Page 86 of Finding Gideon
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 bigheart 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.”
