Page 46 of That One Moment

Chapter Twenty-One

Caiden

It’s the clattering of pans and the smell of burning that wakes me. My eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright morning light coming through my window. Stretching, I assess my body - the warmth of my limbs under the duvet, the heaviness in my head, the dryness in my mouth.

Every little detail from the night before is clear as a crystalline sky. All the vodka in the world could not erase the memories.

Jamie.

Rolling onto my stomach, I breathe in the soft linen scent of my sheets, stalling the inevitable conversation I have coming. But first, I flop onto the other side of the bed, my nose pressed to the pillow and like a creep, I take a deep lungful, thinking that if I can smell him here, I’ll know where he slept. I don't know what I want the outcome to be.

Last night, he held me. Held me and rocked me and ran his soft hands up and down my spine. Goosebumps broke out on my skin as he wrapped his arms tighter around my waist, letting hiswarmth seep into me. Then, when my breathing evened out and the sobs-turned-hiccups stopped, he led me to my bed, pulled the blankets up to my shoulders and disappeared. I listened to his footsteps through my apartment, mentally tracking his movements, and when he returned, it was with a glass of water and a warm, damp washcloth.

With light hands, Jamie had cleaned my face and neck. My cock gave a valiant stir and I shoved him away, muttering about being treated with kid gloves, and rolled onto my side to hide my growing erection. Then, he ran a hand through my hair - once. Just one, quick, affectionate touch that was enough to have my eyelids fluttering closed and a sigh passing my lips.

In the darkness, and the still, quiet of the room, I heard him. “I’m sorry Caiden,” he whispered, as though the words were for me but not quite mine yet. The sleep that followed was dreamless.

And now, he’s in my kitchen doing God knows what. Groaning and giving one last stretch, I throw off the covers and drag myself in the direction of the pungent scent of burnt food.

Whatever I had been expecting to find was nothing like the sight that greets me. Jamie, dressed in the running shorts he’d shown up in, only topless, and the back of his brown hair standing up in all directions. He’s an inch or two taller than my five foot ten, and his frame, though leaner than it once was, is still more athletically built than mine.

From this angle, I can see the muscles in his shoulders work beneath the skin as he moves along the counter, gathering up the items he needs before breaking an egg into a frying pan. Next to him sits a plate of very dark looking sausages.

The egg hisses and splatters as it hits the too hot pan and Jamie flinches, yelps and takes a step back. I can’t fight back the snort that escapes when the spatula hits the floor. He spinsaround, and shoots me a glare, but there’s no heat in his eyes, just a wariness like he’s afraid of what comes next.

“Hi. I fed the cat.” He points to Ford’s food bowl on the floor, before running a hand through his hair. “He wouldn’t stop meowing, and between him and the hamster in it’s fucking wheel thing, it was like a party going on all night in your lounge.” Guess that answers where he slept. My own back gives a phantom twinge of sympathy - my sofa is far from comfortable for a fully grown adult.

I nod in thanks. “And now you've taken it upon yourself to destroy my kitchen?” Taking a few tentative steps, I move to stand on the other side of the counter, closer to him. He's still glaring, or maybe that's just how he looks these days. All grumpy and shit. But now his eyebrows are also pulled together and there's a groove between them that I want to touch.

The thought has me instinctively taking a huge step back, increasing the distance between us until my back hits the marble counter.

“No. I'm feeding you.” He says it in the same way he said “I fed the cat,” like he's doing me a favour. I don’t know if he meant it to sound friendly but it gets my back up, making me feel small and incapable.

“I don’t need you to take care of me, Jamie,” I say, my voice flat, though tinted with a flash of annoyance. I move around him, picking up the spatula and placing it in the sink. It takes me a moment to notice that he’s cleaned up the mess Oliver left - there's no beer bottles on the counter or bottle lids on the floor - and replaced it with a mess of his own. Eggshells with the remnants dripping from them and the packaging from the frozen vegetable sausages he found in my freezer, sit on the counter. There’s splattered oil on the stove top and two slices of toast peeking out of the toaster. The butter is open and hasa knife wedged into it and the eggs he was cooking when I first walked in are now dry and sticking to the pan.

I’ve never known Jamie to be a messy person - Cooper was, for sure. But Jamie never struck me as being the same. But then again, how well do I really know him? Maybe he is everything like my twin and that’s why they were so perfect together. The thought makes my chest ache and I rest my hands on the counter and press down on the hard surface, letting my gaze run from left to right, along the expanse of my small kitchen.

Taking it all in - I see the chaos for what it is - a mantryingto do something nice. Shaking the tension from my arms, I turn around and meet his watchful eyes.

“These past few days aside,” I say, “I’ve been doing fine. Believe it or not, I feed myself, Ford and Basil, every day.” Or I mostly feed myself every day. But I don’t correct that statement. He doesn’t say anything, but I get this sense that he doesn’t believe me. Irritation rises in my gut but I don’t let it erupt, choosing instead to be grateful.

“Thank you,” I say, and for a brief second his eyes widen as though he was not expecting those to be my next words. I wave my hands in the general direction of the stove. “This was really nice of you.” Jamie dips his head, pink blossoming on his cheeks, and I don’t fight the smile that settles on my face.

“I don’t think any of it is even edible,” he says with a shy, boyish grin.

“Maybe not.” I look again at his attempt at breakfast, then open the freezer and search for another option but come up empty. He’s used all my eggs already - the ones in the pan ready for the bin given how they are burned, rubbery and somehow still raw on top - and there’s no milk for the tiny bit of cereal I have left.

Peering into my barren fridge, I startle when Jamie stands behind me, so close I can feel the warmth of his body at my backand can smell the scent of his skin. He smells like Earl Grey tea and sleep. It’s an unusual mix that settles warmly in my chest.

“Should I go out and get something for us?” he asks over my shoulder. I shake my head and without thinking, let my body lean back slightly until it brushes against his. A puff of air meets my neck but he doesn’t step back. I wonder if he’s breathing me in, the same way I was doing to him.

“No, you boil the kettle and I’ll make us toast with jam,” I say, taking out a half full jar of strawberry preserve. His hair brushes the side of my face when he nods and moves away. We work together in a comfortable silence until there's fresh toast and two cups of black coffee on the counter. The kitchen is still a mess but I decide to leave that until later.

“Why do you have a hamster?” Jamie asks, breaking the silence. I just about choke on my toast at the randomness of the question. “It seems like an odd choice for you - too cute and fluffy.”

“You say that like you know me,” I say. It’s meant to come out jokingly but it falls flat and leaves behind this awkward tension. So, I clear my throat and tell him Basil’s story. “I found him - his entire cage - next to the bins outside. Someone, and I have no idea who, put him there. They threw him away like he wasn’t a living, breathing creature. I took him home.”

“Fuck,” Jamie says. “People can be so bloody cruel.”

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