Page 7 of Finding Gideon
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 minuteslater, 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.
