Hostile Affection

Chapter 11: Closer Than Before

Nicco’s POV

It was well past midnight when the meeting finally ended.

I barely gave myself a second to breathe before grabbing my things and rushing out of the building. I’d made a promise to Troye — I told him I’d come see him after work — and I intended to keep it.

Still in my slacks and a slightly rumpled dress shirt, I didn’t bother changing. I headed straight for the parking lot, my mind racing ahead of me, my heart thudding like it already knew how much I wanted to see him.

By the time I slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, the sky had turned ominously dark.

And then, the rain came.

Sudden. Heavy. The kind that drowned the streets in seconds, hammering against the windshield so hard it sounded like a warning.

“s**t,” I muttered, tightening my grip on the steering wheel.

I’ve always loved the rain — its quiet melancholy, the way it blurred city lights into watercolor. But not when I’m driving. Not when the roads turn into glass and every headlight feels like a ghost waiting to collide.

Too many close calls. Too many memories I’d rather not revisit.

Still, I pressed on, keeping steady, careful.

Hang on, Troye. I’m coming. Just wait a little longer.

The wipers worked furiously, but visibility was almost nothing — just streaks of light and darkness shifting in rhythm. The city felt endless in this kind of weather, and my pulse wouldn’t slow down.

I thought of the bouquet I’d sent him that morning, of his possible reaction. Did he smile when he read my note? Did he think of me at all when the rain started?

I wanted to believe he did.

But I also knew how it must’ve looked — saying I’d come, then letting time slip past midnight. I hated breaking promises. Especially to him.

My phone buzzed on the passenger seat, the screen lighting up with a notification — probably Jacob or one of the clients. I ignored it. Eyes on the road. Focus, Nicco.

I was approaching a curve when everything happened at once.

A flash of red lights. Tires screeching.

A car in front of me swerved abruptly, cutting straight into my lane without a signal.

“Hey!” I shouted instinctively, foot slamming down on the brake.

The world shrieked in metal.

There was a split second — maybe less — where I thought I could regain control. But the car jerked sideways, and all I heard was the brutal crunch of impact, the crack of glass, the breath punched out of my lungs.

Pain bloomed across my forehead, sharp and immediate. The seatbelt bit into my chest, hard enough to bruise.

For a moment, I just sat there — frozen — staring at the blur of my own trembling hands gripping the wheel.

Then the smell hit me. Gasoline. Burnt rubber. Rain.

“s**t…” I tried to move, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. My vision swam.

When I blinked, I saw her — a woman stepping out of the other car, panic all over her face as she stumbled toward me through the downpour.

“I’m so sorry!” she cried, voice muffled by the rain. “I didn’t see you — I swear! An ambulance came out of nowhere — I tried to—”

Her words dissolved into static.

My breath came shallow and uneven. I felt the warm trickle of blood slide down my temple, mixing with the rain on my skin.

Everything started to fade — her voice, the wail of distant horns, even the pounding of the rain.

The last thing I thought of wasn’t the car, or the pain, or the woman screaming for help.

It was Troye.

The way his smile lingered when he wasn’t aware of it. The quiet way he said my name. The faint, hesitant hope that maybe — just maybe — I was becoming someone who mattered to him.

I tried to hold onto that thought.

Then everything went black.

***

Troye’s POV

It was nearly one in the morning when I finally stepped inside my condo.

The lights were dim, the silence heavy.

Nicco hadn’t come.

No call. No text. Not even a lousy excuse.

I locked the door behind me a little harder than necessary. The frustration that had been simmering since ten finally started to boil over.

“You know what, Scarlet?” I muttered, glancing at my cat as she pawed at her bowl. “I almost let myself be a fool.”

Scarlet paused mid-chew and looked up at me, eyes wide, curious. Almost like she was listening. Then, with the same indifference I wished I could fake, she went right back to eating.

“I mean, thank God, right?” I said bitterly, kicking off my shoes. “At least Nicco showed his true colors early. Better now than later.”

My bag hit the couch with a dull thud. I shrugged off my jacket, running a hand through my hair.

“He said he’d come. And what—ghosted me? Didn’t even have the decency to cancel. Who does that?”

Scarlet looked up again, that same pointed, judgmental stare she’d perfected over the years.

Were you even a thing to begin with?

I groaned, throwing my hands up. “Why am I even thinking about him? It’s not like I’m into him or anything.”

But the thought came back, quiet and traitorous: Aren’t you?

I clenched my jaw, refusing to answer even in my own head. I needed to stop. Just stop. A cold shower. That’s what I needed. Something to clear the fog out of my brain and wash away the stupid hope that had built itself up throughout the day.

The water was freezing when it hit my skin, but I welcomed it. I stood there longer than I should’ve, waiting for the ache in my chest to ease. It didn’t.

When I finally stepped out, towel slung around my shoulders, hair dripping onto the floor, my phone started to ring.

I didn’t even check the caller ID. My voice came out sharp, a little breathless.

“You’ve got some nerve calling me now—”

“Ah, sir?” A woman’s voice cut in gently. “This is from TLC Hospital.”

I froze.

“What?” My pulse jumped. “Why—why do you have Nicco’s phone?”

“He’s currently admitted here,” she said, calm but cautious. “We found your number listed as his boyfriend. We haven’t been able to reach his family.”

For a second, my brain couldn’t process the words. Boyfriend barely registered. All I heard was admitted.

Something had happened.

Something bad.

I didn’t think. I just moved.

Clothes. Wallet. Keys. I was out the door in less than two minutes. The roads were slick with rain, the kind that made the world look blurred and unreal. The hospital was twenty minutes away, but every red light felt like a punishment. Every passing second dragged like it was mocking me.

By the time I reached the front desk, I was half-soaked, breathless, and shaking from something I couldn’t name.

“Nicco Samaniego,” I said, gripping the counter. “Room number?”

The nurse glanced up, recognition flashing in her eyes as she typed. “Room fifteen.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, already moving.

The hallway felt endless. White walls. Cold lights. The echo of my footsteps too loud against the tiles. I was just about to push the door open when it swung outward, and a woman nearly collided with me.

She was striking—elegant, confident, wearing clothes that didn’t belong in a hospital at one in the morning.

“Yes?” she asked, brows lifting. “Do you need something?”

“Is this… Nicco’s room?” My voice sounded smaller than I intended.

“It is,” she said carefully. “And you are?”

“Troye. Troye Mondejar.”

Something flickered in her expression. Recognition. Then relief.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Sorry—please, come in.”

I stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender soap.

And there he was.

Nicco.

Lying still on the hospital bed, pale under the fluorescent lights but breathing. Thank God—he was breathing.

My legs moved on instinct, but I stopped short when I noticed the others. Three men. All in their late twenties, maybe early thirties. One wore glasses, one had that kind of face that always looked amused, and the third looked like he belonged in a band.

The woman leaned toward them, whispering something I couldn’t make out. Whatever it was, it made all three of them glance at me with a mix of curiosity and something else I couldn’t name.

“You’re Troye?” the one with glasses asked.

I nodded, uncertain.

“The Troye Mondejar?”

Another nod.

“Wow,” said the sarcastic one, smirking. “Nicco has taste. I’ll give him that.”

“Now we know why he was gatekeeping so hard,” the long-haired one muttered under his breath.

I ignored them. My eyes stayed fixed on Nicco. “Is he okay?” I asked quietly.

The woman—still poised but gentler now—moved to stand beside me. “Yes. He’s stable. No concussion, just a mild head injury and a few bruises. They sedated him, but he’ll wake up soon.”

My breath came out shakier than I’d like to admit.

“I’m Venice, by the way,” she said, offering a small, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry—I’m one of his best friends. No romantic history. We’re not rivals.”

That earned the smallest huff of amusement from me.

“Jacob,” said the guy with glasses, standing to shake my hand. “Finally good to meet you.”

“In all fairness,” the sarcastic one added lazily, “yeah, you’re cute. I’m Yasser.”

“Franco,” said the last one. “Nice to meet you, Troye.”

I gave a polite nod to all of them, still feeling oddly out of place. They all knew Nicco—probably better than I did. Yet somehow, I was here, standing in this small room that suddenly felt too full, being treated like I was part of his world.

My gaze drifted back to the bed.

“I didn’t know,” I said quietly, more to myself than anyone else. “I didn’t know something happened.”

No one said anything. The only sound was the steady rhythm of the heart monitor, calm and unwavering.

And just like that, all the frustration I’d been holding onto—every bitter word, every ounce of disappointment—dissolved into something else entirely.

Relief.

Nicco was alive.

He’d made it.

And for the first time that night, that was enough.

***

Nicco’s POV

I stirred at the sound of laughter.

At first, everything was hazy—the sharp sting of antiseptic, the rhythmic beeping of machines, the dull ache pulsing at the back of my skull—but the noise was unmistakable. Familiar voices. Loud and obnoxious in a way only my closest friends could be.

And then—

A voice.

Different from the rest.

Quieter. Deeper.

One I hadn’t heard in person for days but had been dying to.

Troye.

I forced my eyes open, blinking against the blinding hospital lights, and tilted my head just enough to see across the room.

He was there.

Troye. Sitting stiffly on a chair, surrounded by my best friends who looked like they were interrogating him. His hands rested awkwardly on his lap, jaw tight, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. The sight was so surreal I almost laughed.

“What... what are you guys doing?” My voice came out rough and dry, and the room went dead silent.

Jacob was the first to move. “Thank God. You’re awake. You had us all freaking out.”

Venice folded her arms across her chest, glaring at me. “Seriously, Nicco. How many times do you have to get into an accident before you finally learn not to drive in heavy rain?”

I groaned, trying to sit up. “I’m fine—”

“Fine, my ass,” Franco cut in, rolling his eyes. He tilted his chin toward Troye. “I say just reject him now, Troye. Save yourself while you still can.”

Despite the ache in my throat, I managed a smirk. “You guys are the worst. Don’t listen to them, babe.”

That did it.

“Babe?” they all echoed in unison, disbelief painted on their faces.

Even Troye’s brows shot up, his expression somewhere between startled and unimpressed.

Yasser let out a slow, exasperated sigh. “Nicco, you haven’t even asked the man to be your boyfriend, and you’re already calling him ‘babe’? Chill.”

Jacob grabbed his jacket, shaking his head but smiling faintly. “Alright, that’s our cue. Troye, he’s all yours. Good luck.”

Venice patted Troye’s shoulder as she passed. “Try not to murder him. But if you do, we’ll understand.”

Franco winked at me. “Behave.”

And Yasser just muttered under his breath, “Hopeless,” before following them out.

Then the door clicked shut.

And suddenly, it was just us.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was heavy. Thick. Charged with everything we hadn’t said before this moment.

Troye stood there, motionless, eyes fixed on me like he wasn’t sure I was real. I wanted to tell him I was fine, to smile and brush it off, but something about the look on his face stopped me.

“You stayed,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitated. “I almost didn’t.” His tone was quiet, restrained.

A small smile tugged at my lips. “I’m glad you did.”

For a while, neither of us moved. The monitor beeped steadily beside me, filling the silence like a metronome counting down something inevitable.

Then I heard myself ask, almost under my breath, “Can I hug you?”

Troye didn’t answer right away. His throat worked like he was swallowing something down. Then, slowly—hesitantly—he crossed the room.

I opened my arms.

When he stepped into them, it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Grounding.

He smelled faintly of rain and soap—clean, warm, familiar. His arms came around me, strong but unsure, and I felt the faint tremor in his hands before he stilled.

I exhaled, pressing my face into his shoulder. For the first time since I woke up, I felt the weight in my chest ease.

My heart was still beating too fast. Too loud.

But I didn’t care.

Because right then, with Troye holding me like I might disappear again, I finally felt safe.

You’re really here, I thought.

And I don’t want to screw this up.

***

Troye’s POV

I sent Kent and Kiana a quick message that morning, letting them know I wouldn’t be coming in for work. I didn’t bother giving details—just said I was staying with Nicco at the hospital. They didn’t ask questions. They knew me well enough to understand that if I chose to stay, I had my reasons.

Nicco had been confined for three days. Doctor’s orders—seventy-two hours under observation before he’d be cleared for discharge. Those three days had been a quiet mix of routines and silences. I’d show up right after my shift at the café and stay as long as I was allowed. When I wasn’t there, his friends filled the room with laughter loud enough to rattle the IV stand.

He told me once during dinner that his family was in the States now. “I stayed,” he’d said, smiling like it didn’t matter. I hadn’t asked why. But remembering that now, I couldn’t help feeling that staying by his side had been the right thing to do. Maybe the only thing.

By the third day, he looked better. Still pale, still bruised, but more alert—more Nicco. The doctors insisted on home rest, and I agreed without hesitation.

When it was time to check out, I helped him gather his things. The papers were signed, the nurse gave me a list of medications, and the only question left was where he’d be spending recovery.

“Are you sure you’re okay with me dropping you off at your condo?” I asked as we stepped into the elevator.

“Of course,” he said. “You’ve already done enough for me. This is more than okay.”

I hesitated for a second. Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I said, “You can stay with me instead. If you’d like.”

His head snapped toward me, eyes wide. “Seriously?”

I should’ve known that tone—the one that always came before a grin. “I’d actually love that,” he said. “Your place sounds perfect.”

I sighed quietly. He was waiting for me to say that.

We drove to my condo in relative silence. The rain had finally stopped, and for once, the city felt calm. I helped him out of the car and into the elevator, my hand hovering near his arm in case he lost balance. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel him watching me from the side, that half-smile creeping up like he thought I wouldn’t notice.

When we reached my floor and stepped inside, he froze just past the doorway.

“Wow,” he said, looking around. “Your place is… actually stunning. Very you.”

Before I could reply, a small blur of orange and white fur shot out from the corner.

“Scarlet,” I muttered as my cat skidded to a stop in front of us. She meowed once—half-greeting, half-demand—and then rubbed against my leg like I’d been gone for a week.

Nicco crouched down, smiling. “What’s her name again? I keep forgetting.”

“Scarlet.”

“Hi, Scarlet.” He stretched out a hand and grinned. “Come here. I’m your daddy now.”

I frowned. “She’s not—”

But before I could finish, Scarlet trotted right up to him and brushed against his ankle. Then she purred. Loudly.

I blinked. Unbelievable. Scarlet barely tolerated people. Even Kent and Kiana had to bribe her with tuna just to get within arm’s reach. But Nicco? He’d been here for less than a minute, and she was already in love.

And then came the betrayal. Scarlet stood on her hind legs and nudged Nicco’s knee—asking to be carried.

“She’s never done that for anyone,” I said, genuinely stunned.

Nicco scooped her up with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times. “She knows a good man when she sees one,” he said smugly, scratching behind her ear.

“Right,” I muttered, trying not to smile. “Anyway—here. Your key.” I tossed it to him. “You’ll stay in the second bedroom.”

He caught it easily, his grin widening. “This is a two-bedroom unit?” He glanced around. “Too bad. I was hoping we’d be sharing a bed.”

I gave him a flat look. “Sofa’s right there. Get comfortable. I’m cooking.”

I turned to the kitchen before he could say something else. The fridge was stocked enough for a proper meal, so I decided on pork sinigang and chicken adobo. Comfort food. Something warm, familiar—something that might make both of us forget the sterile smell of hospital walls.

I’d just started slicing the vegetables when I felt him behind me. His presence was unmistakable—quiet but steady, like a hum you couldn’t unhear.

“What can I help with?” he asked, leaning on the counter like he’d lived here for years.

“Nothing,” I said without looking up. “I’ve got this. I’d rather not have you burn down my unit on your first night here.”

“Wow,” he scoffed. “That’s what you think of me? You think I can’t cook?”

“Am I wrong?” I asked, half-smiling.

He paused, then laughed. “Fair point. You’re not.”

He pulled up a stool beside the counter and watched me. Just sat there, chin resting on his palm, eyes following every movement—how I chopped the onions, stirred the broth, plated the adobo.

For a while, neither of us said a word. Only the sound of the simmering pot filled the space, along with the faint scent of tamarind and soy. And in that quiet—him watching, me pretending not to notice—I realized something.

I didn’t mind being watched by this man.

Not at all.

***

Nicco’s POV

My diet flew out the window the moment Troye served dinner.

I hadn’t meant to eat that much—honestly, I hadn’t. But the sinigang had that perfect kind of sourness that woke up every corner of my taste buds, and the adobo… God, the adobo. It was rich, savory, with just enough sweetness to make me forget that I’d sworn off rice past seven p.m. By the time I set my spoon down, my plate was clean and my stomach was protesting pleasantly.

“God, that was incredible,” I groaned, leaning back and patting my stomach. “You cook like that every day? Whoever ends up marrying you hit the jackpot.”

Troye raised a brow, that quiet, amused look tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Or maybe you’re just too easy to impress.”

I grinned, unfazed. “Careful. You might drool when you see my six-pack abs.”

He rolled his eyes, the kind of eye roll that said you’re ridiculous but I’ll let it slide. “You’re impossible. Go rest, will you? I’ve got this.”

“No way,” I said, already standing. “You cooked, I’ll wash the dishes. That’s fair.”

His gaze met mine—steady, firm, the kind of calm authority that didn’t need to be loud. “Don’t be stubborn. Couch. Now.”

And just like that, I caved. I always did with him.

With a dramatic sigh, I trudged to the living room and threw myself onto the couch, stretching out like I’d been defeated in battle. The cushions were soft, the air faintly smelled of citrus and something clean—Troye’s scent, probably. My eyes wandered until they landed on a modest bookshelf tucked into the corner.

Curiosity got the better of me.

I sat up and squinted. The shelves were lined with books—paperbacks, all worn in different ways. But what caught me off guard was the name printed on nearly every spine.

Midnight Montefalco.

My heart stuttered for half a beat.

Montefalco? That couldn’t be a coincidence.

I leaned closer, my fingers brushing the edges of the covers. Some looked fresh, others had creases deep enough to tell stories of rereads. Then my gaze snagged on one I knew by heart—Small Seat at the Table.

That book.

That damn book had wrecked me.

It was about the youngest sibling—the forgotten one, the cheerful one, the one who carried everyone else’s happiness like a duty. I remembered how it hit too close to home, how halfway through, I had to stop reading because the words felt like they were clawing straight through my chest.

It reminded me of Callista.

My throat tightened at the thought of her—my little sister. It’s been ten years since we lost her, and still, the memory sits sharp beneath my skin. I hadn’t seen her pain back then. I’d been too focused on fixing things, too blind to notice what she’d been trying to say without words.

But Montefalco’s book… that story had given her a voice I never got to hear. It made me understand, even just a little, what it must’ve felt like to drown quietly while everyone else called you strong.

I swallowed hard, feeling that familiar ache settle somewhere deep.

That was the moment Montefalco became my favorite author. I remembered lining up for hours at his signings, waiting for a glimpse. He always wore something to hide his face—a mask, a cap, once even a full-on Jabbawockeez outfit. Nobody knew who he was. It only made him more fascinating.

I smiled faintly.

If Troye was a fan, too, that was one more thing we shared. One more small thread weaving us together in ways neither of us had probably noticed yet.

I glanced toward the kitchen, where I could hear the faint clink of dishes and running water. Troye moved quietly, focused, like he belonged in moments like that—simple, steady, unhurried.

And before I could stop myself, warmth bloomed in my chest.

Something about being here, in this quiet space filled with the smell of food and the sound of him existing, felt… right. Like a pause between heartbeats that I didn’t want to end.

I leaned back against the couch, the corner of my lips lifting.

Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was too soon. But for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t overthinking it.

If this was what it felt like to let someone in—to sit surrounded by books, memories, and the soft hum of trust—then maybe, just maybe, I could get used to it.