”

Before I could say anything else, his hand came up, warm against the side of my neck, and then his mouth was on mine, sealing the words to me.

When we finally drew apart, slightly breathless, words rose before I could overthink them.

“While you were gone, I did some research.” I tapped my fingers against his muscular thigh. “About myself, mostly.”

His attention sharpened.

“I was trying to figure out why I feel the way I do sometimes. Or don’t. It’s been on my mind a while.”

He nodded at me encouragingly, his expression open and judgment-free, giving me the courage to continue.

“I think I’m demisexual.”

Malcolm absorbed the information quietly, without a sliver of judgment on his face. It was as if this was exactly the kind of thing he wanted me to be able to say out loud.

“I don’t feel sexual attraction unless there’s a deep emotional connection. Not just a crush or a vibe. Like, real trust. Real closeness. It’s not even about desire in a physical sense. More like... the feeling comes after I already feel safe.”

I paused. Let the words settle. Let myself breathe.

“I used to think something was wrong with me because I couldn’t understand what the big deal about sex was,” I added, quieter. “I felt that maybe I was broken. Or just... late to everything.”

Malcolm’s fingers tapped his mug once, then stilled. “There was never anything wrong with you.”

His voice had that low certainty I always trusted. The kind that didn’t need to be loud to be true.

I gave him a crooked smile. “Thanks.”

Then he said, “You know... before you, I thought I was straight.”

I leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Go on.”

“I mean, I married a woman. Slept with women. Wasn’t pretending. Wasn’t unhappy.” His gaze stayed on me, expression calm, one hand tracing lazy patterns across my knee. “But after the divorce... nothing clicked. There was attraction, sure. But it felt like... static. Not a real connection.”

“And then?”

“And then you happened.” He met my eyes. “And it wasn’t just about being into a man for the first time. It was about being into you. You made me rethink everything I thought I knew.”

I felt that in my ribs. In the soft center of my chest.

He went on. “So yeah, maybe I’m bi. Or queer. Or maybe labels don’t fit all that neatly. But I do know I’ve never felt more seen in a relationship than I do with you.”

Something warm unfurled in my chest, but it was the next part that stayed with me.

“I’m still learning, too,” he said. “Just... a few years behind you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It felt like a soft patch of ground between us, cleared and safe.

I looked at him. His eyes on mine. Still waiting, always patient.

“I think I’m ready.”

“For what?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“To have sex with you.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, but he didn’t speak right away. Then, carefully, “Are you sure?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it a lot. Not just about sex itself but... being with you. That way. I want that. I want you. ”

He rested his hand over mine. Warm, solid, grounding. “Not because you think I need it?”

“No.” I smiled. “Because I want it. With you. No one else.”

He nodded, and something in his expression eased. He looked like a man who wanted to meet me exactly where I was.

“Then we’ll go slow,” he said. “Only what you’re comfortable with. I mean that.”

“I know.” I laced our fingers together. “That’s why I’m ready.”

And I was.

For him. For us. For everything that came next.