Hostile Affection

Chapter 16: A Ring and A Ruin

Warning: Mature scenes ahead! 🔞

Read at your own risk!

Troye’s POV

“Will you marry me?”

For a heartbeat, everything around me stilled. The noise, the air, even the pulse in my throat. All I could see was Nicco—on one knee, eyes steady, voice trembling just enough to make me realize this was real.

The man I loved most in the world was asking me to spend forever with him.

My breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. My lips parted, but no sound came out. I wanted to laugh and cry at once.

“Babe, I’m waiting,” Nicco said softly, that familiar gentleness threading through his voice.

Something in me melted. I smiled, barely holding myself together as my chest tightened with everything I’d ever felt for him.

“Yes, Babe. I love you.”

“I love you more,” he whispered, sliding the ring onto my finger with a reverence that made my vision blur.

And then he kissed me.

It wasn’t a kiss of surprise—it was everything. Warmth. Relief. Devotion. Months of love compressed into a single heartbeat. I kissed him back, pouring all my love, all my wanting, into that moment until there was no space left between us.

Nicco deepened it slowly, pulling me closer, his lips coaxing mine open, stealing the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. The world faded; it was just us—his heartbeat against mine, the quiet sighs that left our mouths like confessions.

When his lips left mine to trace along my neck, I shivered. Every brush of skin against skin made the air feel heavier, charged. The bed dipped as he leaned in, and I could only cling to the sound of our breathing—uneven, restless.

He whispered my name like it was something sacred, and I felt my pulse race under his touch.

The warmth between us grew. Every movement, every sound, every soft breath seemed to pull me deeper into him. I could barely think—only feel.

Then he paused, eyes meeting mine. There was something different in them. Something fierce.

“Enjoying?” he asked, voice husky enough to make my stomach twist. “It’s your turn, Babe. Make me proud.”

I smiled, breathless. The confidence in his tone only fed the fire beneath my skin. I leaned in, kissing him back, slower now, savoring the taste of him, the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat under my palms.

I wanted to know every piece of him.

I wanted him to know he was loved in every way that mattered.

The world blurred into warmth and sensation—the quiet rustle of sheets, the soft hum of our names leaving our lips. His hand found mine, fingers lacing together, and something in that simple touch undid me completely.

We didn’t need words anymore. Only the soft, unspoken promise between breaths: I’m here. I love you. Don’t let go.

The rhythm between us built slowly, each movement a question, each breath an answer. My body trembled with the intensity of it, but beneath it all, I felt safe. Grounded. Seen.

At one point, Nicco’s voice broke through the haze, low and rough against my ear.

“Babe… I’m close.”

My response came without thought, a whisper that carried every ounce of trust I had.

“Then don’t hold back.”

And he didn’t.

The world collapsed into a rush of breath, heat, and heartbeat. When it was over, all that remained was silence—the kind that hums softly after a storm.

We lay tangled in the aftermath, skin to skin, hearts beating the same rhythm. I could still feel the echo of his pulse beneath my fingers, steady and real.

A kiss brushed over my lips—gentle now, grounding.

“I love you, babe,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath.

I smiled, tracing the line of his jaw with my thumb. “I love you more.”

And I meant it. Every word, every heartbeat, every quiet moment that followed.

We had touched something infinite that night. Not just passion—but love, raw and whole. And when sleep finally pulled us under, it felt like falling into forever.

***

Nicco’s POV

It was 4 p.m. when I stirred, roused not by sound but by the dull ache of hunger curling low in my stomach.

The room was quiet, painted in soft gold from the late afternoon sun spilling through the curtains. Beside me, Troye was still deep in sleep—serene, untouched by the noise of the world. His lashes fanned against his cheeks, his lips parted slightly as he breathed.

I just looked at him for a moment, still and quiet, letting the warmth of it settle into me. There was something about the sight of him—vulnerable, utterly at peace—that made everything inside me still.

He looked exhausted, and I couldn’t blame him. The memory of how he had clung to me earlier, the trust in his eyes, the way he had surrendered—every bit of it lingered, pulsing faintly in the air between us. My chest tightened, not from guilt, but from something deeper: tenderness.

I leaned down, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead, and pressed a kiss there. A silent promise. Then I slipped carefully out of bed, not wanting to wake him.

The apartment was cool as I padded into the kitchen. I began reheating what he had prepared yesterday, adding a few simple touches—sunny-side up eggs, sweet tocino, and hotdogs caramelized just right. Cooking had always been my weakness; even something as basic as frying an egg used to defeat me. But because of him, I learned. I wanted to. Every attempt, every burned pan, was for one reason—to impress him, to make him smile over something I made with my own hands.

The quiet sizzle of the pan filled the kitchen, mingling with the hum of the ceiling fan. I found comfort in the rhythm, in knowing he’d wake to the smell of food and know I was still here.

When everything was done, I plated the dishes neatly, wiped my hands, and ducked into the shower for a quick rinse. I wanted to be fresh when I woke him—he always teased me about smelling like coffee and smoke after cooking.

But before I could reach the bedroom door, it opened softly.

Troye stood there, his steps slow, one hand pressed instinctively to his lower back. His hair was still messy from sleep, and though his face carried the traces of rest, his eyes flickered with discomfort.

“It hurts,” he murmured, voice quiet, almost shy.

Guilt twisted somewhere in my chest. I crossed the room at once. “I’m sorry, Babe. Come here.”

He didn’t resist when I slipped an arm around him, lifting him gently into my arms. His weight settled easily against me—familiar, grounding.

“It really stings,” he whispered against my shoulder, the sound barely above a breath.

“I know,” I murmured, my voice low, careful. “I’ll get you some pain relievers later, okay? But let’s eat first.”

I set him down on a chair, slow and steady, as if the air itself could bruise him. Then I took the seat across from him. The table between us felt like a small world—quiet, intimate, filled with the warmth of shared breaths.

He smiled faintly when he saw the food. “Thanks, Babe.”

“Of course,” I said, trying for lightness. “For my one and only baby.”

The rest of the meal passed in silence—comfortable, grounding. The clink of utensils, the rhythm of his breathing, the way his eyes lingered on me now and then—it all felt enough. We didn’t need to talk; love didn’t always require words.

When he finally leaned back, done, I stood to clear the dishes. He reached for my hand briefly, a silent thank-you in his touch.

“Go lie down,” I told him. “I’ll finish up here.”

He nodded, exhaustion pulling at his movements. I watched him retreat to the bedroom, his steps small and cautious. The door closed softly behind him.

For a long moment, I stayed there—hands braced on the counter, staring at nothing. The kitchen still smelled faintly of garlic and sugar, the kind of scent that clings to memories.

Then I exhaled and grabbed my keys and wallet.

Outside, the air was warm, the streets washed in the glow of a fading afternoon. I slid my sunglasses on, but my thoughts stayed behind—with him, asleep, the ring still glinting faintly on his finger.

He had said yes.

Even now, the words echoed in my mind like a heartbeat.

Yes, Babe. I love you.

I smiled to myself, quiet and full. I’d find something to ease his pain. But the truth was, he had already eased mine in ways I couldn’t put into words.

Love, I thought, wasn’t just in the fire—it was in the care that came after. The part where you stayed.

And I had no plans of ever leaving.

***

Troye’s POV

It took me two days to recover. Not just because of the ache that lingered at the base of my spine, but because I’d caught a slight fever—the kind born from exhaustion, from overexertion, or maybe from too much love all at once.

Nicco hadn’t left my side.

He stayed up through the night, cooling my forehead with damp towels, feeding me spoonfuls of warm soup, whispering reassurances when the chills came. His presence was a quiet anchor, steady and unyielding, like he was afraid that if he blinked, I’d disappear.

By the third day, I was well enough to return to the café.

The bell above the door hadn’t even stopped ringing before Kiana and Kent descended on me like twin storms.

“You’re glowing today, Troye,” Kent said, smirking. “Let me guess—you finally surrendered the West Philippine Sea?”

“Three days off and suddenly blooming like a garden in spring,” Kiana added, grinning. “You look like someone who’s been thoroughly… watered.”

I blinked at them, unimpressed. “I just walked through the door. Do I not get five seconds of peace?”

“Oh, stop pretending,” Kiana teased, looping her arm through mine. “The glow says it all. You’ve clearly been well taken care of.”

I rolled my eyes, but didn’t bother to argue. What would be the point?

The morning passed in a blur of orders and laughter. The smell of coffee, the hum of conversation, the soft clatter of mugs—it was all familiar, grounding. I almost forgot how heavy my body had felt days before.

By eleven, the crowd had thinned. I sank onto the couch near the window, opening my laptop. I’d just sent the second manuscript to my publisher the night before—a quiet victory I hadn’t told anyone about.

A notification popped up.

New email.

From my publishing team.

I clicked it open and froze.

Another invitation. A third one.

A book signing—this time, abroad.

Fans who had followed Midnight Montefalco from the start were asking to meet me. The mystery author who never showed his face. The one who had built a name from shadows and silence.

And yet, no one in my life—not Nicco, not Kent, not even Kiana—knew that I was him. That the same man who brewed coffee and wiped tables was the one whose words had filled pages around the world.

I stared at the message, torn.

Accepting meant disappearing for weeks, maybe months. It meant pulling away from the quiet rhythm I’d found here—from the man who looked at me like I was worth staying for.

Could I leave that behind?

Should I?

I closed the laptop gently, feeling the weight settle in my chest.

It followed me for the rest of the day—through the clinking of cups, the closing shift, the quiet ride home with Nicco beside me.

He was humming softly to the radio when he said, “You’re quiet. You’ve got that thinking-too-hard face again. What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” I lied, glancing out the window. “Just wondering if… maybe we should open a second branch.”

“Oh?” He brightened. “That’s actually a great idea. Expansion sounds exciting. You should totally go for it. And when you do, make me your brand ambassador.”

“Right,” I said, chuckling. “Like we could afford your talent fee.”

“For you, Baby? I’ll waive it. Free of charge.”

I rolled my eyes, though a smile tugged at my lips. “I’ll hold you to that.”

But even after that night, the email lingered—an unanswered question that refused to fade. My publisher’s messages grew more formal, less patient. I could almost feel the pressure seeping through the screen.

So I did what I always did best. I buried it. I worked. I smiled. I convinced myself it didn’t matter.

Then one afternoon, Kent called my name across the café.

“Troye.”

Something in his voice made me look up immediately. Both he and Kiana stood by the counter—pale, uneasy, their usual playfulness gone.

I frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Kent didn’t answer. He just held out his phone.

I took it from him. The screen lit up.

And then… stillness.

My breath caught halfway in my throat. My fingers loosened. The phone slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a soft, hollow thud.

A video was playing.

A video—intimate, unmistakable, impossible to unsee.

Nicco.

With another man.

The world narrowed to that single image frozen on the cracked screen. My heartbeat stuttered. The sounds of the café faded to static.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t even move.

No. No, this can’t be real.

My mind scrambled for sense, for logic, for some explanation that would make this something other than what it seemed. But there was none.

The heat that rose in my chest wasn’t anger—it was colder, sharper, quieter.

A betrayal that hadn’t even fully formed, but already cut deep.

You wouldn’t do this to me.

And yet, the evidence lay on the floor, glaring back at me, cruel and undeniable.