Hostile Affection

Chapter 9: Quiet Bloom

Troye’s POV

The day slipped by faster than I expected.

Ever since Nicco’s glowing review, the café had been buzzing with new and returning customers—the kind of foot traffic we’d only dreamed of during the quieter months. Business was thriving, and yet, a tight knot of nerves pulled at my chest with every passing hour.

Tomorrow was the dinner.

I tried not to think about it as I stood behind the bar counter, carefully pouring steamed milk into a cup. The swirl of white foam blended into the caramel-brown espresso, and I focused on shaping a clean, delicate pattern. Anything to keep my hands busy.

“Troye,” Kiana’s voice called from the cashier, sing-song and teasing. “Your dinner with Nicco is tomorrow. Are you excited?”

With Kent off for the day—Fridays were always hers, Sundays his—she had taken over the register, her voice carrying effortlessly through the mid-morning hum of the café.

I didn’t look up, though my hand almost slipped at the sound of his name.

“Excited,” she repeated, laughing under her breath. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

“I’m not excited,” I muttered, setting the latte on the tray. “Honestly, I’m regretting ever saying yes.”

“Oh, please,” she said with that grin I could practically hear. “You better show up. If that Nicco posts a bad review after we’ve finally picked up momentum, we’re doomed.”

I sighed. “I already said yes. Of course I’m going.”

Kiana beamed from behind the counter, her eyes softening the way they always did when she got sentimental. “That’s why Kent and I love you, you know. You act all cool and indifferent, but you always show up for the people who matter.”

I rolled my eyes, trying—and failing—to hide the heat creeping up my neck.

“Whatever,” I mumbled, grabbing the tray before walking away.

As I set the Vanilla Latte in front of the waiting customer, I told myself to focus on work. Focus on the rush, the orders, the grind. But Nicco’s name lingered anyway—like the aftertaste of strong coffee. Sharp. Warm. Impossible to ignore.

***

Nicco’s POV

I was in the middle of feeding Piper her dinner when the doorbell rang.

I froze mid-motion, spoon still hovering over her bowl. I wasn’t expecting anyone—no messages, no heads-up, not even a vague “On the way.” A flicker of unease crept up as I wiped my hands on a towel and headed for the video intercom.

When the screen lit up, I actually blinked.

My friends.

All of them.

Outside my door—grinning like lunatics, arms full of alcohol and takeout containers.

I opened the door before they could ring again.

“You’ve been MIA for a week, man,” Jacob said without preamble, already barging inside like rent was free. “So we decided to bring the party to you.”

“You barely reply on Messenger,” Venice added, giving me that don’t-you-dare-lie look. “Admit it. You’re in love, aren’t you?”

“You caught us off guard with that sweet review of Caffeine Chapter,” Yasser said, holding up a bag of chips like it was Exhibit A.

“This guy?” Franco laughed, nudging my shoulder. “Definitely head over heels.”

I sighed, shutting the door behind them. I should’ve pretended not to be home. The interrogation had officially begun.

By the time they’d dumped their loot on the coffee table—bottles clinking, snacks popping open, pillows thrown to the floor—I was already calculating how much tequila it would take to survive the night.

“Come on, spill it,” Venice said, pouring shots with dangerous enthusiasm. “Who’s got your heart right now?”

“Apple of the eye,” Yasser mocked, already half-laughing. “Or just the flavor of the week?”

Jacob didn’t even look up from his phone. “Nah. He’s too soft these days. I bet it’s serious.”

I groaned and flopped onto the couch. “Alright, fine. Since you all clearly won’t shut up until I confess.”

“Finally!” Franco lifted his glass like a toast.

So, I told them.

About that night at the bar. About the kiss. About him.

I didn’t leave much out—the tension, the hesitation, the way that kiss had looped in my head like some broken song I couldn’t unhear.

“Damn,” Jacob said, pausing his mobile game for the first time all night. “Who is this Troye? Dude steals one kiss and you’re already spiraling?”

“I need to meet him,” Yasser said. “When’s that happening?”

“Soon,” I said, surprising myself with how softly it came out. “We’re not… anything yet. I’m still figuring it out.”

“Hope he ghosts you,” Franco muttered with a grin.

I threw a pillow at his face. “And this is why I don’t tell you people anything. You’ll jinx it.”

Venice was already scrolling on her phone. “Why can’t I find him? What’s his username? Give me something.”

“He doesn’t have socials,” I said casually, reaching for my shot glass.

The room went dead silent.

“What?!” they all yelled in unison.

I couldn’t help laughing. “Yeah. No social media. Not even a burner account.”

“Sketchy,” Jacob said immediately. “He’s probably ugly.”

My gaze snapped toward him. “He’s hotter than me,” I said before I could stop myself. “That’s how bad it is.”

That earned me a full round of laughter—disbelief, teasing, the whole show. The noise filled the room, warm and chaotic and familiar.

Hours passed in that soft blur of noise and alcohol, of jokes and questions and stories that spiraled off-topic. And even when they started leaving one by one—Jacob last, muttering something about early meetings—the laughter still lingered like smoke in the air.

By the time I locked the door and leaned back against it, the apartment was quiet again. Piper was asleep, curled up in her bed, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound left.

I walked to the window and looked out at the street. The taillights from Franco’s car disappeared into the distance, leaving the night empty and still.

And for some reason, that stillness made me smile.

Sunday.

I’m excited to see you, Troye.

***

Troye’s POV

Sunday.

I didn’t wake up until noon.

Despite everything I tried the night before—warm milk, a quick run on the treadmill, even half a sleeping pill—nothing worked. My mind wouldn’t shut up. It wasn’t until two in the morning that I finally drifted off, and even then, the sleep was shallow, fragile, the kind that left you more tired than before.

Still groggy, I groaned into my pillow, refusing to check the time. Before I could even move, a familiar weight landed on my stomach.

Scarlet.

Just like always, she circled twice before settling into a loaf, tail flicking in quiet authority.

“Meow… meow…”

“You’re hungry, huh?” I mumbled, peeling myself off the bed. “Sorry, Scarlet. Dada overslept.”

She followed me to the kitchen, meowing every few steps like she was scolding me. I filled her bowl and watched as she immediately dug in.

“Dada has a dinner date—I mean, dinner—tonight,” I said, scratching my neck. “What do you think I should wear?”

She didn’t even look up.

“I wish I understood a word you just said,” I sighed.

Before I could ask her opinion on whether navy or black would make me look less like I was spiraling, my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I froze. I already knew who it was.

I picked up anyway. “Hello?”

“Good afternoon, Troye!” Nicco’s voice was bright—too bright—for someone who clearly had no idea how much mental energy I’d wasted thinking about this dinner.

I hated how easily his voice made my mood lift. Hated it so much that I forced my tone flat. “Good afternoon. Calling for something specific?”

“What’s wrong, babe? You sound drained,” he teased, playful as ever.

“Stop calling me that,” I said automatically. “What do you want? I’m in the middle of something.”

“You’re so serious all the time,” he laughed. “I just wanted to remind you about our dinner dat—uh, dinner. Tonight.”

“I said I’d go,” I replied. “You don’t need to follow up.”

“Good to know,” he said, still cheerful. “I’ll text you the place. See you later. Bye!”

I hung up before he could say anything else.

For a few seconds, I just stared at my phone. Then I let out a long sigh and set it face-down on the bed. Nicco was getting on my nerves—and he wasn’t even here yet.

What was with that guy? Didn’t he have work? Or hobbies? Or literally anything better to do?

Aside from being a coffee and food critic, I didn’t know much about what he did. Maybe he was one of those people who lived off brand deals and caffeine.

A ping.

8 PM tonight. Daffodil’s. I already booked a reservation. See you tonight, Cutie.

I threw the phone onto the bed and dragged a hand down my face.

Tonight was going to be a long night.

---

The rest of the afternoon blurred into a loop of unproductive noise. I sat in front of my laptop, fingers hovering above the keyboard, cursor blinking like it was mocking me.

The email from Penguin Random House was still pinned at the top of my inbox. My first official novel. A love story. LGBTQIA+ representation. International release.

And I hadn’t written a single damn line.

It wasn’t writer’s block—I’d been through that before. This was worse. It was the kind of paralysis that came from pretending you understood something you’d never actually felt.

How was I supposed to write about love when I’d never even been in it? Never had a boyfriend. Never experienced the kind of ache that turns ordinary sentences into poetry.

I told myself I’d start tomorrow. I’d been telling myself that for days.

By the time the sun began to dip, it was almost six. I pushed away from the desk and stared at the closet across the room like it was a riddle I couldn’t solve.

I wasn’t dressing to impress him. Not really. But Daffodil’s was an upscale place, the kind where people whispered about Michelin stars and service charges. Showing up underdressed would feel like an insult.

Still, nothing in my closet felt right. Too formal, too plain, too… not me.

It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. It was just dinner.

Just Nicco.

I muttered a quiet curse under my breath and ran a hand through my half-styled hair. Scarlet was perched on the bed again, blinking like a disappointed mother.

“I know,” I said, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. “I’m spiraling. Don’t give me that look.”

She blinked again.

After about thirty minutes of indecision, I finally pulled out a soft white dress shirt—clean lines, faint texture, easy collar. Safe. Then a light beige cardigan that Kiana once called “cozy intellectual.” I never really knew what that meant, but it felt… right.

Navy trousers. Polished loafers. Minimalist watch—the one Kent gave me last year.

When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see someone confident. I saw someone trying not to fall apart in slow motion.

Hair: decent.

Shirt: unwrinkled.

Vibe: mild panic disguised as calm.

I grabbed my cologne and dabbed a bit on my wrists, just under my jaw. The scent was fresh, quiet, grounded.

Scarlet tilted her head when I passed by her.

“You’re just having dinner,” I said, voice low. “Not a confession. Not a proposal. Just dinner.”

She meowed. I couldn’t tell if it was encouragement or pity.

I pocketed my phone and keys, took one last glance in the mirror, and told myself I was fine. Totally fine.

Then I stepped out the door.

Scarlet stayed curled on the bed, tail flicking lazily.

And for the first time that day, I didn’t look back.

***

Nicco’s POV

I must’ve checked my watch ten times already.

8:30 PM.

Still no sign of him.

The wind tugged gently at the tablecloth, teasing the edges of the napkins I’d aligned earlier. Above me, the soft string lights swayed in rhythm with the breeze, but all I could hear was the steady, traitorous thud of my own heart.

Half of me—probably the sensible one—was starting to think Troye wouldn’t show up.

I’d gone all out tonight. Rented the entire rooftop of Daffodil’s, picked the quietest corner table with a clear view of the city skyline, made sure the setup wasn’t too flashy. Everything about it was deliberate—muted, calm, thoughtful. Like him.

Kiana had once mentioned that Troye didn’t like crowds or noise, that he preferred things small and meaningful. So, I made sure there’d be no one else here. Just us.

Not to impress him.

But to understand him.

I wanted to see the man behind the café, the one who hid behind calm smiles and polite nods, whose words always sounded careful—as if he measured every syllable before letting it fall.

I glanced down at the tulips resting on the table, their pale petals catching the faint amber glow of the lights. Maybe I’d misread things. Maybe Troye said yes just to be nice.

My chest tightened.

Then the elevator chimed.

My head snapped up.

And there he was.

Troye stepped out slowly, and for one absurd second, the world just—paused. The city behind him blurred into soft light, the wind stilled, and I forgot how to breathe. He wore a dark button-down, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the veins along his forearms, collar slightly askew like he’d rushed but changed his mind last minute.

And still, he looked—

God.

I didn’t realize I’d been staring until he was right in front of me.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice low and even. “Sorry I’m late. Waze took me in circles.”

That voice. Smooth, quiet, faintly apologetic.

I blinked, shaking myself back to reality, and tried to sound casual. “It’s okay. Honestly, I thought you weren’t coming.”

I stood quickly, pulling out the chair across from me, partly out of politeness, mostly to hide how ridiculously relieved I felt.

“Thanks,” he said simply, sitting down without ceremony.

“Oh—wait,” I said, suddenly remembering. I reached beside me for the bouquet I’d been guarding all night. “I got you something.”

I handed him the tulips. Pale, soft, simple—just like the kind of warmth I hoped he’d accept.

He blinked, clearly surprised. The faintest color bloomed on his cheeks, and for a brief, unguarded second, his composure cracked.

That moment—just that little flicker—was enough to undo me.

“Take it,” I said gently. “Thank you for coming.”

He hesitated only for a heartbeat before reaching out, taking the bouquet with both hands. “Thank you,” he murmured, quieter now, almost unsure.

The space between us shifted then—still cautious, but lighter. The awkwardness melted, replaced by something fragile and real.

I finally sat down.

And just as I was about to say something—anything—to fill the silence, Troye looked up.

His eyes held mine, calm but unreadable.

Then, out of nowhere, he asked,

“Do you like me?”

For a heartbeat, my mind blanked.

I blinked, lips parting, heart hammering so hard I could barely hear my own voice.

Of all the things I thought he’d say tonight—this wasn’t one of them.