Sandalwood and Scrambled Eggs

By Jamie F. Bell

Rory wakes to the scent of coffee and an overwhelming sense of guilt, but Declan's calm domesticity and surprising act of protection turn a morning of awkwardness into something sweet.

The world swam back into Rory in stages. First, the smell. Coffee, dark and rich, cutting through the faint, metallic aftertaste of last night’s panic. Then, the weight. Not just of the blanket, which felt oddly thick and smelled faintly of something clean and woodsy, but the leaden thrum behind his eyes. A couch. Definitely not his own lumpy mattress. The cushions beneath him offered a deceptive plushness. He cracked open an eye, the light filtering through the blinds a soft, hazy grey, making the unfamiliar living room feel like a watercolor painting.

His head throbbed. Not a hangover exactly, more like his brain had been on a high-speed chase through a dark tunnel and just slammed on the brakes. He shifted, a groan catching in his throat, and the blanket, a heavy, knitted thing, threatened to slide off. He clutched at it, pulling it up to his chin. The silence in the apartment was unnerving, broken only by the distant murmur of the city, a low, constant hum he wasn’t used to. Where *was* he? Oh, right. Declan’s.

A fresh wave of mortification washed over him, hot and prickly. Declan. Last night. The whole… thing. He’d shown up, a complete mess, practically dripping drama, and just… collapsed. On Declan’s couch. What kind of person did that? A burden, that’s who. A gigantic, inconvenient burden, wrapped in a borrowed blanket and smelling vaguely of desperation.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Shame curled in his stomach, a sour, churning knot. He was supposed to be a low-maintenance person. Independent. Capable. Not… whatever this was. A stray kitten found in a downpour. He could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, even under the cool air of the room. He should just… sneak out. Yes. That was the mature, responsible thing to do. Slip away before Declan woke up, leave a mumbled, probably incoherent apology text, and pretend none of this ever happened.

But then the clatter came from the kitchen. The distinct, cheerful *clink* of ceramic on ceramic, followed by the soft hiss of a gas burner lighting. Declan was awake. And, apparently, making breakfast. Rory froze, a deer caught in headlights, except the headlights were actually the enticing scent of frying bacon, which now mingled with the coffee and made his stomach give an embarrassingly loud rumble. He instantly clamped a hand over his belly, willing it to silence. Too late. The kitchen noises paused.

“Morning,” Declan’s voice, deep and calm, drifted into the living room. No surprise. No judgment. Just… morning. Rory swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He sat up slowly, the blanket pooling around his waist. His clothes were still rumpled from yesterday, clinging uncomfortably. He probably looked like a dishevelled, overgrown toddler.

Declan appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, a coffee mug steaming in his hand. He was wearing a dark grey t-shirt that stretched across his chest and some faded jeans, looking entirely too put-together for this early hour. His dark hair was still a little sleep-mussed, though, a few strands falling across his forehead, which somehow made him seem… approachable. Or, at least, less intimidatingly perfect.

“Sleep okay?” Declan asked, taking a slow sip of his coffee. His gaze was steady, not lingering, but not dismissive either. Just… observing. Like Rory was a particularly interesting, but not alarming, houseplant.

Rory nodded, then realized that was insufficient. “Uh. Yeah. Fine. Really. Sorry. About… everything.” He waved a hand vaguely, encompassing his entire existence and the current situation. The words felt clumsy, too big for his mouth, and probably sounded like he was trying to apologize for breathing.

A small smile touched the corner of Declan’s lips. It was quick, almost imperceptible, but it was there. “Nothing to be sorry about. Want coffee?” He pushed off the doorframe and turned back towards the kitchen without waiting for an answer, assuming, correctly, that Rory would want coffee.

Rory swung his legs off the couch, his socks making a faint scuffing sound on the polished wood floor. He felt a weird, floaty lightness in his limbs, mixed with a sudden, intense awareness of his own body, the way his shoulders ached a little, the slight chill in the air. He followed Declan into the kitchen, a brightly lit space with cream cabinets and a big window overlooking a patch of green city park. The smell of bacon was overwhelming now, practically a physical presence.

Declan was at the stove, flipping perfectly round pancakes with a practiced ease. The pan sizzled softly. Another mug, already filled, waited on the counter next to a jar of sugar and a milk pitcher. He pointed at it with the spatula. “Black, two sugars, right?”

Rory’s jaw went slack. “How… how did you…?”

Declan just shrugged, focusing on a pancake. “You mentioned it once. At the coffee shop.” He spoke as if recalling the precise molecular structure of a star. Which, for Declan, probably wasn’t far off. Rory, meanwhile, couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast last Tuesday.

He took the mug, the ceramic warm against his palms, and the steam rising carried that rich, comforting scent. He took a sip. Perfect. The sweetness cut through the bitterness, a tiny, welcome comfort. He leaned against the cool countertop, watching Declan. The way his brow furrowed just slightly in concentration as he plated the pancakes, the careful precision with which he arranged the bacon. It was… unexpectedly domestic. And utterly surreal.

“So,” Declan said, turning from the stove and placing a plate piled high with pancakes and bacon in front of Rory. “About your keys.”

Rory blinked, mid-chew on a crispy piece of bacon. “My… keys?” He’d entirely forgotten about them. His apartment keys. The entire reason he’d been so panicked last night, besides… well, *everything* else.

“Yeah. Your friend, Julian, has them.” Declan sat down opposite him, his own plate more modest, just a few pieces of bacon and a single pancake. He speared a piece of bacon, completely unfazed.

Rory felt a fresh surge of dread. Julian. Oh, God. He hadn’t even thought about Julian. “Right. He… he does. He took them. To make sure I went home. Or something.” Rory mumbled, feeling a flush creep up his neck. The whole situation was even more embarrassing than he’d first thought. Julian had been trying to control him, and Declan had witnessed the aftermath.

“He blocked me too, I think,” Rory added, almost to himself, the memory of Julian’s tight, angry face flashing through his mind. “Said I was being ridiculous.”

Declan simply nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “We can go over there after breakfast. Pick them up.”

“Oh. Okay.” Rory picked at a piece of pancake, his appetite suddenly dwindling. The idea of facing Julian again, of having Declan with him to witness Julian’s inevitable dramatics, made his stomach clench. He really, really didn’t want to go. But he needed his keys. He needed his life back, however messy it was.

Just as he was trying to figure out how to articulate his dread, a sudden, insistent vibration started on the counter. Rory jumped, nearly knocking over his coffee. His phone. It was lying face down, doing a frantic little dance across the polished surface. He knew, with a sick certainty, exactly who it was.

“It’s probably Julian,” Rory whispered, his voice barely audible. He didn’t want to look. He couldn’t. He just stared at the phone, as if it were a ticking bomb.

Declan, without a word, reached across the table. His hand, warm and firm, settled over Rory’s phone, stilling its frantic buzzing. Rory’s breath hitched. Declan’s fingers were long, his knuckles a little rough, and the simple act felt disproportionately intimate, a quiet assertion of control over the chaotic intrusion. He picked up the phone, flipped it over. The screen blazed with a dozen unread messages, all from Julian. And several missed calls. The contact photo was Julian’s beaming, perfect smile, looking incongruous against the frantic red notification badges.

Declan’s gaze swept over the screen, entirely unreadable. His thumb moved, pressing, swiping, tapping. Rory watched, mesmerized, a strange quiet descending over him. He couldn’t look away from Declan’s focused expression, the slight tilt of his head. It was fast, efficient. Like watching a surgeon. Or a particularly calm hacker.

A moment later, Declan set the phone back down in front of Rory. The screen was dark. Quiet. No more buzzing. No more frantic notifications. Rory tentatively reached for it, unlocking it. He stared at the screen. Julian’s contact was gone from his recents. He checked his messages. Empty of Julian’s presence. He checked his contacts list. Julian’s name wasn’t there.

“What… what did you do?” Rory breathed, his voice a little hoarse.

Declan picked up his fork and resumed eating his bacon, as if he’d just tidied up a loose napkin. “Blocked him. And deleted his number.”

Rory just stared. Speechless. The words tumbled around in his head, unformed, tripping over each other. He should feel… something. Angry? Annoyed? But all he felt was this overwhelming, dizzying sense of… relief. And a profound, almost terrifying, warmth spreading through his chest.

Julian. Gone. Just like that. A problem that had felt insurmountable, a buzzing, insistent annoyance that had been draining him for months, simply… vanished. With a few calm, deliberate taps of Declan’s thumb. It was a simple act, mundane almost, but the weight of it, the quiet protection it implied, felt immense. It was the kind of thing he never would have done for himself, paralyzed by politeness, by the fear of confrontation, by the ingrained habit of letting Julian walk all over him. But Declan had just… done it. Without a thought. Without asking. Just… for him.

A small, almost involuntary sound escaped Rory’s throat. A soft, choked laugh, a little bit watery. Declan looked up, a faint question in his eyes.

“You… you just… did that,” Rory finally managed, a genuine, if slightly bewildered, smile breaking across his face. He felt like he was floating, a little lighter than he had been in weeks. It was an odd feeling, this sudden, unexpected freedom, handed to him across a kitchen table with a plate of pancakes.

Declan gave another one of his almost-smiles. “He was harassing you. And you needed to eat your breakfast in peace.” He picked up a slice of bacon, offering half to Rory. Rory took it, still smiling, a soft hum of content starting deep in his chest. Maybe being a burden wasn't so bad when the person carrying you made you feel like this.

The morning continued in a haze of quiet, almost companionable domesticity. They ate breakfast. Declan started the dishwasher, the low whirring sound becoming another layer of the apartment’s unexpected comfort. He still hadn't brought up the previous night, the details of Rory's emotional breakdown, the panic that had driven him here. It was like Declan had simply accepted Rory’s presence as a given, a natural part of the morning, no questions asked. And for the first time in a long time, Rory didn’t feel the urge to explain himself, to justify his existence. He just felt… held. Not in a physical sense, not yet, but in a way that wrapped around his frayed edges, soothing the rough places. The sheer, unassuming normalcy of it all was a balm.

Rory found himself watching Declan move around the apartment, from the kitchen to the small, sunlit balcony where he watered a couple of potted herbs. The casual grace of his movements, the quiet efficiency, it all spoke of a life lived with a certain measured intention. Rory, by contrast, felt like a series of erratic impulses, a human pinball machine. But here, in Declan's space, the chaos inside him felt muted. Temporarily, at least. He even managed to finish his coffee without spilling it, a small victory.

When Declan finally turned back from the balcony, a faint scent of mint clinging to his hands, he caught Rory’s eye. A long, comfortable silence stretched between them. Rory felt his heart give a quiet, almost imperceptible flutter. He wasn’t sure what to do with this new, profound sense of… being looked after. It was foreign, unsettling in its unexpected sweetness. He was used to being the one who took care of things, even if badly, or at least pretended to. To have someone simply *do* something, something so protective and decisive, without being asked, without a grand declaration, felt like a different language. A language he was only just starting to understand.

“Ready to face the dragon?” Declan asked, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes, his voice soft. He was referring to Julian, of course. And Rory, for the first time in a very long time, actually felt like he might be. With Declan, maybe he actually could.