Hostile Affection

Chapter 1: After the Storm

Troye’s POV

The shrill, blaring sound of my alarm tore through the stillness of my condo, slicing into the fragile edges of sleep. My eyes flew open, disoriented, the ceiling above me nothing but a vague blur. For a moment, I thought it was just another morning—that I could silence the noise, bury my head into the pillow, and postpone reality. But then my hand fumbled across the bedside table until my fingers curled around my phone. The screen flared to life, white-blue light stabbing my retinas.

Five in the morning. Too early, too cruel.

Yet my notifications were already flooding in—messages stacked one after another, Kent’s name flashing, then Kiana’s, both relentless in the group chat. Missed calls. Ping after ping. Reminders. Excitement. Warnings.

Because today wasn’t just any morning.

Today was the grand opening of our coffee shop. The culmination of sleepless nights, of sacrifices we never thought we’d survive. The gamble we had taken with our own savings, our own sanity. The dream we had carried like a fragile flame, protecting it against every gust of doubt.

And somehow—I was a co-owner. One of the reckless dreamers who dared to believe in it.

I sighed and set the phone aside. A soft movement brushed against my arm, and I turned my head. Scarlet had stirred awake, her slender Siamese body stretching, her fur brushing against my skin. She blinked up at me with wide, drowsy blue eyes, letting out a plaintive meow that sounded more like a question than a greeting.

I scooped her into my arms, burying my face in her warm fur. She smelled faintly of comfort, of home—familiar, grounding. I pressed my chin to her head.

“Come here, Scarlet,” I whispered, my voice hoarse with sleep. “Dada’s going to be busy today. You’ll stay here and guard the condo for me, alright?”

Her purr rumbled against my chest, soft and steady, as if she understood. As if she was promising to wait.

Scarlet had been mine since I was twenty-one, a birthday gift from Kent and Kiana when we were still broke college kids, scrounging coins for instant coffee. I was twenty-seven now, and she had never left my side. More than just a pet, she was my anchor. My quiet solace when the rest of the world was a storm.

Because the world had turned cruel. And no matter how many years passed, some wounds refused to fade.

***

Six Years Ago

“Bro, hang in there! We’re almost at the hospital!”

The voice cut faintly through the ringing in my ears, as though it belonged to another world. My entire body burned, agony pulsing in waves I couldn’t escape. Every time my eyelids fluttered shut, thinking the darkness would take me, pain dragged me back like chains around my ribs.

The memory replayed in broken shards: the screech of tires, the splintering crack of glass, the violent crunch of metal folding in on itself. My breath lodged in my throat. My car. The tree. The jarring collision.

Then hands. A stranger’s voice—urgent, raw.

“Stay with me, bro! Don’t you dare close your eyes!”

The world blurred into streaks of red and white. Cold air. Harsh fluorescent light. Fast-moving shadows—doctors, nurses. A sharp sting pierced my arm. And then nothing.

Darkness.

---

When I woke again, the air was sterile, suffocating. A steady beeping echoed beside me, each sound reminding me that I was still tethered to this world. My body felt foreign, heavy, but not dead. Not yet.

“He’s awake!”

The voice hit me like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Tarah. My sister. My lifeline.

“Oh, thank God,” another voice cracked with relief. My mother. Samantha. Always anxious, always soft, the one who tried to shield me even when her arms were too frail against the storm.

And then the storm itself descended.

“Well, look who finally decided to wake up,” my father’s voice cut sharp, bitter. He stood at the foot of the bed, his presence towering, suffocating.

“You’re so weak, Troye,” Tobias sneered. “Fail the board exam, crash your car—what’s next? Were you trying to kill yourself?”

Tom’s annoyance slashed next, his words colder than the room. “Do you even know the mess you’ve caused? I flew back from Spain for this. What a waste of my time.”

“Kuya! Dad!” Tarah snapped, her voice desperate. “Stop it! Can’t you see what state he’s in? Just shut up for once and let him rest!”

But my father only spat the words that buried themselves deeper than any wound.

“You’re a disappointment.”

My mother’s whispered “Hon, please” was a frail barrier against his fury.

I shut my eyes. Wishing the darkness had been permanent. Wishing the silence had taken me instead. But a single tear escaped, warm against my temple, betraying the weakness I couldn’t hide.

---

Two weeks passed before my body learned to carry itself again. Two weeks of hospital walls, of pitying glances, of reminders that I had survived when I sometimes wished I hadn’t.

The doctors cleared me for discharge, but relief never came. Instead, dread coiled in my chest like smoke. Because “home” was waiting. And home had never been sanctuary.

My father visited once. Just once. He left a cutting remark that lingered long after he walked away. My brothers didn’t bother at all. The only constants were Tarah, my mother, and—always—Kent and Kiana. They brought food, laughter, scraps of warmth to make me forget I was broken.

Still, as I folded my clothes into a bag, I leaned toward Tarah and whispered, “Ate… can I stay with you for a while?”

She raised a brow, half-teasing. “What, afraid of Dad?”

Her smile softened when I didn’t answer.

“Ignore him,” she said, squeezing my shoulder. “He’ll rant, yes, but let it pass.”

“He’s just worried,” my mother added gently.

Worried. The word scraped against me like rust. My father didn’t know worry. He only knew shame.

“You’ll be fine,” Kiana said with a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “Better to face him now.”

“We’ve got your back,” Kent promised, bumping my fist. “Always.”

I smiled. Fragile. A lie hidden in the curve of my lips.

---

When we reached the house, Scarlet was the first to greet me, her soft meows tumbling into my chest like forgiveness I hadn’t earned. I knelt, scooping her into my arms, inhaling her warmth like air after drowning.

But peace was a fragile thing.

“Troye,” Tobias called from the stairs. “Dad wants you. Study room.”

My stomach dropped.

I walked, each step heavier, my pulse quickening with every echo. The study door loomed like a sentence. I knocked.

My father sat at his desk, laptop glow painting his features in cold light. He shut it with deliberate calm before rising. His silence was worse than anger.

Then—

SLAP.

The force snapped my head sideways, the sting blooming hot across my cheek.

“You embarrassed me in front of my partners!” he roared. “You are a disgrace to this family!”

The words cut deeper than the strike.

“We gave you everything. And you still failed? Useless. Stupid.”

My fists trembled at my sides. “Dad… I only took Accountancy because you wanted me to. It’s not what I wanted. Not my passion.”

His laugh was cruel, sharp. “Passion? Writing? Those worthless stories? You’ll never earn a cent from that garbage!”

He grabbed my collar, dragging me close until the bitterness of his breath filled my lungs.

“I have no stupid son. Fix your life—or get out of my house!”

“Hon! Stop!” My mother’s voice broke as she burst in. Tarah followed, her eyes blazing.

“Dad, stop! He just got discharged!” she cried.

But he shoved me back, his command final. “Pack your things. Get out.”

“Please,” my mother sobbed.

But something inside me had already snapped.

“Fine,” I whispered. “If that’s what you want.”

His scoff carved itself into me. “Hand over your cards. Don’t you dare come back.”

I turned, burning with humiliation, the sting of tears clawing behind my eyes. I went straight to my room, scooped Scarlet into her carrier, shoved clothes into a bag.

“Son, please,” my mother pleaded.

“Troye, stay,” Tarah begged.

But I couldn’t. Or maybe I wouldn’t.

Minutes later, I sat in the back of a taxi, Scarlet pressed against my lap, tears sliding silently as the house blurred into the night.

That was the day everything ended. Or maybe—the day everything began.

***

The memory never really left. It returned in fragments on mornings like this, where silence felt heavy, where shadows stretched too long.

I wiped my face and glanced at Scarlet, curled up on the couch, tail flicking lazily. She blinked as if she, too, remembered.

But I had no time for ghosts. Not today.

Today was the grand opening.

By 6:30, I locked my door behind me, keys heavy in my pocket.

Outside the café, a small crowd had already gathered, anticipation buzzing like electricity. My chest swelled, unfamiliar, aching with something dangerously close to hope.

“I thought you weren’t going to show,” Kiana said, scissors in hand, mock glare hiding the tremor in her smile.

“Dude was probably crying at home,” Kent teased.

I smirked, shaking my head. “As if. This shop belongs to all of us.”

Caffeine Chapter.

Our name. Our dream. Coffee and books. Caffeine and chapters. A sanctuary for stories, both in mugs and in words.

The ribbon fell, applause erupted, and for the first time in years, something bloomed in my chest.

The day blurred into a whirlwind—orders shouted, laughter tumbling across tables, the clink of cups and the scent of roasted beans wrapping the air like a blanket. My feet ached, my arms trembled, but my heart beat steady. Alive.

By 11:00 PM, the doors closed at last. The café dimmed to amber light, soft music fading.

Kent and I collapsed onto the bench by the shelves, exhaustion weighing us down.

“Running a business is no joke,” he groaned.

“We’ll get used to it,” I muttered, wiping sweat from my brow.

And then Kiana’s shriek shattered the calm.

“OH MY GOD!”

We shot up. “What?”

She spun her laptop around. Numbers glowed on the screen.

₱60,000. In one day. More than double our target.

We stared, breathless.

“No way,” Kent whispered. “That’s my whole salary in a month.”

“At this rate, Troye, you’ll be the richest of us,” Kiana teased, eyes sparkling.

I shook my head, laughter spilling out despite the ache in my bones. “No one else I’d rather do this with.”

For once, I meant it.

---

Weeks passed. The café blossomed. Faces returned, smiles lingered, the hum of life wrapped itself around us like warmth. For the first time in years, mornings didn’t feel like battles.

Until one morning, as I locked the condo and slipped my keys into my pocket, my phone buzzed. A new email notification blinked.

I opened it absently. Read once. Then again. And again.

My fingers went numb. The phone slipped from my grasp, clattering against the floor.

No. It couldn’t be real.

But it was.

An offer. From one of the most prestigious publishing houses in the United States. The very one I had dreamed of since I first scribbled words in secret notebooks.

A laugh burst from me, half-sob, half-prayer. My chest heaved, my eyes burned.

“Thank You, God,” I whispered, clutching the phone as if it might vanish. “Thank You so much.”

And for the first time in six long years, the past didn’t feel like chains.

It felt like a story.

And maybe—just maybe—the next chapter was finally mine.