Page 4 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Malcolm

The smell of coffee hit me first. Sharp, dark, grounding.

I blinked blearily at the sliver of morning light cutting across the floorboards and dragged a hand over my face. My body felt heavy, like I'd only slept half the night. Maybe because I had.

I heard a low thump, followed by the creak and groan of the kitchen door that led to the back yard.

For a moment, I lay there, disoriented. Then it clicked.

Gideon.

I sat up slowly, the muscles in my back protesting.

In the quiet, the rhythmic squeak of hinges came again.

He was working on the door—the one that had been sticking for weeks now, swelling with every change in the weather until it barely opened without a fight.

I'd meant to fix it. Kept telling myself I would.

Somehow, hearing someone else tackle it, unasked and probably unbothered, settled something deep in my chest.

I shoved on joggers and an old sweatshirt and padded barefoot down the hall. The soft thud of my steps on the hardwood would’ve been enough to give me away if he’d been listening for them. I stopped where the hallway opened into the kitchen, staying out of sight behind the wall.

Gideon was crouched by the door, a screwdriver tucked behind one ear, focused intently on the warped frame. He wore the same jeans from last night—well-worn and clinging stubbornly to powerful thighs—and a clean gray T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders.

We were about the same height, give or take, but Gideon was leaner, his strength threaded through muscle and sinew instead of bulk. The kind you didn’t earn under fluorescent lights with barbells. His came from work that never let up, the kind that left calluses and quiet endurance in its wake.

I told myself that’s all I noticed. Just sizing him up. Making sure he wasn’t hurt, wasn’t struggling.

But the easy way he moved, the quiet competence—yeah, it got under my skin a little… but I don't know why.

He wasn’t trying to take up space. Wasn’t demanding anything.

And somehow, he already felt like he belonged here.

I cleared my throat, stepping fully into the room. "You don't have to do that."

Gideon looked up, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Figured it was the least I could do. It was making noises like it was possessed."

His voice was warm.

I found myself smiling back before I even thought about it. "Yeah, it does that."

He stood, easy and unhurried, and wiped his hands on his jeans. The screwdriver clinked quietly as he set it on the table.

"Coffee's on," he said, nodding toward the kitchen. "Hope that's okay?"

Hope. Not assumption.

Something twisted in my chest.

"Yeah," I said, voice rough. "Yeah, that's—thanks."

He grabbed a mug from the rack by the sink and glanced over his shoulder.

"How do you take it?"

"Black," I said. Simple, no fuss.

He poured, then handed me the mug without a word, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest second.

Just a simple thing.

But it sank deeper than I expected, leaving a faint ache in its wake.

I took a sip, wincing a little at the sharp, almost smoky bite. "You make it strong enough to strip paint."

Gideon’s mouth quirked into that half-smile again, almost shy. "Old habit. Never know when you’re going to need to stay awake."

I huffed out a quiet laugh, taking another sip. “It’s fine. I’m not picky.”

He leaned against the opposite counter, cradling his own mug between his hands. His hair was a mess—flattened on one side, sticking up in the back—and he hadn't shaved, rough stubble darkening his jaw.

For reasons I didn't dig too deeply into, I found myself cataloging every detail.

Maybe just because it was rare to have someone else in my space.

Maybe because he fit here too damn easily.

After a few more sips, Gideon set his mug down with a soft clink. "Should probably check on our little guest," he said, voice low. "Make sure he made it through the night okay."

Our.

I didn’t know why that hit me square in the chest.

I set my own mug down a little harder than necessary and pushed off the counter. “Yeah. Good idea.”

I glanced at the clock over the doorway. “Clinic doesn’t open until nine, so we’ve got a little time. I’m going to grab a quick shower before we head in. You can use the one in the hall if you want.”

His gaze flicked toward the hallway, then back to me. “Alright.”

“When you’re done, come on through the back door into the office. I’ll be up front with him.”

Gideon gave a short nod, fingers curling around his mug again. “Got it.”

I left him in the kitchen and headed for my room. The shower was quick, more about rinsing off sleep than anything else. By the time I’d pulled on clean clothes and stepped into the clinic, the dog was awake, watching me from the recovery run with glassy but alert eyes.

The IV bag hung empty. I checked his hydration first thing, and while he wasn’t back to normal yet, his gums looked better and his breathing was steady. He’d even managed to drink a little water on his own. Progress, so I removed the line.

I swapped out the blanket for a fresh one and slid a shallow dish of food inside. He sniffed at it but didn’t eat, settling instead with his chin on his paws.

The jingle of the back door opening broke the quiet. Footsteps crossed the short hallway, and a moment later Gideon appeared in the doorway, hair still damp from his shower. A drop of water slid from his temple, catching the light before disappearing into the stubble along his jaw.

A flutter started low in my gut. Not in a way I could name—more like the feeling you get when you catch a scent you can’t quite place, one that sticks with you for no reason.

I told myself it was because he looked different cleaned up, less road-weary than last night. Easier to see the person under the exhaustion. That had to be it.

“You’re just in time,” I said, turning back toward the recovery run before I thought too much about why my throat had gone a little dry.

“What’s the verdict?” Gideon asked, stepping closer.

“He’s doing better. Hydration’s improved. I took the IV out a little while ago.” I unlatched the run’s door but kept it half-closed. “You can say hello—just move slow.”

“Hey, buddy,” Gideon murmured, crouching low. His whole posture shifted, easy and non-threatening. “You made it through the night, huh?”

The dog whined softly and inched forward, sniffing the air between them.

I stayed back, watching.

Watching the way Gideon’s big hands moved—careful, patient—as he let the dog come to him. Watching the way his voice stayed soft even when the little guy hesitated.

When the dog finally nosed into his palm, Gideon’s whole face lit up in a quiet, stunned kind of way, like he’d just been handed a treasure he hadn’t dared ask for.

Something squeezed hard behind my ribs.

He looked up at me then, a faint, almost self-conscious smile tugging at his mouth. “Think he likes me.”

“Yeah,” I said, voice rougher than I’d intended. I cleared my throat. “Looks like it.”

The dog shuffled closer until his scrawny body pressed against Gideon’s leg like it was the safest place in the world.

Gideon was still crouched beside him, murmuring something under his breath as he scratched gently behind the pup’s ears.

It was a quiet moment—soft light through the windows, the only sound the occasional rustle of movement and the dog’s contented sigh.

Then the ding of the bell over the glass door, followed by the faint whoosh of it opening, pulled my attention to the front.

A very distinct voice carried inside—high and lilting, on the edge of dramatic.

“Dr. Jones, darling, I know you don’t open for another twenty minutes, but Maximus was pacing like a congressman with a guilty conscience, and I know a bladder infection when I see one.”

Gideon glanced toward the hall.

I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. “Here we go,” I murmured, then stepped out to meet the storm.

Evelyn stood just inside the glass door, silver hair swept up in a bun that looked both accidental and engineered.

Her lipstick was coral and slightly smudged, her blouse bright purple with rhinestones across the shoulders, and in her arms—perched like royalty—was a grumpy, overweight Himalayan cat.

“Morning, Evelyn,” I said, keeping my tone mild.

“Morning?” she sniffed. “It’s practically noon. I’ve already been to the bakery, the post office, and two-thirds of the town’s gossip circuit—” She leaned to the side, peering past me toward the back hallway. Her eyes narrowed, and I didn’t need to turn to know she’d spotted Gideon.

“—and not one of them mentioned you might have company. I swear, this town’s gossip chain is falling apart.”

Evelyn didn’t know shit. She just liked to toss out bait and see what she could reel in.

Behind me, Gideon stepped into view and said a quiet, “Ma’am.” He gave her a polite nod before moving past us with a low, “I’ll let you work.”

I didn’t know why I noticed the way he moved past us, or why it felt… off, somehow. Just one of those things you can’t quite put your finger on, so you shake it off and move on.

I cleared my throat. “Gideon—uh, thanks again. For… you know. The door.”

He paused long enough to glance back and nod. A moment later he was gone, Evelyn’s sharp gaze following every step, like a hawk tracking a field mouse.

“ Well, ” she said, drawing the word out like a dish of warm gossip. “You gonna tell me who Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Tragic is, or am I supposed to invent my own backstory?”

“Evelyn,” I warned, already moving toward the exam room, “no more secret-agent stories. I still haven’t lived down the month you told everyone I was in witness protection.”

She smirked. “Alright, no witness protection… but don’t think that means I won’t come up with something better.”

“Uh huh.”

I held the door open, and she swept inside like royalty entering a throne room.

But my eyes lingered for a second on the space where Gideon had been.

And even though I had work to do—cats to examine and Evelyn’s conspiracies to deflect—I couldn’t shake the feeling that I already missed having him close.