Hostile Affection

Chapter 14: The Past That Haunts

Troye’s POV

The days bled into weeks, and the weeks quietly rolled into months. Without realizing it, I found myself standing on the cusp of something that once felt impossible—Nicco and I were about to celebrate our sixth monthsary.

Life, for once, had been gentle.

My career was thriving beyond what I’d dared to imagine. The first manuscript I’d submitted under Midnight Montefalco had exploded into a bestseller. The publishing house wanted more, pushing for deadlines I didn’t even mind meeting because, for the first time, I felt inspired again. Yet no one—neither Nicco, nor Kiana, nor Kent—knew that I was the man behind that name. I wasn’t ready to tell them. Not yet. Some things still felt too fragile to expose to the light.

But one thing I did know—I’d never been this happy before.

Every morning felt different. Purposeful. Every night, I went to bed knowing there was something soft waiting for me, someone who made everything feel steady. Nicco had this way of showing love quietly, like it was part of his breathing. Some nights he’d cook dinner and grin shyly when I told him it was good. Other times, he’d leave sticky notes around the apartment—tiny, wordless reassurances that I mattered.

When we fought, he never raised his voice. He always found his way back first, bridging the silence with patience, his apologies never feeling rehearsed.

I’m so lucky to have you, I thought often, though I didn’t always say it aloud.

That morning, I was plating pastries in the kitchen when Kiana leaned against the counter, watching me with that look—the kind that meant trouble was coming.

“You’ve been glowing lately,” she said, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Looks like someone’s being well taken care of by their boyfriend.”

I laughed under my breath. “You’re so nosy. Maybe get a boyfriend of your own, so you’ll stop prying into mine.”

She grinned wider. “I’m just saying—you look stupid in love. How long has it been now?”

“Almost six months.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You know what they say about couples hitting six months, right? It’s either you make it for the long haul… or it all falls apart.”

I rolled my eyes, but her words lingered longer than I wanted them to. “You say the weirdest things. Help me with these instead of spouting nonsense.”

She laughed and started to move closer—but the kitchen door creaked open before she could answer.

Kent appeared in the doorway, slightly breathless, his face pale. Something in his expression made my stomach drop.

“Kent?” I asked carefully. “What is it?”

Kiana straightened beside me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Kent swallowed, voice tight. “Troye… your dad’s here. I tried to stop him, but he was already inside before I could say anything.”

My body went still. The room dimmed around the edges.

And then—I saw him.

Sitting at one of the tables like he owned the place. A cup of coffee in front of him, steam curling lazily upward. Calm. Composed. Arrogant as ever.

Timothy Mondejar.

My father.

The name alone was enough to make something deep inside me collapse. The years peeled back instantly—every cruel word, every impossible standard, every time I’d begged for affection and got silence instead. I’d spent six years carving out a life free from his shadow. Six years trying to forget the sound of his voice.

And now here he was. In my café.

I forced myself to move forward, one step at a time, until I stood across from him. My voice came out low, controlled. “Good morning, Dad. What are you doing here?”

He looked up, smirk tugging at his lips. “Morning. This place is… surprisingly tidy. I take it the writing didn’t work out, so you opened a coffee shop instead? Dragged Kiana and Kent into your nonsense too, I see.”

The words landed like splinters. Sharp. Familiar.

“If you’re here to insult me, you can leave now,” I said, keeping my voice steady even as my hands trembled.

“Wow. You’re talking back now? That’s what your stubbornness got you?” he scoffed, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

I took a slow breath. “Please leave, Dad. I’m not asking for anything—just space.”

He leaned back, voice turning colder. “Why? Can’t take the truth? That you’re a failure dressed in café aprons and false hope? Still hiding behind other people to feel valid?”

Something inside me snapped.

“Stop,” I said sharply, my chest heaving. “You don’t get to talk to me like that anymore.”

For the first time, he looked genuinely surprised.

“I’ve lived on my own for six years,” I continued, voice trembling but loud. “Not a single call. Not a single bit of help. But I survived. And now that I’ve finally built something for myself, you come in and spit on it? What do you want, huh? Haven’t you done enough damage? Do you need me dead to be satisfied?”

My throat burned. The tears came before I could stop them, blurring everything except the disbelief on his face.

“You disrespectful little—” He stood abruptly, his hand rising.

But before the blow could fall—someone caught his wrist.

I froze.

Nicco.

He stood beside me, his expression carved from stone, his grip steady and sure.

“You’re not touching him,” Nicco said quietly, his voice like steel.

My father wrenched his hand free, startled. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Troye’s boyfriend,” Nicco replied, tone calm but dangerous. “And if you want to hurt him again, you’ll have to go through me first.”

The café fell utterly silent. Even the hum of the machines seemed to fade.

My heart stuttered. No one had ever defended me like that—not once in my life.

My father’s expression twisted. “You’re gay?” he spat.

I met his glare head-on, lifting my chin. “Yes. I’ve always been. I just didn’t tell you because I knew you’d never accept me.”

His lips curled in disgust. “Disgusting. You’re both disgusting.”

He stormed out of the café, his footsteps echoing like thunder in the silence he left behind.

And just like that—he was gone.

For a long moment, I couldn’t move. My hands were shaking. My breath came unevenly. The tears I’d tried to swallow finally broke loose, spilling fast and hot.

Nicco turned to me, eyes softening. Without a word, he reached out and pulled me into his arms.

And there, pressed against his chest, I let go. The anger, the grief, the years of being small under someone else’s shadow—all of it came out in shuddering sobs.

He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. His hands were steady on my back, his voice a low murmur against my hair.

“You’re okay now,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”

And for the first time in years, I believed it.

I was safe.

***

Nicco’s POV

He didn’t need to explain what happened.

The moment he met Kent’s eyes—and saw Kiana standing behind him, pale and shaken—he already knew. They didn’t ask for details. They just looked at Troye, at the way his body seemed smaller, quieter, and nodded when Nicco asked if he could take him home.

The drive was silent. The kind of silence that pressed on the chest and made it hard to breathe. Troye’s tears didn’t stop; they slid down his face in soft, unbroken trails, like he’d forgotten how to hold them back.

Nicco kept one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped around Troye’s trembling fingers. Every time the car hit a red light, his thumb brushed across his knuckles—slow, steady, trying to offer something solid when everything else felt like it was crumbling.

He’d never seen Troye cry before. Not once in the six months they’d been together. And it broke something in him to watch it now—to realize that even after all this time, there were still wounds he’d never been allowed to touch.

When they reached the condo, Nicco guided him gently inside, one hand at his back, careful like he might shatter from the wrong kind of touch. Troye’s steps were heavy, hesitant. His eyes were vacant, still caught somewhere in the echo of the past.

Nicco helped him to the couch. Troye sank into it, shoulders slumping, hands curling loosely in his lap. Without saying a word, Nicco disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water.

“Here,” he murmured.

Troye’s fingers shook slightly as he took it. He drank in small, measured sips, as if each swallow steadied something broken inside him.

Nicco crouched down in front of him, searching his face. “Are you okay now, babe?”

Troye gave the faintest nod, his eyes rimmed red and glassy.

“So… this is why you always avoided talking about your family, isn’t it?” Nicco asked softly, careful not to pry too hard. “Because things aren’t okay.” He paused, watching Troye’s lashes tremble. “That’s alright. Things will get better. Maybe not right away, but they will.”

Troye’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “Thank you… for standing up for me earlier.”

Nicco’s heart clenched. “Of course I did. I’m your boyfriend.” His voice stayed steady, quiet but resolute. “As long as I’m around, no one gets to hurt you.”

Troye’s lips curved faintly. “You really surprised me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You just appeared out of nowhere.”

Nicco exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching in a half smile. “Kiana messaged me,” he said. “Told me to come quick. I got scared—thought something bad happened.”

He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from Troye’s forehead. “I’ll always come running, babe. Whatever you’re holding in, don’t keep it all to yourself, okay? I’m here. I’ll listen. I want to.”

Troye looked down, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, his voice small. “You even sent me home. Kent and Kiana might be upset.”

“They’re not,” Nicco assured him gently. “They’ve known you for, what, ten years? They could see how much it hurt. That’s why they didn’t stop me. They just wanted you safe.”

Troye sighed, the sound fragile but less heavy than before. “What about work?”

“I messaged my client and rescheduled.” Nicco brushed his thumb against Troye’s cheek, his tone soft but sure. “You’re more important. Always.”

That made Troye pause. His cheeks warmed, and his gaze darted away like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of care.

Nicco smiled faintly, heart tugging. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Troye’s.

The kiss started slow—gentle, grounding, a way of saying you’re here, you’re safe. But beneath it was something else. A quiet desperation. A need to pull Troye back from wherever his father’s words had dragged him. To replace pain with warmth.

Troye’s lips trembled against his, responding tentatively at first, then with more certainty. Nicco deepened the kiss, but kept it soft, reverent. His hands traced down Troye’s sides, memorizing the quiet shivers beneath his skin, until one hand settled at the small of his back and the other brushed lightly against the curve of his hip.

Then—

“Babe, stop…”

The words were barely a whisper, but they landed clear.

Nicco froze instantly. He pulled back, breath uneven, eyes searching Troye’s. “Hey, hey,” he murmured, his voice tender, apologetic. “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

He managed a small, sheepish smile and pressed a chaste kiss to Troye’s cheek instead—slow and lingering, enough to say I’m here without needing to speak it aloud.

They stayed that way for a while. The TV flickered quietly in front of them, filling the room with soft light and background noise. Troye leaned into him, resting his head on Nicco’s shoulder. Nicco wrapped an arm around him, fingers tracing lazy, reassuring circles on his arm.

The air still carried the faint echo of pain, but it was gentler now—tempered by the rhythm of their breathing, the steady comfort of being close.

There would be harder days ahead. Conversations they couldn’t avoid forever. Wounds that time alone couldn’t fix.

But for now, this—this quiet, this stillness—was enough.

Nicco tightened his hold slightly, his lips brushing Troye’s temple in a promise.

Whatever came next, he’d be there.

Always.

***

Troye’s POV

It was only a little past three in the morning when I stirred awake, a subtle shift in the air dragging me from sleep. I blinked against the quiet darkness, instinctively reaching out—only to find the space beside me cold and empty.

Nicco wasn’t there.

A small crease formed between my brows. That was… odd. Nicco never got up before me. In the past six months, it had always been me who woke first, quietly slipping away from the warmth of his body tangled in the sheets. But now—now the sheets barely held the memory of him at all.

Where are you?

Still groggy with sleep, I pushed the covers aside and sat up, brushing my hair back with a tired hand. Maybe he’d just gone to the bathroom. Or maybe he couldn’t sleep. He’d had a long day too.

I swung my feet to the floor, padding softly across the wood. The bathroom light was off. Empty. I checked the kitchen next—dark, silent. The living room, too, was still.

A small unease crawled into my chest.

“Where could he be?” I muttered under my breath.

I was already turning back toward the bedroom when a faint sound caught my ear—a voice. Low. Muffled. Coming from beyond the sliding glass door that led to the veranda.

I turned my head slowly.

There.

Nicco stood outside, phone pressed tightly to his ear. His shoulders were tense, his posture rigid, his face set in a scowl even under the dim spill of city light that crept in through the glass. His voice was sharp—cutting through the night like something he’d been holding back for too long.

“…Why are you calling me?” he said, tone low but edged. “Where the hell did you get my number?”

My heart stumbled. I shouldn’t listen. I knew that. But something about his voice—the disbelief, the tremor beneath the anger—rooted me to the spot.

“I told you, Axel,” he said again, softer now but still tight. “We ended things years ago. Please. Stop contacting me.”

Axel.

The name hit me like a cold splash of water.

Of course. I remembered it—how he’d mentioned it once, casually, like it was just a small piece of his past. Axel was the ex. The one who’d left him. The one who’d gotten someone else pregnant. The one Nicco had never spoken of again.

That had been six years ago.

So why now?

My thoughts spiraled too quickly, too loud to stop. Why was Axel calling him in the middle of the night? How did he even get Nicco’s number? Was this the first time—or just the first time I’d caught it?

Were they… reconnecting?

I didn’t want to think that. I didn’t want to believe it. But the idea settled heavy in my chest, sharp and suffocating. I felt something sink in me—a slow, quiet dread I couldn’t name.

Before I could hear more, I turned away.

I went back to the bedroom, each step heavier than the last. The sheets still smelled faintly of him when I lay back down, but they felt colder now. Too wide. Too empty. I pulled the blanket up to my shoulder and shut my eyes, trying to chase the sleep that didn’t want me anymore.

Minutes later, I heard the soft click of the sliding door. Then footsteps. The bed dipped.

Nicco slipped in beside me, wrapping an arm around my waist, his face pressing gently into the crook of my neck like always.

I didn’t move.

I just stared into the dark, wide awake.

---

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The phone call.

The name.

Axel.

It followed me like a shadow—present even in daylight, even when I tried to lose myself in routine. At the café, where the noise usually helped me breathe, I couldn’t focus. Nicco’s voice from the night before kept replaying in my head—sharp, strained, threaded with something I couldn’t quite name.

I sat behind the counter with my laptop open in front of me, the cursor blinking against a blank page. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, unmoving. I wasn’t writing. I wasn’t even thinking about my manuscript.

I was somewhere else entirely.

“Hey,” Kiana’s voice broke through the quiet. She was leaning against the espresso machine, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “You’ve been staring at your screen for twenty minutes. That deep, huh?”

I blinked. “What?”

Kent came over, drying his hands on a towel. “You’ve been completely out of it since you got here. You barely even responded when I said good morning.”

Kiana nodded. “If you’re worried about your dad, relax. He’s not coming back. And if he does, he’ll have to deal with us first.”

“It’s not him,” I murmured, eyes dropping back to the keys.

They exchanged a look.

“Then who?” Kent asked carefully.

I hesitated, pretending to think, then sighed. “Okay, so… I have a question. Hypothetically.”

Kiana groaned immediately. “Oh no. Not the ‘hypothetical’ again.”

“It’s not about me,” I said quickly. “It’s about a friend. A friend whose boyfriend is apparently still in touch with his ex. What do you think that means?”

Kent gave a dry laugh. “Really, Troye?”

Kiana arched a brow. “You’re not exactly subtle. We’re your only friends, and you wear your drama like a neon sign.”

I rolled my eyes. “Just answer the question.”

Kent shrugged. “If someone’s still talking to their ex, even secretly, it usually means there are unresolved feelings. Doesn’t always mean they’ll get back together, but it says something.”

“Something like… they’re not over them,” Kiana said flatly. “Or they’re keeping the door open. Either way, it’s not fair to the new partner. Not if they’re serious.”

I didn’t say anything.

Kent leaned on the counter, his voice softer now. “Worst case? You’re just a rebound. Something to fill the gap until the ex decides to come back.”

Something in my chest tightened. I tried not to show it, but I could feel my jaw clench, my stomach turn.

Kiana noticed and frowned. “Wait. You’re not saying Nicco’s still talking to his ex… are you?”

“I didn’t say that,” I said quickly.

“You didn’t have to,” Kent muttered.

“I’m serious,” I said, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow even to my own ears. “You guys are overthinking it.”

“We’re overthinking it?” Kiana shot back. “You’re the one who’s been zoning out all day. If it wasn’t serious, you wouldn’t be this… I don’t know—shaken.”

“I’m not shaken.”

Kiana raised her brows. “Okay.”

They didn’t press further. But they didn’t have to.

The silence that followed said enough.

And their words—Kent’s especially—stuck like splinters beneath my skin.

You’re just a rebound.

He hadn’t meant it cruelly; he was just blunt. But the thought wouldn’t leave. The more I tried to push it away, the deeper it burrowed.

Was that what I was? A placeholder? A comfort after the storm someone else left behind?

I wanted to trust Nicco. God, I did. He’d fought for me, stood up for me, held me through my worst days. He made me feel seen in ways I hadn’t been in years. But still—the name echoed in the back of my mind.

Axel.

The ex who’d left.

The ex who’d hurt him.

The ex who suddenly called again.

I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter. That Nicco had chosen me, that whatever had existed between them was long dead. But something inside me—the small, fragile part that had learned to doubt—kept whispering otherwise.

And for the first time in months, I wasn’t sure if love alone would be enough to keep what we had from breaking.