Hostile Affection

Chapter 12: Labels before Lattes

Troye’s POV

I woke up not to my alarm, but to the unmistakable scent of something burning.

For a second, my brain couldn’t make sense of it. Then panic kicked in. I shot up, tossed the covers aside, and sat there, blinking through the fog of sleep. Smoke?

I followed the smell to the kitchen—and nearly burst out laughing.

There stood Nicco. Shirt slightly wrinkled, spatula in hand, body twisted in a defensive stance as oil splattered like it had a personal vendetta. The pan hissed and spat, and on it were what used to be hotdogs—now blackened, shriveled, and looking more like failed charcoal art projects.

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. This man will be the death of my condo.

“Good morning, Troye!” he said cheerfully, as if the smoke didn’t exist. “You’re up early.”

“I woke up thinking the place was on fire,” I said, voice dry.

He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Come on, I was making breakfast for you. This was supposed to be sweet and thoughtful.”

“It’s giving arson, not affection.”

He grinned, undeterred. “Grabe ka naman. I really tried.”

I shook my head, suppressing a smile. “Let me take over. I’m just going to wash up.”

By the time I came back from the bathroom, teeth brushed and face cold from the rinse, Nicco was still at it—stubbornly guarding the pan like a soldier refusing to retreat.

“You’re really committed to this, huh?” I asked.

“I’m going to get at least one of these right,” he declared.

“Did you even check the rice?”

“Yup. That’s the only thing I managed not to ruin.”

I chuckled under my breath and stepped closer, nudging him gently aside. “Watch me. Hotdogs are basic.”

He hovered nearby as I took over, narrating like some kind of food show host. “See? That’s the right heat. Mine was too high—total rookie mistake.”

“You think?” I deadpanned, fighting a smile.

When the hotdogs were done, I cracked a few eggs into the pan. The yolks settled neatly, golden and whole. Nicco watched like I was performing a magic trick.

“You make it look so easy,” he said, almost reverent.

“Maybe because it is,” I said, reaching for the bacon. “Go set the table. Since you woke me up at dawn, I might as well eat.”

He saluted dramatically and trotted off to the dining area, humming under his breath.

I finished plating the food and poured two mugs of freshly brewed coffee. When I brought everything to the table, he was already sitting there, waiting, like a kid excited for his first meal at a five-star restaurant.

We ate quietly. The clatter of utensils, the scent of coffee, and the occasional soft laugh filled the air. It should’ve been ordinary. But it wasn’t. Not when the silence between us felt… easy. Not when his smile made something warm stir inside my chest.

I found myself watching him more than I meant to—the way his hair fell slightly out of place, the way he talked with his hands, how his laughter came so easily even when his hotdogs looked like crime scenes.

It was ridiculous. And yet, I couldn’t look away.

By half past six, I stood, slipping into my jacket. The spell of that quiet moment broke with the sound of the zipper.

“I have to go,” I said softly. “Kiana and Kent have been covering for me these past few days. I owe them.”

Nicco nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks for everything, Troye. Seriously.”

I paused at the door. There was something I wanted to say—something that sat heavy in my chest, clawing to get out. Maybe a thank you. Maybe a confession. But I couldn’t find the right words.

So I just nodded and left.

The scent of burnt hotdogs and coffee followed me into the hallway, clinging to the morning air.

---

By the time I reached the café, the sun was barely up. The place was already alive with the familiar sounds—the hiss of steam, the murmur of early customers, the comforting scent of espresso and warm pastries wrapping around me like a hug I hadn’t realized I missed.

Kiana spotted me first, brow arched in that you’re not escaping this conversation way. Kent wasn’t far behind, looking equally ready to interrogate.

“How’s Nicco? Doing better?” Kent asked the moment I set my bag down.

“Yeah,” I said simply. “He’s better today.”

Kiana folded her arms. “You really stayed with him all night, huh? Even though you two aren’t a thing?”

I froze mid-motion, pretending to check the grinder. “Should I not have?”

“We’re not judging,” Kent said, leaning against the counter. “But did you even talk about what you two are? Did he say he’s courting you or something?”

My hand stilled on the milk pitcher. I didn’t answer.

“There it is,” Kiana muttered. “Nothing’s clear between you, but here you are, acting like his boyfriend already. Just be real with us, Troye. Do you like him?”

The question hung in the air like a held breath.

Did I?

The answer was too obvious. Too dangerous to say aloud.

I tightened my grip on the pitcher, staring at the silver reflection staring back. I thought about Nicco’s smile over breakfast. The stupidly burnt hotdogs. The way his voice softened when he thanked me.

Maybe I did.

But admitting it—naming it—made it real. And real meant complicated.

Kent sighed. “Labels before lattes, man. Or you’re just sweetening something that might not even be real.”

“Yeah,” Kiana added, gentler this time. “You deserve more than confusion, Troye. Don’t let him keep you guessing.”

I didn’t reply. Not because they were wrong, but because I couldn’t handle how right they were. I knew they meant well. I knew they were looking out for me. But I wasn’t ready to dissect what made me happy. Not when happiness felt like something borrowed—temporary, fragile.

Instead, I went back to work. The motions came easily, like armor. Grind. Steam. Pour.

“One caramel macchiato,” I said, sliding the cup onto the pickup counter with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Enjoy.”

And just like that, I slipped back into the rhythm of pretending everything was fine—pretending that I wasn’t already halfway in love with someone who might never say it back.

***

Nicco’s POV

I stared blankly at the ceiling, the soft hum of the air conditioner filling the silence.

Boredom was a cruel thing—it crept in like an itch under the skin, impossible to ignore once it started. I’d already lost four straight games in Mobile Legends, and even rage-quitting didn’t feel satisfying anymore. I tossed my phone onto the bed and let out a long sigh.

This was what “rest” looked like, apparently. Two full weeks of mandatory leave, courtesy of my client. Recharge, they said. Take it easy.

But rest was starting to feel like rust.

I rolled onto my side and stared at the empty space beside me—the one that had started to feel too quiet since Troye left for work every morning. The apartment still smelled faintly of coffee and fabric softener, and the memory of his soft goodbyes had a way of echoing even hours later.

I needed a distraction before I started daydreaming again.

On a whim, I opened Messenger and hit “video call” on our group chat. Venice picked up first, Yasser a few seconds later.

“There he is,” Venice said, eyes narrowing like she was already about to interrogate me. “How are you feeling? Better?”

“Yeah,” I said, stretching lazily. “Much better.”

Yasser leaned closer to his screen, squinting. “Wait. That doesn’t look like your condo.”

Venice tilted her head, suspicious. “Seriously, Nicco. Where are you?”

I bit back a grin. I could’ve lied, played it off—but teasing them was way more fun.

Yasser’s jaw dropped, his expression turning gleeful. “No way. Don’t tell me—you’re living with Troye now?”

Venice gasped theatrically. “Oh my God, you are, aren’t you?”

I laughed, holding up both hands in mock surrender. “You idiots. It’s not like that. He just offered to let me stay here while I’m on home rest. He knows I live alone, and he didn’t want me to pass out or something while microwaving soup.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Venice wasn’t buying it. “And?”

“And what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she said, smirking. “Are you two a thing now? Is he your boyfriend?”

I hesitated—not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I did, and I wanted to savor it first.

“Not yet,” I said finally, my voice dipping without meaning to. “But soon.”

Yasser raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

I met his gaze through the screen and nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

And I was.

I didn’t even need to think about it. There was something about Troye that steadied me in ways I couldn’t explain. He didn’t try too hard. He didn’t fill the air with words or pretend to understand everything I was feeling. He just showed up—quietly, consistently, like gravity itself.

I’d been surrounded by noise all my life—colleagues, clients, friends who loved too loudly—and yet with him, silence never felt empty.

It felt like home.

I’d fallen hard, and I knew it. I wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.

Venice was still teasing me when I ended the call, her voice fading mid-laugh. Yasser was shaking his head like I’d lost my mind, but I knew he was smiling too.

When the screen went black, the silence returned—but it wasn’t so heavy anymore. There was a kind of lightness in my chest, the kind that made me want to do something about it.

So I did.

I grabbed my keys and stood up, already picturing Troye’s face when he saw what I was planning. If I was going to be this sure about someone, I figured it was only right to show it.

Chicken curry—that’s what I’d make. Kiana mentioned it once, how it was Troye’s favorite. And I wanted to be the kind of man who remembered the small things, the quiet details that mattered.

I smiled to myself as I headed for the door.

If Troye was the kind of person who made people feel like home, then maybe—just maybe—I could be the one he came home to.

***

Troye’s POV

I couldn’t focus for the rest of the day. Kent and Kiana’s words clung to me like damp clothes—irritating, heavy, impossible to shake off.

They weren’t wrong, though. Nicco and I weren’t in a relationship, and yet... everything about the way we’d been acting lately blurred that line. If I were on the outside looking in, I’d probably assume we were already together. But we weren’t. Not officially. Not really.

Even when I finally made it home that evening, the noise in my head refused to quiet down.

Then I opened the door—and the scent that met me stopped me in my tracks.

Warm. Spiced. Familiar.

Chicken curry.

My favorite.

My eyes found the living room, and there he was—Nicco, asleep on the couch, his head tilted back, one arm lazily draped across his chest. Scarlet, ever the traitor, was curled on top of him like a tiny, purring guardian.

For a long moment, I just stood there.

He looked so… peaceful. The sharpness in his features softened when he slept, the edges I’d grown used to dulled by exhaustion and quiet. Something in my chest tightened, and before I could stop myself, I stepped closer.

My hand moved on instinct. My fingertips brushed lightly against his cheek—warm, real, grounding.

Then his eyes fluttered open.

I froze.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “You’re home.”

I stepped back immediately, like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

He stretched, yawned, then gently moved Scarlet aside. “I made dinner,” he said with that half-smile that always seemed to undo me. “Chicken curry. Your favorite.”

I raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

Nicco chuckled. “Relax. I didn’t poison it. I even followed an actual recipe this time.”

Before I could reply, he disappeared into the kitchen and returned carrying two plates and utensils, setting them down with the kind of enthusiasm that made it impossible not to watch him.

“Come on,” he urged, sitting across from me. “Taste it. Rate it. Be honest.”

I picked up my spoon, took a bite—and paused.

Not bad. Actually… surprisingly good.

“Well?” he asked, eyes bright with anticipation.

“It’s… okay,” I said flatly, trying to smother the twitch threatening to pull at my mouth.

His expression dropped. “What? That’s it? Just ‘okay’? You have no idea how many failed batches I went through. I wasted five kilos of chicken trying to get it right!”

That made me laugh—quiet, genuine. “That explains why it tastes good. Hard-earned success.”

He grinned, relief flooding his face. “So it’s approved?”

I nodded. “Yeah. It’s good. I mean it.”

“Victory!” he cheered, then leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Alright, if the chicken curry’s got your seal of approval… how about me?”

I stopped mid-bite, spoon suspended. “What?”

“When will I get a yes from you?”

I looked up, meeting his gaze. “Why would I say yes to you? Are you even courting me?”

He blinked. “Seriously? That’s what’s holding us back?” Then, without missing a beat, he straightened and said, “Fine. I’m courting you now. There. No take-backs.”

I stared at him, completely thrown off—and maybe smiling, just a little.

Because if I was honest with myself… hearing him say that did something to me I couldn’t quite name.