The smell is good. Familiar even, which is so reassuring in that exact moment, but Scot already knows he's going to decline. He's hungry and they smell delicious, but it's so ingrained to refuse, to not inconvenience someone.

"I'd love some," he hears himself say. "But I don't want to put you out cooking more for me."

That was not him refusing. His hand come up over his mouth, not sure what just happened.