#Gideon gemstone | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theshiniestgemstone · 2 days ago

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runaway- fem!reader x gideon gemstone

There’s a lot of mystery surrounding Gideon Gemstone.

Why did he run away?

Why so suddenly?

Amber missed church for the first time since the birth of her youngest son. Jesse was nowhere to be found onstage or even in the first few rows of pews where the family and their inner circle sat. Pontious and Abraham had gone, driven by their grandfather and settled between Judy and Martin's wife. Security noted that it was the only time they'd seen Pontious bow his head during prayer.

You were there that day, heartbroken and fighting back tears as Eli spoke about forgiveness, his voice solemn without his usual amount of smiles. You saw right through his words, just a grandfather begging for his grandson to come home. Rumors spread like wildfire. They ranged from elopment to injury, from abandonment to death.

You, his best friend, knew it all. The private jet landed from Atlanta and he rode in the backseat with his father from the airfield to their home. Gideon cursed the smug smile on his father's face while he said something about hoping his wife had dinner ready. He kept his fists clenched, his entire body sore from the tension he'd been holding in. They were home for about thirty minutes before Gideon reached for his car keys, which he kept by the door.

"Where you goin', baby?" Amber asked, her wide smile still on her face from where she'd been listening to her husband recount his holy weekend.

"Out," Gideon muttered. "I want a smoothie."

Amber was about to remind him of the fresh fruit and ridiculously expensive blender in the kitchen, but the words died on her tongue just as suddenly as the door slammed. She looked at her husband, silently questioning.

"Ion know," Jesse muttered. "Little fucker's been pissed since before we left."

Amber glanced at the door one more time before returning her attention to Jesse. "So you were saying?”

Gideon drove around in circles through the streets of Charleston. He cruised through intersections and neighborhoods, watching normal families live their lives. Some were on walks. Entire families with broody teenagers were included. Others held the hands of small children as they walked into libraries and restaurants. He’d stopped at a gas station, nearly crying as a father taught his son how to fill his car, lecturing about safe driving and warning him of the dangers of smoking.

You were the first one to see the video. The one of Jesse coked up with a slew of hookers and his best friends around him. Gideon had tearfully recounted how he sat at the restaurant, waiting and waiting for his father. He didn't want to go to Atlanta. Not on the surface, but on the inside he was excited to try and find some common ground and strengthen their strained relationship. He always thought Jesse hung the moon, until his teen hormones and independence took over, steering him to a life he wanted to find on his own. Something Jesse hated. was

You saw the sharpness of his pain in the way his hands trembled, his jaw clenched tight, and his chest heaved as though every breath was a battle. He tried to laugh it off, claiming the whole situation was just another example of his father's absurdity. Another one of his antics that was more annoying but passed over a few days. But there was no real humor in his voice, just an edge of bitterness that cut through the fragile veneer he’d been holding on to.

The clock ticked loudly in the silence that followed, an almost mocking reminder of the weight of everything Gideon had said. His tears came in quiet waves, rolling down his face as he slumped against the wall beside you. For a moment, all he did was stare blankly at the floor, trying to make sense of everything.

“Why did he do that?” Gideon’s voice was a whisper, barely above a broken murmur. His eyes were red, puffy from the tears that had already fallen, but still, more came. Silent, almost reverent. “I waited for him. I thought we were finally gonna have a real conversation. But then I saw that. Saw him... with them...” His voice cracked, and the words trailed off into a choking sob that shook his entire body.

You could feel the weight of it, the truth of what he was saying. A son’s desperate desire to connect with a father who had always been too far out of reach, too lost in his own world to see his sons. It was suffocating, the room closing in as Gideon gripped the fabric of his own shirt like it could somehow anchor him to the present. His breaths were shallow now, the shaking more intense as he exhaled, his words coming out in fractured bursts.

“It’s like... he doesn’t even see me anymore,” Gideon continued, his voice raw and vulnerable, the anger replaced by something softer, more painful. “Like I’m just... a fucking afterthought. He doesn’t care.” He wiped his face roughly with his hand, trying to regain some composure, but it was clear that everything inside him was spilling out, and it wasn’t going to stop. “I thought maybe if I went with him, we could fix this, but what’s the point?”

You were just there, sitting beside him, letting him breathe through the pain. You didn’t try to fix it. You didn’t try to give him answers. You just listened, because that was all you could do, be the safe place he could fall.

You didn’t know what to say. He had never been like this before, so open and vulnerable. You'd seen him cry before. Like when you were in the first grade and he lost his tooth on the playground, and he cried on a bench while you sifted through handfuls of pebbles until you found it. He buried himself into your shoulder after his grandmother passed, learning from the guidance counselor in the hallway outside of fourth-period Advanced Geometry II that his mother was on her way to pick him up. He wrapped his arms around you in the guidance office, too embarrassed to let the secretary and the school's two guidance counselors see his tears.

His silence was loud, though, so deafening in the quiet of the room that it felt like the weight of his hurt pressed down on you both. It was moments like these that you truly understood how deep Gideon’s pain ran, how deeply he was tethered to this family, to his father, and how badly he longed for something that had never really been there. Something simple, something real. A father who cared.

You reached out without thinking, gently resting a hand on his back as he sat there, his face hidden in his hands, still trembling from the outpouring of emotion. You didn’t have any answers, and you weren’t going to try to make him feel better with empty words. Instead, you stayed with him, letting him feel the comfort of your presence, knowing that sometimes, that was all you could do.

“I'm here,” you whispered softly, the only thing you could offer that felt even remotely like something he needed to hear.

He didn’t respond right away, but the tension in his body eased slightly, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Gideon didn’t feel like the walls he’d built were holding him prisoner.

Then, without warning, he kissed you. It was slow, hesitant, as if he were testing the waters, unsure of how this would change everything between you two. His lips were soft, but you could taste the salt of his tears. The kiss was tender, lingering, and it spoke of something deeper than words could ever convey. It was a plea for connection, for comfort, for something that felt real in the nightmare he'd endured.

His hands gripped you tightly, almost like a lifeline, but not in a way that felt desperate or forceful. It wasn’t like he was trying to claim you, but rather, like he was afraid that if he let go, you’d vanish. As if this moment of intimacy would slip away as quickly as it had come. The way his hands held you was gentle yet firm, as if trying to anchor you to him, as if this was the one thing he had control over in a world that often left him feeling powerless.

You could feel the weight of everything in that kiss. The uncertainty, the longing, the fear were clear to you, like he'd placed his thoughts and feelings into your mind. It was more than just physical; it was emotional, wrapped in layers of unsaid words and unspoken promises. It was Gideon, letting his guard down in a way he never had before, and you knew this was more than a simple act of comfort. This was him reaching out to you, trusting you in a way he had never trusted anyone. And even if neither of you fully understood what it meant yet, there was something sacred in the rawness of that moment.

You responded without thinking, your arms naturally wrapping around him, pulling him closer, trying to give him the reassurance he needed.

You held him that night, his head resting against your bare chest, his arms tucked around your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish if he loosened his grip. His breath fanned over your skin in slow, uneven waves, still shaky, still laced with the remnants of his earlier breakdown. His fingers absently traced shapes on your back, almost like a grounding technique, like he was trying to memorize the feeling of being safe.

Your legs were still tangled with his beneath the covers, the warmth between your thighs a gentle reminder of how new this was. How careful he’d been, how reverent. His lips had trembled when he kissed you, unsure and desperate all at once, like he was scared he’d get it wrong. And even now, hours later, you could feel the echo of it all, your body humming with the memory of him, of the way you’d given yourselves over to each other, completely and for the very first time.

He shifted slightly, his thumb brushing over your hip, and you felt him sigh into your skin, like he was finally letting himself believe you were real.

The room was quiet, save for the ticking clock and the occasional rustle of sheets. Outside, Charleston slept. But inside, everything felt heightened, every touch, every breath, every unspoken thought pressing against the silence.

You stared at the ceiling, your hand stroking through his hair, heart heavy with something that felt like both tenderness and guilt. You hadn’t meant for it to happen like that, not when he was still so raw. It wasn’t about regret, not really. It was about the timing. About the vulnerability. About whether he’d feel the same way in the morning.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered at some point, unsure if he was still awake. “I shouldn’t have-”

“I wanted to,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. “I needed to.” He tilted his head just enough to look at you, his eyes red-rimmed but clear. “You didn’t take advantage of me. Don’t do that thing where you twist this into somethin' it’s not.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to believe him. He sounded so sure. But guilt was stubborn and it rooted itself in the quiet spaces between your ribs and made a home there.

Still, when he kissed your collarbone and whispered, “You’re the only person I feel like I can breathe around,” something in you cracked.

You fell asleep like that. Tangled together beneath your pink and purple polka-dotted comforter. It was the one you picked out when you were seven and refused to part with, no matter how juvenile it looked now draped over your “grown-up” twin bed. It smelled like laundry detergent and childhood memories, a strange contrast to the ache in your chest and the warmth of his skin against yours. There was something both comforting and cruel about the way his weight anchored you, the steady rise and fall of his chest lulling you into sleep. For a few hours, you let yourself believe this was something solid. Something that could last.

But in the morning, he was gone.

His shoes? Gone. The sweater and button up he wore? Gone. The crumpled heap of clothes that had been tossed onto your floor in a moment of vulnerability had vanished like it had never been there at all. Your room was quiet, too quiet, and colder without his body beside yours.

You sighed, heart sinking, as you reached for your robe, shrugging it over your shoulders and knotting the belt tight. Your fingers hovered over your phone for a moment, debating texting him. Asking if he was okay, if he regretted everything, if he’d at least say goodbye. But before you could decide, your bedroom door flew open.

“Honey, what do you want for-”

Your mom froze in the doorway, eyes scanning the mess of your hair, the robe, the hastily covered bed. “Oh. Never mind. You’re clearly not up yet.”

“M’up,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. “Just… tired.”

She squinted at you like she was about to press further, but instead just sighed and backed out slowly. “I’m making pancakes. With blueberries. Come down when you’re ready.”

The door clicked shut, and you were left standing in the middle of your room, robe tied, hair a mess, heart raw. You glanced at the bed. His imprint was still faintly visible in the sheets. You realized, as you sat down on the edge of the mattress, that no amount of pancakes would fix the way it felt to wake up alone.

He went silent for days after. Each one of your messages went through, the tiny font beneath it reading 'delivered'. It wasn't until Amber had shown up on your doorstep three days later that you realized something was wrong, very wrong. You were in your room doing homework when your mother called for you. You made your way down the hall, catching a glimpse of Jesse's white car sticking out of your driveway. Amber stood there, tall and as gracious as ever, but her eyes told a different story.

"Have you seen Gideon?" She breathed, like just asking the question alone was enough to break her heart. She wringed the end of her cardigan, the wool stretched and wrinkled.

"He came by the day he and Mr. Jesse came home from the conference," you offered, pulling your earbuds from your ears. "Are you okay?"

Amber blinked back tears, her hands trembling as she picked at her nails. "I- I don't know," she admitted. "He didn't come home that night and we assumed he was here, but we received this in the mail."

She handed you an envelope from her purse. It was creased down the middle, the flap uneven like it had been opened and closed a dozen times. There was no return address, but you recognized Gideon’s handwriting instantly. Slanted, fast, a little messy in a way that always made your stomach flutter when it was on a note passed to you during service.

The envelope trembled in your hands as you slid your finger beneath the flap. Inside was a single piece of lined paper, torn from a notebook. You unfolded it slowly, your heart thudding in your chest like it was preparing for impact.

Mama,

I’m okay. I need some time. Please don’t come looking for me. I promise I’ll be in touch when I can. I’m sorry.

Gideon

No date. No return address. No explanation. Just those few sentences. Enough to confirm he was alive, but not nearly enough to stop your hands from shaking. You stared at the note, reading it over and over, as if a secret message would reveal itself between the lines if you just tried hard enough. But there was nothing. Just vague words in familiar ink.

Amber was quiet beside you, arms folded tight across her chest. Her face was pale, eyes glassy. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “He was doing so well. We were finally getting somewhere…”

You wanted to comfort her, to say something useful, something hopeful. But all you could do was offer the truth. Tell her about the video and that all of this when the initial cracks began to form. Gideon and Jesse had gotten into a fight months ago, just after he turned 18, a few weeks shy of high school graduation. Jesse wanted his eldest son to begin preaching. Gideon admitted that wanted to go to college. Jesse hummed disapprovingly, muttering something about a Christian college. Gideon insisted that he wanted to go to a public, liberal arts college where the curriculum didn't include bible study. It was unclear if he left or if Jesse kicked him out during the yelling match. He slept at your house on the couch for two days. It was in those two days that you both finalized your enrollments.

“He was hurting,” you said gently. “He didn’t want you to see it.”

Amber let out a choked sound that was half a sob and half breath and stepped back, nodding like she was trying to make herself believe it.

“If you hear from him…” she started, then paused, swallowing. “Will you let us know?”

You nodded. “Of course.”

She left not long after, Jesse never stepping out of the car. You watched them pull away through the front window, the silence in your house feeling heavier than ever before. Only once they were out of sight did you finally let the tears fall. Quiet, slow, and aching. Because you didn’t just miss him. You were terrified of what that kind of silence meant.

Each day was easier, only a fraction. For months, you sent him texts hoping he'd answer. You'd send him long ones at the end of a long day at work, complaining about the customers you encountered. When you started college without him, you stared at the empty chair in the classroom that had once been full but now lacked a pupil.

You'd always saved him a seat. It was out of habit at first, then hope, then maybe just grief. The silence on his end became its own kind of company, a ghost that lingered in your phone, your dorm, your lecture halls. You started counting time in “before Gideon left” and “after he disappeared.”

Your friends eventually stopped asking about him, noticing the vacant look in your eyes when you sigh. Professors asked his name on the first-day roll call and never said it again after the tenth day.

Sometimes, you dreamed he came back. Other times, you dreamed he never existed in your life.

You kept his contact pinned to the top of your messages, the way some people frame photographs. Sometimes, when you couldn’t sleep, you’d scroll back. You'd go back to the inside jokes, the late-night confessions, the voice memos he used to send you after worship practice when his voice was hoarse and he was too tired to type. You’d play them until your eyes burned and your chest felt heavy.

You didn’t tell anyone about the night he left, about what it meant, what it felt like. About how vulnerable he’d been in your arms. You didn’t tell anyone how you woke up to find only the memory of him, or how the imprint in your bed stayed longer than you wanted it to.

You were at work. It was another day like always, chatting with your coworkers about a customer who spent ten minutes complaining that the complimentary breakfast was of horrible quality. You were in the middle of making fun of her with your manager, retelling how you had to bite your tongue from telling her that the eggs were delivered as frozen hockey pucks, that the donuts tasted like paint and were definitely not the name brand she'd claimed they were.

The electric doors slid open with a soft woosh and you kept giggling until you turned to greet the customer. Your heart swelled and your stomach dropped. The pen you were holding in your hand fell to the ground, echoing in your ears as you froze. Your manager nudged your shoulder, asking if you were alright. You answered with a choked back sob, rushing around the counter to run to him.

He barely had time to brace himself before you collided with him, arms flung around his neck, your face buried against the crook of his shoulder. He smelled like sweat and sunblock, like too many miles and not enough sleep. He was thinner than you remembered, slightly bonier around the shoulders, face a little more hollow. But it was him.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice breaking like the rest of you had.

“Hey.”

You didn’t care that you were crying. You didn’t care that your coworkers were watching, slack-jawed and stunned. You didn’t care that the old man waiting for you to print him a receipt at the front desk rolled his eyes with a huff. All you cared about was the fact that Gideon Gemstone was standing in front of you, real and warm and alive.

He hugged you back slowly at first, like he wasn’t sure you’d really let him. But when you didn’t let go, neither did he. His arms wrapped tighter around your waist and his breath hitched against your temple.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “God, I’m so sorry.”

You didn’t ask him why. Not yet. You just held him. Right there in the fluorescent lights of the hotel lobby with the phone ringing in the background and the lobby TV playing muted news. You held him like you’d been waiting your whole life to.

Eventually, you pulled away. Your hands wiped at your cheeks.

The moment was still, suspended in something sacred, until the sharp crack of your hand meeting his cheek echoed off the walls. His head snapped slightly to the side, but he didn’t raise a hand, didn’t flinch. He nodded, shamefully looking down at his boots.

“I deserve that,” he muttered.

“And you’re lucky I’m at work.”

There was a small gasp from a middle-aged woman clutching her complimentary coffee tightly, eyes wide. A loud snort followed from behind the counter. You didn’t need to look to know it was your coworker. She was the only one who’d been there the night you collapsed into tears in a vinyl booth at Applebee’s, clutching a half-empty glass of some sugary cocktail she’d let you taste after you sent Gideon a picture of it, hoping he’d answer.

You’d sobbed into your mozzarella sticks while she rubbed your back and ordered you a brownie sundae. She’d listened as you tried to explain how it felt to be loved and left in the same breath. And now here she was, watching you slap him back into reality with a wicked grin on her glossed lips.

“Oh hell yes, girl,” she whispered under her breath, clearly enjoying that you'd taken her advice.

You didn’t acknowledge the noise. You didn’t have the energy to. Gideon stood in front of you, pink blooming on his cheek, eyes still on the ground like he couldn’t bear to meet yours. Behind you, your coworker was rounding the other employees away. You could feel it.

Still, all you could do was stare at him. Stare at the boy who’d once kissed your collarbone like a prayer and left before sunrise, who was standing here now with the weight of something bigger than an apology resting on his shoulders.

You both stood there in the tension of everything unspoken, surrounded by the smells of chlorine and stale coffee, as the hotel phone rang again in the background. Your manager cleared her throat loudly from behind the desk. “Take ten,” she said, patting your back twice. “Go breathe.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

Gideon followed you silently outside to the small picnic area, the door swinging closed behind you with a quiet click. The chill in the air hit your skin, a reminder that winter was fading, and with it, the memory of everything that happened between you. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed tighter over your chest like a shield. He stood across from you, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, rocking back slightly on his heels like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

He looked different. Older, in a way that had nothing to do with age. His hair was longer, messier. There were faint shadows under his eyes, and his jaw looked tighter, like he hadn’t been sleeping much. He didn’t rush into his explanation, and you didn’t rush him. You just stared, waiting, arms still wrapped tight around yourself.

He started talking softly, voice rough around the edges.

“I was in Arizona at first. Had some connections through the conference circuit,” he began. “Eventually made it to California. Started stunt work. Mostly some low-budget stuff, some real weird projects... but it paid. Kept my mind off everything.”

You didn’t say a word. Just nodded slightly, watching the way he didn’t quite meet your gaze.

“I live in L.A. now. Got an apartment with a guy I met on set. Scotty.” He jerked his chin toward the parking lot, toward the beat-up red van parked askew between the lines. Inside, a man with curly dark hair lifted his hand lazily in greeting, barely looking up from his phone. In the passenger seat, a blonde woman stared ahead through the windshield, motionless, her jaw clenched like she was biting back something.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Gideon added quickly, reading your expression even though you hadn’t made one. “She’s his girlfriend, Lucy. Just tagging along for the trip.”

“And why the hell are you here?” you asked, your voice low and even, teeth clenched to keep the emotion from spilling out all over again.

He looked hurt. Like the question itself had cracked something inside him. “I wanted to see you,” he said quietly, like that answer should be enough.

You scoffed, arms tightening across your chest. “I’m working, Gideon. I’ll call you when I’m off.” You weren’t sure if the words were a dismissal or a warning. Maybe both.

He blinked, startled by your sharp tone, and fumbled in his pocket. “O-okay,” he stammered, pulling out a slightly bent business card and handing it to you with a trembling hand. “I’m staying there. Room 220.”

You took the card, flipping it between your fingers before your eyes landed on the name of the motel. You made a face. “That’s a shithole,” you muttered.

“I know,” he cut in quickly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I can’t afford this place.” He glanced up at the hotel behind you, then away, ashamed.

You stared at the card again, something sour blooming in your chest. As furious as you were at him, at his nerve to show up here, to break your heart and then walk right back in like he still had the key, you couldn’t ignore the way his shoulders slumped or how tired he looked.

“I can set you up,” you said, your voice softer now, just a notch. “My boss owes me a few favors.”

He shook his head before you even finished. “It’s okay,” he said quickly, stubbornly. “You don’t have to do that.”

You bit your tongue. You looked down at the card again, the cheap laminate already peeling at the corners, and then back up at him.

“Gideon…” you started, but the door creaked open behind you, and the spell broke.

A coworker peeked her head out. “Hey, break’s over in two. Thought you’d want a heads-up.”

You gave a short nod. “Thanks.”

She ducked back in, and the door swung closed once more.

You looked back at him. “Room 220?”

He nodded, sheepish. “I’ll be around.”

You didn’t say anything else. Just pocketed the card and walked past him, hand on the door. You didn’t look back, but you heard the scuff of his boots on the pavement as he made his way toward the red van. The click of the passenger door opening. The murmur of voices.

Then, clear as day, Scotty’s voice cut through the quiet. He sounded like the type who never knew when to shut up.

"That's a nice piece of ass. No wonder you were hellbent on coming here."

There was a pause, followed by the creak of the van’s interior and the thud of Gideon climbing in. His reply was low but sharp, full of warning. "Shut the fuck up, Scotty."

The door slammed, muffling whatever else might have been said, but it was too late. The words stuck to you like grease under your nails, stubborn and foul.

You let the door swing closed behind you and went back to work like nothing had happened. Like your insides hadn’t been turned upside down. Like the ghost of him wasn’t following you with every step. You smiled at guests. You answered phones. You even laughed yourself to tears at a joke from the regular who always came in for business trips. But it was all a performance. You were just trying to get through the day without collapsing in front of everyone.

When your shift finally ended, you clocked out and slipped into the cool night air, breathing deep like it might help settle your heart. It didn’t. You didn’t make it more than a few feet into the parking lot before your coworker, Kara, the same one who had snorted behind the counter when you slapped Gideon, caught up to you.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just wrapped an arm around your shoulder as you sank down onto the curb next to the employee smoking area. Your hands were shaking. You didn’t even realize you were crying until the cold wind brushed against your damp cheeks.

“Here,” she murmured, pulling a cigarette from behind her ear. “I know you quit, but...”

You hesitated. Then took it with trembling fingers. She lit it for you and you brought it to your lips, the familiar burn settling in your lungs like an old friend you never wanted to see again.

You sat there like that, the two of you in silence. The parking lot quiet except for the hum of distant traffic and the buzzing neon sign overhead. The tears kept coming, and you didn’t stop them this time. Kara stayed beside you, didn’t push, didn’t ask questions. She just leaned her shoulder against yours and let you cry it out.

For almost a week after that night, you ignored him. Every time your phone buzzed, you let it sit. Every text went unopened. You saw his name flash on the screen twice, and both times you turned it over and buried it under a pillow. You didn’t block him. You wanted to. You told yourself you should. But a small part of you needed him to keep trying. Needed to know he was still out there, still thinking about you.

Upon his return, months later, rumors kicked back up again. Two weeks before Easter, he appeared on the doorstep of his childhood home. Amber invited you to the dinner to celebrate his return. She had come to your college apartment.

"I work that night," you said.

Amber's face flashed with hurt. "Well," she searched for words. "If you can find someone to trade a shift, we would love to have you there. And I'm sure Gideon misses you."

You forced a smile. "I'll ask around."

Amber nodded slowly, her fingers brushing imaginary lint from her skirt. She looked like she wanted to say more, but instead she just handed you the envelope and gave your arm a gentle squeeze.

“I hope you come,” she said, soft but sincere. “It’d mean a lot.”

You closed the door after her and leaned your forehead against the wood for a moment, letting out a long breath. The envelope felt heavier than it should’ve. You didn’t open it right away. Just stood there staring at your name in her perfect cursive, the way she dotted the “i” in your name with a tiny heart, like she used to when you were kids.

You left it on the kitchen counter, unopened, and went back to your room. But it sat there all week, taunting you. Every time you passed it, the corners of the envelope curled a little more. Every day it felt harder to ignore.

You did ask around. Half-heartedly. Asked the new girl if she could take your shift that night, knowing full well she had a second job and classes all day. She apologized and you told her not to worry, already turning away before she finished her sentence. You could’ve tried harder. Could’ve called in a favor. You didn’t.

The truth was, the thought of seeing him again with his family, surrounded by home-cooked food and warm lighting and people who’d already forgiven him made your stomach turn. Not because you hated him, but because you don't.

You wanted to show up looking better than ever. You wanted him to see you and hurt the way you had. But you also wanted to sit next to him at the long table, your knees touching beneath the cloth, like no time had passed. You wanted him to take your hand.

So instead, you worked that night. Checked in guests with fake smiles. Counted towels for laundry. Listened to your manager’s playlist on loop. And at one point, when the lobby got quiet and your mind wandered, you pulled the envelope from your bag and finally opened it.

Inside was a simple invitation, elegant and warm. Amber’s handwriting was careful, but the note at the bottom wasn’t hers.

It was his.

“Hope to see you there. Even if you hate me. I get it. I just… I miss you.”

– G

You sat on the closed toilet lid in the employee restroom, phone pressed to your ear, the fluorescent light above flickering in that way it always did when you were already on edge. Your fingers trembled slightly as you cradled the phone between your cheek and shoulder.

“I don’t know what I ate,” you lied with a soft groan. “But I’ve been in here for like twenty minutes. I think I need to go home.”

Your manager sighed on the other end, clearly annoyed but too exhausted to argue. “Fine. I’ll come cover the desk. Just… clock out and go the second you see me pull into the parking lot. Feel better.”

You thanked her and hung up before she could say anything else. Then you just sat there for a moment, staring at the floor tiles, knees drawn to your chest like a kid. Your heart was pounding, too fast and far too loud. You reached into your back pocket, pulled out the folded invitation again. Your thumb brushed over his note. The ink was a little smudged now.

You didn’t cry. Not then. You were too busy shaking the nerves off as you exited the bathroom and made your way out through the side door. The spring night air hit you in the face like a splash of cold water. It sobered you up quick. You smoothed down your hair, wiped the mascara smudge under your eye, slapped your cheeks lightly to bring some color back. You checked your reflection in the rearview mirror before pulling out of the lot.

Then you drove.

You weren’t sure what you expected to find when you pulled up to the Gemstone compound. Laughter, maybe, or warmth spilling through the windows, or Gideon already waiting on the porch like some stupid movie. But instead, the house just looked... still. Lit up, but quiet.

Your knuckles hovered over the door for a full minute before you finally knocked.

Amber answered. Her eyes widened just a little, then softened like she was trying not to look too relieved. “You made it.”

You nodded. “Don’t make a big deal of it, please.”

She didn’t. She just stepped aside and let you in.

At the end of the table, halfway through laughing at something Eli had said, a roll half-buttered on his plate. His face dropped the moment he saw you, like every part of him deflated in real time. You didn’t smile. Didn’t rush to him. Just stood there with your coat still on, hands curled into the sleeves, your heart thudding so hard it hurt.

The room had gone quiet.

And you swore you saw Jesse nudge his wife and whisper something under his breath, smug in that way only he could be. She gave him a look, subtle but scolding, and he shrugged, unbothered.

Kelvin grinned like a kid on Christmas and patted the empty chair beside him with enthusiasm, a dramatic gesture to lighten the tension that hung thick in the room. "Come sit on the awesome side of the table," he grinned. He gave a pointed look to Judy.

You gave a small, polite nod, still rooted in place for a moment before finally stepping forward. Gideon twisted in his chair to keep an eye on you until you sat down beside him.

Your voice came out quieter than you intended. Barely audible. “Hi.”

It was like the word cracked whatever spell had settled over the table. Amber smiled. Eli gave you a soft, approving nod. Judy chirped something about your hair looking good. Gideon didn’t speak, didn’t move. He just watched you like he wasn’t sure you were real. You didn’t dare look at him longer than a second.

Dinner began again. The clatter of silverware, the passing of dishes, the Gemstone chaos resuming like it always did, loud and overlapping and full of everyone talking at once.

You tried to focus. You really did. There were jokes and small arguments like usual. Jesse was already three glasses into something that had a suspiciously high alcohol content for a family dinner, and he made a show of scoffing at everything Gideon said. You kept your eyes down and bit your tongue. The sight of Gideon sitting there like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t disappeared in the dead of night and left you wrecked for months, made your chest tighten and your fingers curl under the table.

Then the tone shifted.

Someone mentioned Baby Billy, and the air seemed to change. Eli grew quieter. Judy’s laughter dimmed. The table slowly fractured, voices going from cheerful to sharp. Eli didn’t respond at first, just stared down at his plate with a tired look you’d only seen once before, at the funeral. His shoulders slumped a little lower with each passing comment he recited. There was silence, deep and painful. You swallowed, feeling like you were the culprit despite not having seen any of the family members in months.

"Pontius, why aren't you eating your food?"

The middle son was leaned against the table, his head resting on his hand. "I don't like this food, okay?"

Jesse mocked him. You kept your eyes trained on your plate until he said it.

"Shut the fuck up, man."

It wasn’t the words, it was the sharpness. The way Jesse went rigid, blinking like he hadn’t heard right. The table fell silent again, this time for real. You didn’t move. Didn’t lift your head. You just stared at the soggy heap of macaroni on your plate, congealing into a mess that mirrored the tight, nauseating knot in your stomach.

Gideon shifted beside you. You felt it rather than saw it. That same tension, that same knowing. He didn’t speak. Neither did you. But you noticed the smirk on his face before anyone else. Jesse sent him upstairs, immediately blaming Gideon for his younger son's behavior before storming out himself.

You picked at your plate, only speaking when spoken to. Gideon tried to reach for your hand under the table, but you turned away.

"So what have you been up to, Kelvin?"

Kelvin jumped at the chance to talk, blissfully unaware, or maybe pretending to be, launching into some story about how he nearly got electrocuted trying to help Keefe install a new sound system in the prayer dome. You nodded again, automatic and hollow, and when you glanced at Gideon from the corner of your eye, he was staring at his lap, jaw clenched.

You hated that part of you still wanted to reach for him. Still wanted to hold his hand. Still remembered the way it felt to be loved by him, even if it ended in a gut punch.

You folded your napkin carefully and set it on the table.

"So, what's next?" you asked Kelvin softly, almost desperately. Anything to keep the conversation moving, anything to stay above water.

After dinner, you were walking out behind Judy, deep in conversation with BJ about the current state of women in the workplace. Amber was on a ladder nearby, carefully taking down the gold balloons that had once spelled out Welcome Home Gideon. You hesitated mid-sentence, your words catching in your throat as you watched her deflate the last “E.” Judy appeared at your side and gave your shoulder a light pat.

“It was nice to see you, kid,” she said gently.

You offered her a half-hearted smile, barely enough to reach your eyes. You stepped forward, about to offer Amber a hand, when Gideon appeared in your path. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly. You stared at each other in silence, a quiet standoff of unspoken words and unresolved tension.

"I-" "Gid-"

"You first," he said sheepishly.

Then Jesse rounded the corner, voice booming as soon as he saw you.

“There you are. Listen, I’m real sorry about dinner, but you’ve got Gideon to thank for that.” He didn’t wait for a reply, already turning his frustration toward his eldest. “Runs off for months and shows up like nothing happened-”

“Stop.”

The word left your mouth before you could think to catch it. Sharp. Even Jesse paused, caught off guard by the suddenness of your voice. He blinked at you, unsure.

“Gideon made mistakes,” you said, voice steady. “But it’s not fair to keep holding them over his head. I’m sure you’ve made your own, Mr. Gemstone. Everyone has. Secrets don’t stay hidden forever. But at least your son can be honest with himself, with you, and with Him. And he’s here. He’s trying. That has to count for something.”

The silence that followed was different than before. Heavier, but not hostile. Jesse looked at you, really looked at you, then glanced back at Gideon. His jaw shifted like he was working through a dozen thoughts at once, but he said nothing.

Behind you, the last balloon hit the floor with a soft rustle.

Your phone hadn’t buzzed in four days. No texts. No calls. The silence gnawed at you more than you wanted to admit. Still, you stuck to your routine. You attended class, clocked in for shifts, moved through the motions like nothing had changed. Like you hadn’t seen Gideon again. Like his sudden reappearance hadn’t shaken something loose inside you that you’d worked so hard to keep tightly sealed.

Amber had reached out a few times. Her messages were soft and carefully worded, always ending with an open invitation. Come by for dinner if you’re free. I made that casserole you like. Gideon’s been asking how you are. You thanked her, always, and then politely declined. You made up homework assignments you weren’t assigned, shifts you weren’t scheduled for. She didn’t push. Just said she understood, and the next day she’d try again with game night or something. Sometimes she invited you even when Gideon wouldn’t be there. You knew what she was doing. Trying to keep the door open. Trying to remind you that you had a place, even if it didn’t feel like it right now.

You used to spend time with Amber. Before everything, before the fight about college, before the silence, before Gideon vanished. When things were simpler, you’d sit in the Gemstone kitchen with her, sipping sweet tea while she folded laundry or fussed about dinner. With your own mother always working and Amber without a daughter of her own, it had become a quiet, unspoken bond. She’d taught you how to make deviled eggs the “right way,” and you’d painted her nails once while she told you stories about her life before she met Jesse.

You were sitting on the couch, clutching a pillow to your chest as your reflection stared back at you in the dark television screen. Your eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, your hair a mess from running your hands through it one too many times. You hadn't meant to spiral tonight. You told yourself you were fine, told Amber, told your coworkers, told the mirror.

But then you heard it.

The revving.

Low and guttural, familiar in a way that cracked your ribs open. Normally, that sound had brought you comfort. You used to hear it from your childhood bedroom window, Gideon's motorcycle rolling up the drive, headlights casting shadows on the trees, his silhouette stepping off like some dumb teen movie. He’d come to hang out, to sneak you out, to make you laugh.

But now? Now it just made the tears come harder.

You curled deeper into the couch, fingers gripping the pillow so tightly your knuckles went white. You hadn’t invited this. You hadn’t asked for more confusion. More heartbreak. You weren’t ready to see him again, not like this. Not tonight.

The knock came a minute later. Firm. Familiar.

You didn’t move at first. But then you wiped your face, stood on shaky legs, and opened the door.

He was standing there in a faded hoodie, hands in his pockets, helmet under his arm. His hair was longer than it had been the last time you saw him. He looked tired. His mouth opened, like he hadn’t rehearsed what to say but figured his charm would carry him through. Then he saw your face.

His brows furrowed.

“Your mom gave me your address,” he said, hesitantly, like the words might spook you. “I went by earlier and… wh-why are you crying?”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him, hoping he’d get it. Hoping he’d feel just a fraction of what you were feeling.

And for a moment, you saw it. The realization settled into his features like a storm rolling in.

You talked that night for hours.

He sat on the edge of your couch at first, knees bouncing, glancing around like he expected you to throw him out at any second. You didn’t. You handed him a glass of water with trembling hands, curled back up into the corner of the couch, and just… listened.

He talked about the past few months. About L.A. and sleeping in a van with Scotty and Lucy all over the southern states. About the days he felt so low he thought maybe this whole faith thing really was a scam. About the days he remembered you and felt the opposite. And you told him about school, about work, about how exhausting it was to miss someone who kept choosing to disappear. You told him about the dinner, how much his family missed him, even if they didn’t know how to say it right.

You laughed a little. Cried a little more. Eventually, your legs stretched across his lap and your head found his chest like it had muscle memory. He hesitated for only a second before wrapping his arms around you, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked.

“I know this doesn’t fix everything,” he said quietly, fingers brushing the hem of your sleeve, “but I’m here now. And I wanna be better.”

Your coworker was going to kill you once she found out. You’d promised to swear him off, but it was hard to do that with his heartbeat in your ear.

Eventually, the conversation dipped into quiet. Stillness settled in. That kind of soft, hesitant peace that comes when the worst part is over, but the healing hasn’t quite started.

“Scotty and I have a plan,” Gideon said, his voice low.

You shifted slightly, cheek pressed to his chest. “What is it?” you murmured, voice soft and full of fragile hope.

He hesitated, just for a second, and you felt it in the way his chest stopped rising. Then, with a quiet breath, he said it. The plan.

To steal the money from Easter service.

At first, it didn’t register. You waited for the punchline, the sheepish laugh, the twist that would make it a bad joke. But it never came. His voice stayed steady, calm in a way that only made your skin crawl. Each word he spoke landed with a dull thud in your chest, like bricks being stacked atop your heart. The warmth you’d felt curled up in his arms evaporated, replaced by a creeping, suffocating cold.

You sat up, slowly pulling away, enough to see his face. The shadows in the room cut across his features, but it was the look in his eyes that gutted you most, a glint of something hard. Something dark.

“Do you think that’s right?” you asked quietly. The words barely left your lips. Your heart pounded in your ears, drowning out the silence that followed.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. His jaw tightened, and he nodded once, sharp and full of purpose. “Fuck my family,” he said, each syllable bitter and venom-laced. “They’ve had it coming. I’m done trying to fit into their bullshit. This is the only way out.”

Your stomach turned.

This wasn’t desperation. This was revenge. And the boy you had waited for, the boy you’d cried over, the boy you still secretly prayed would come back to you was completely gone.

Your voice came out colder than you felt. “Out.”

His brows lifted, caught off guard. “What?”

You stood, backing a step away like being too close might let him drag you down with him. “Get out, Gideon.”

He stared at you, stunned. As if he’d thought he could say something like that and still be welcome in your arms. As if the hours of conversation and closeness were enough to wipe the slate clean.

“No, you don’t understand,” he said, standing now too, arms half-raised like he could explain it all away. “It’s the only way I can take control back. If I don’t do this now, I’ll just keep getting crushed.”

You laughed, sharp and hollow.

He flinched.

“You’re letting your family ruin you, Gideon. And now you want me to be okay with you becoming just like them?” Your voice cracked. “You’re turning into the very thing you hate. Greedy, twisted, and so full of some twisted fantasy of what the world is.”

He didn’t move. His eyes searched yours, flickers of guilt finally breaking through the anger. But they were fleeting. Defensive pride took hold again just as quickly. “I’m not asking you to help me,” he said, quiet now, almost pleading. “But I’m asking you to understand.”

You shook your head slowly, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “I do understand. You’re doing this because you’re a coward.”

He looked like you’d slapped him.

“You think you’re doing this for you, but the Gideon Gemstone I knew? The one I loved? He was loyal. He was brave. He never would’ve dreamt up something like this.”

He opened his mouth to protest. "Scotty did do most of the planning, but-"

“‘Scotty did do most of the planning,’” you mocked, voice rising. “But nothing, Gideon! You knew. You let it happen. You let someone fill your head with this garbage and now you want me to pretend it’s righteous?”

The room was still. So still it hurt. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you moved. You stared at each other, both breathing hard. The connection between you, once so strong, was fraying right in front of you, unraveling thread by painful thread.

“I wanted to believe in you,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “But you keep making it impossible.”

You looked away, toward the door, then back to him one last time.

“You’re a stranger, Gideon. Please leave.”

He stood there, rooted to the spot, like he still thought there was something left to salvage. But eventually, he moved. Hands in his pockets, eyes downcast, he walked past you and out the door.

You didn’t watch him go. You just waited for the sound of his bike starting up, and when it did, you finally let yourself fall apart.

+++

You're perched on a half-collapsed box labeled CONDITIONER - LAVENDER, the edges sagging under your weight. The room smells faintly of bleach and linen, like a hospital pretending to be a hotel. Around you, the clutter of your job clings to the walls. Extra pillows in plastic wrap, a stack of unused "Do Not Disturb" signs, boxes of bulk tissues. Kara crouches in front of you, holding a damp washcloth to your flushed cheeks with the same gentleness she uses when helping kids with scraped knees.

“You’re not gonna tell me what happened?” she asks softly.

You shake your head. “Just… bad timing. That’s all.”

Kara doesn’t push. She never does. Instead, she leans back on her heels and lets out a slow breath. “Well, you look like a raccoon, but like… a really hot, tragic one.”

That earns a laugh from you, weak, but real.

You’d managed to make it through most of your shift before breaking. A guest complained about the softness of a towel, and something about the ridiculousness of it all finally cracked you open. You escaped to the back before anyone could see the tears slipping down your face. Kara had followed, no questions asked, just a washcloth and a granola bar in hand.

You pull your phone out of your pocket and glance at the screen.

The text is still there.

Gideon Gemstone: I’m sorry. I mean it.

No double texts. No follow-ups. No grand speeches.

Just that.

You left it unanswered. You needed time. Space. The silence between you felt like its own kind of conversation.

Two days pass.

You're sitting in the campus café, a lukewarm coffee in front of you, scrolling absently through your phone between classes. That’s when the photo comes in.

It’s him and his family. They're all dressed in white, standing on the grass behind their sprawling home, framed by trees heavy with moss and the kind of Southern light that looks soft even through a screen. Jesse has his arms around Gideon and Amber. Gideon's hand rests on Abraham's shoulder. The caption comes through right after:

Gideon Gemstone: This is what’s important to me.

You called him that night after class.

No answer.

No text, no missed call. Just the quiet static of rejection echoing through your phone speaker before the line went dead. You told yourself it was fine. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he didn’t want to talk.

Still, when Easter came, when church let out and your grandmother had kissed your cheek and told you to take an extra plate home, there he was. Pulled up to the curb in one of the family’s gleaming cars, the hood warm in the spring sunlight, a fresh polish making the chrome shine like a mirror.

You slipped into the passenger seat, hands folded tightly in your lap.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

The drive wove through quiet city streets, past rows of brick buildings and laundromats with faded signs, over a small bridge where kids rode scooters in the nearby park. You leaned your head against the window as the car turned off into a stretch of tree-lined road, winding into quieter, older parts of town. Eventually, Gideon slowed the car in front of a wide, low building with peeling white paint and a drive-through that hadn’t been updated since the early 2000s.

"Fancy an ice cream?" He asked softly, already undoing his seatbelt.

Later, you sat on the curb out front, legs stretched out, your paper cup of soft serve melting slowly beneath the spring sun. Gideon was beside you, still in his white Easter shirt, the sleeves rolled up now, forearms tanned. He was working his way through a dipped cone, eyes fixed somewhere out across the four-lane road.

"You were my first," you said, softly, but clearly enough that the words didn’t float away.

He froze mid-bite, the chocolate shell cracking under his teeth, a smear of vanilla near his knuckle. His ears flushed first. Then his cheeks. He didn’t look at you. He just blinked at the ground like the words had short-circuited his entire system.

You let the moment stretch, watching the cars zip by, one after another. Someone honked a few blocks away. A breeze rustled the gum wrappers at your feet.

“Geez, Gid.” You gave him a sidelong glance, the corner of your mouth twitching. “I knew I wasn’t experienced, but I didn’t think I was so bad that you’d run across the country.”

That got him.

He barked out a laugh, choking a little on the last of his cone. He coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and finally looked at you eyes wide and a little stunned, but soft.

“Okay,” he said after a moment, quiet but sincere. “Then… you should know you were mine too.”

Your head snapped toward him.

He looked away, trying to play it off, but his ears betrayed him again, glowing red.

You blinked. “Wait. What?”

He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, like it wasn’t a seismic confession that rewired the entire memory of that night. “Yeah. You were.”

You feigned a dramatic gasp, clutching at your chest like you were in an old-timey soap opera. “So that’s why I didn’t-”

“Do not finish that sentence,” he groaned, scrunching up his face and pointing at you with what little dignity he had left. “My ego is far too fragile.”

You burst out laughing, the kind that folded you in half. You could hardly breathe, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye as you tried to catch your breath. He looked over at you with a crooked grin, shaking his head.

“God, you’re the worst,” he muttered, but there was nothing harsh behind it.

“Hey, if it makes you feel better,” you said between dying giggles, “I thought you were pretty good for a guy who cried after."

“Okay, now we’re done sharing,” he said, flinging his napkin at you.

You dodged it, still grinning, and bumped your shoulder against his. “I work tomorrow. Could I trouble you for a ride home?”

“Always,” Gideon said, already pushing himself to stand and tossing the remains of his cone into a trash can nearby.

The city was quiet in that strange lull after a holiday. Easter banners fluttered on lamp posts, and the glow from corner store windows flickered softly against the sidewalk. You climbed into the passenger seat of the family SUV, the leather warm from the sun that had long since dipped below the skyline. He pulled out of the drive-thru lot, one hand loose on the wheel, the other draped across the center console like he wanted to touch you again but wasn’t sure how to ask.

The car was filled with low music and the air smelled faintly of sugar and sunscreen. You watched the city blur past, neon lights catching on the glass, red brake lights bleeding onto the pavement.

You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.

There was a quiet ease to the ride that hadn’t existed between you in a long time. Maybe ever. And when you glanced over at him, the curve of his jaw soft in the streetlight, his eyes tired but calm, something inside you fluttered. The good kind. The kind that made you wish this moment could last forever.

He pulled up in front of your apartment complex, the one with the chipped stairs and the flickering porch light that never got fixed. You reached for the door handle, but he caught your hand gently, fingers wrapping around yours like he’d done it a thousand times before.

You turned to him, brows raised.

“I had a good night,” he said, quietly, like he didn’t want to scare the words away.

You smiled. “Me too.”

He didn’t kiss you. Not on the cheek, not on the mouth. He turned your hand over and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles instead, his lips warm and lingering just a second longer than they needed to. Then he let go.

You got out of the car slowly, like your body didn’t quite want to leave. You offered him one last smile as you closed the door and turned toward the stairs.

He waited until you unlocked the door and stepped inside before pulling away. You knew because the headlights flashed briefly against your hallway wall. You closed the door behind you with a soft click and leaned your forehead against the cool wood, breathing in.

Your apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

The air felt heavy, like something had shifted. Like the moment you’d let your guard down, something dark crept in. You couldn’t explain it. You’d had a good night. A great night, even. You laughed. You shared. You felt something you hadn’t in weeks, months, even. But now?

Now there was a weight in your chest that wouldn’t lift. You dropped your bag on the floor and toed off your shoes, walking in slow, tired steps to the kitchen. The fridge buzzed softly. The overhead light cast a warm glow over the laminate counters and half-finished grocery list stuck to the door with a magnet from your last vacation.

You filled a glass of water and took small sips, but it didn’t help the feeling gnawing at your ribs. It was something unspoken. Not from tonight, but from everything before. Maybe the cracks were still there. Maybe you were just too scared to look closely and find that some of them had never actually healed.

You wandered to the couch and sat down, curling up with a pillow hugged to your chest, much like you had nights ago when everything had started to crumble. Gideon had held you that night, unaware of the storm he was about to create.

Now, he was holding your hand again. Pressing kisses to your knuckles like a promise. But what promise?

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe in this new chapter, in the Gideon who’d come back, not the one who planned to rob his family on Easter Sunday. You wanted to believe in the version of him who blushed at confessions, who laughed at your jokes, who drove you home and waited to make sure you got inside safe.

But belief wasn’t always enough. Your phone buzzed beside you. You looked down.

Gideon “Made it home okay."

You stared at the message for a long while, your thumbs hovering over the keys. Then, you replied:

You “Good. Thanks for the ride.”

The read receipt popped up instantly, but there was no reply after that. Just silence. Familiar, now. You set the phone face-down and let your head fall back against the couch.

The TV murmured softly in the background, some rerun you’d seen a hundred times playing without sound. You watched the flicker of images for a while, but your thoughts kept pulling you back to the car, to the sidewalk, to the kiss on your hand that shouldn’t have made your heart skip but did anyway.

Something about it all felt like the calm before the storm.

And maybe that’s what unsettled you most.

You’d lived long enough in the world of the Gemstones to know that peace was never permanent. Not really. And if something felt this good… it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped.

You curled in tighter around the pillow, trying to hold onto the warmth from earlier. The laughter. The ice cream. The truth.

But your gut twisted with something else. A memory, maybe. Or a premonition.

Whatever it was, it wouldn’t let you rest.

Gideon called early the next morning, so early the sun hadn’t yet warmed the street outside your window. You were still in bed, half-asleep, the weight of last night lingering like perfume in your sheets. His name lit up your screen, and your heart fluttered like it used to, before everything got complicated.

“Can I come by?” His voice was raw. Low.

You said yes before you could even think.

Then you were up, a sudden frenzy of movement. You pulled on sweats and started cleaning. Like really cleaning. Not the surface-level straightening you usually did when company came over. You scrubbed the kitchen counter three times. Fluffed every throw pillow. Lit a candle. Then panicked, blew the candle out, and cracked the window so it wouldn’t smell like you were trying too hard. You’d even gone so far as to pull out a few messes. A hoodie on the back of the chair. One mismatched sock by the bed. Your half-finished grocery list on the fridge still looked authentic, at least. You wanted it to feel lived-in. Like something he could belong in.

So when he knocked, you practically ran.

You threw open the door, already wearing a smile. But it fell instantly.

He stood there like a ghost.

His hair was unbrushed, skin pale, and his eyes were bloodshot, rimmed red like he hadn’t slept all night. His bottom lip was split, crusted dark with blood. There was something off about the way he held himself too, shoulders tight and hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie like he needed to keep them from shaking.

“I’m leaving,” he said, like it was the only thing he could manage to get out.

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

He stepped inside without waiting, feet heavy, like each step cost something. You closed the door behind him softly.

“I’m leaving,” he repeated, turning toward you. “Not like, not how I did before. Not without saying something. I just- I didn’t know where else to go.”

You swallowed, slowly sitting down on the armrest of your couch, afraid if you moved too quickly, he might vanish.

He sat too. Not beside you. Across the room, on the edge of the ottoman, hands dangling between his knees. He stared down at the floor like the words were carved into the wood grain.

“Scotty,” he began, and his voice cracked. “He… he pulled a gun on my dad.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Held it to his head in the backyard,” he said, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it either. “Pistol-whipped my granddad. Took off with three million dollars. Left me and Dad zip-tied in the damn vault like like we were nothing. Just... gone. Gone with all that money.”

You were already walking toward him before you realized it. Slowly, cautiously, like you were approaching a wounded animal. You knelt in front of him, reaching out to touch his knee. “What happened after?”

“Martin found us,” he whispered. “Got us out. Mom was already there in Granddad's office. I thought maybe we could explain. But she…”

He looked at you finally. His face crumpled in a way that made your throat tighten. “She kicked me out.”

“Oh, Gideon,” you murmured.

“She said I was part of it. That I brought Scotty in. That it was my mess." He started to cry. "The worst part was that she thought that she was the failure. Not me."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Do you… do you need a place to stay?”

He shook his head, eyes already far away again. “I can’t. I have a mission trip. It’s already lined up. They’re leaving today. I have to be on the road in like an hour.”

You nodded. Quietly. Trying not to let the tears fall just yet.

So this was it, again, but this time, at least you knew.

“Thank you for telling me you’re running off this time,” you said, voice thick.

He laughed. Short, breathless, like it hurt his ribs. “I deserved that.”

“Yeah,” you said, sniffling. “You did.”

You leaned back on your heels, sitting on the floor in front of him, knees bent, arms around your legs. The apartment was too quiet. The moment too full.

“How long will you be gone?” you asked finally.

“I don’t know. Maybe a couple months. Maybe longer.”

You nodded again, staring at the threadbare patch of carpet near your bookshelf. “Will you write?”

He looked startled. “Yeah. Yeah, if you want me to.”

“I do.”

“I’ll send you postcards,” he said. “Ugly ones. The kind that look like they’ve been in a gas station spinner rack since 1998.”

You huffed a soft laugh, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand. “I’d like that.”

He stood, slowly, and you followed. He hesitated for a moment, like he wasn’t sure whether to hug you. Then he reached for your hand instead and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For all of it.”

“I know.”

You walked him to the door. He paused on the threshold, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was warm and unsteady and full of goodbye.

And then he was gone.

The days passed. One, then two, then five. The ache didn’t go away, but it dulled, became something you could carry in your pocket without feeling it slice.

You went to work. You answered Kara’s texts. You said you were fine.

Sometimes you were.

Sometimes you weren’t.

You checked your mailbox every day, not even sure what you were hoping for. Then, a week later, tucked between a pizza coupon and a dentist reminder, it arrived.

A postcard. Ugly as sin. A cartoon duck riding a tractor under a too-blue sky.

On the back, scrawled in Gideon’s messy print:

“Don’t forget me. —G.”

You blinked the tears back and you pinned it to your fridge.

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