Page 6 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Malcolm

I should’ve told him I’d think about it. The smart move would’ve been to sleep on it, call a couple of references, maybe give it a week. That’s how you hire someone when you’re running a clinic.

But I’d seen Gideon with that injured dog—blood on his hands, pressure on the wound. You can teach someone how to mop floors or restock syringes. You can’t teach that. And before I could talk myself out of it, the offer was out of my mouth.

That wasn’t like me. At all.

Jess had been a walk-in too, sure, but it’d taken me two months to let her do more than answer phones. And even then, I’d triple-checked everything she touched. Trust was earned in increments, not handed out with a handshake. At least, that was how I’d always done it.

So what the hell was I doing?

Gideon was in the next room, sorting supplies into the cabinets. I could hear the soft shuffle of boxes, the muted click of drawers opening and closing. He worked with a kind of deliberate focus—checking each label twice before setting something in place.

I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. He was wearing one of my older clinic t-shirts, the one I’d handed him earlier after the morning’s chaos. His hair was a little mussed from work, a faint smudge of iodine on his forearm.

“You’re in the wound care section,” I said.

He glanced at the antiseptics in his hand, then back at the shelf. “Yeah. I saw the label—just making sure everything’s in the right spot before I move on.” His voice was calm, unbothered, like the kind of person who’d rather do a job right than rush through it.

“You don’t have to do all that right now,” I told him. “Take a break.”

“I don’t mind.”

That was the thing—he didn’t seem to mind any of it. The cleaning, the learning curve, the quiet I kept wrapped around the place like insulation.

And that silence—that was the part that threw me.

I was used to it, relied on it. But now, every time I walked into a room after him, there was some small trace he’d been there.

A coffee mug set neatly by the sink. The faint scent of his soap lingering in the air—clean, woodsy. Not much, but enough to register.

I told myself it was just me adjusting to someone else in my space. That was all. But it didn’t have the sharp edges of a disruption. It felt… easy. And that was the part I wasn’t sure what to do with.

“Have you ever handled a ferret?” I asked suddenly, more to distract myself than anything.

Gideon blinked. “A what now?”

I pushed off the doorframe. “Come on. Time to meet Jasper. He’s a regular.”

In the back room, the little bastard was already hissing from behind the bars of his carrier. Seventeen inches of fury, teeth, and drama. His owner had warned me he’d missed a dose of his meds yesterday, and it showed. He was bouncing off the sides like a rubber ball.

“Let me guess,” Gideon said, peering in. “That’s the client.”

“Jasper,” I confirmed. “And he bites.”

Gideon crouched, getting eye level with the ferret. “Yeah? You and me both, buddy.” He spoke low, calm. “What’s the plan?”

“Hold him still so I can check the leg. I’ll show you how to scruff him. He’s got a minor fracture we’ve been monitoring, but if he’s still limping, we may need to?—”

I didn’t finish. Gideon reached in—slow, deliberate—and Jasper froze. Not like the sedated kind of still, either. Alert, but watching him. Gideon’s hand moved in without flinching, smooth and sure, like he’d done this a hundred times.

“You’ve done this before,” I said.

“Not with a ferret,” he said, lifting Jasper with surprising ease. “But I’ve handled enough scared strays to know the trick is moving like you’re not a threat. This guy’s just… smaller. And faster.”

When we were finished with the exam and Jasper had settled again, Gideon latched the carrier, stood, and glanced around like he needed something else to do. A moment later, he started reorganizing the supply shelf—methodical, quiet, like order was its own kind of comfort.

“Do you always frown like that when you type?” he asked without looking over. “Or is it just me?”

I didn’t look up. “You’re rearranging the wound-care kits like your life depends on it. Maybe I’m concerned.”

He gave a low laugh—something bright and unguarded that filled the quiet like sunlight through a crack in the blinds. “Gotta start somewhere, right?”

When I did glance over, I noticed he’d pushed his sleeves up to his elbows at some point, revealing forearms inked in clean, dark lines.

The kind of tattoos that drew the eye, sharp against his skin.

He reached for a bin of surgical packs on the high shelf, stretching without hesitation, muscles shifting beneath that too-thin shirt.

No point in staring. The man was pulling his weight—that was all. Not everyone could walk into a place like this mid-crisis and keep their head on straight. He could’ve panicked. Asked a million questions. Froze up. Instead, he’d stayed calm, rolled up his sleeves, and helped.

That kind of steadiness—it was rare. Useful.

“Hey,” Gideon said, nodding toward the stainless-steel exam table. “Want me to disinfect it now or before the next patient?”

“Now. Before anything dries.”

He stepped past me to grab the spray bottle from the counter, his arm brushing mine. Just skin. Just heat. A two-second contact that shouldn’t have registered.

But it did.

My fingers paused on the keyboard before I made myself keep typing.

Gideon didn’t notice. He was already spraying the table, the faint citrus scent of the cleaner drifting between us, wiping the surface in even, deliberate strokes. I shifted in my seat, telling myself the lingering weight of that contact meant nothing. Twice. Three times.

“You okay?” Gideon asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Fine.” The word came out tight. “Just thinking through tomorrow’s cases.”

He nodded like that made sense and moved on to the scale, disinfecting the metal platform with the same quiet thoroughness.

My phone buzzed on the counter. An unfamiliar number flashed on the screen.

“Dr. Malcolm Jones.”

“Hey, it’s Jess,” her voice came warm and familiar. “Sorry, calling from my mom’s landline—my cell’s been acting up. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just checking in. My mom’s doing better, but it’ll still be a few more weeks. Sorry to leave you hanging.”

“You’re not. Family comes first.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gideon slow his movements, keeping his distance without leaving the room.

“Clinic surviving without me?” Jess asked, teasing.

“We are,” I said honestly. “It’s different without you, but we’re managing.”

“We?”

“I found someone to help out.”

“Really?” She sounded surprised. “You never take help. Is he decent?”

I glanced at Gideon. He caught my eye for a second and offered a small smile—unsure, but trying.

“Yeah,” I said finally. “He’s figuring it out.”

“Well, don’t get too attached. I’m not ready to be replaced just yet.”

I made some noise that could pass for a laugh and promised to call her later. When I hung up, the words still echoed.

Don’t get too attached.

They sat heavier than I wanted to admit.

I turned back to the screen, trying to refocus.