Home

Present: 3

I fidget with the collar of my plaid shirt once again. Is this outfit too casual? Should I change into a plain shirt instead? I mean, it's an "exclusive" restaurant, according to Troye.

Troye.

I don't even know where to start to describe that man. He's an angel—his smile makes the world a better place for a second, his heart's pure as gold and his voice soothes away the most dreadful nightmares. He ruins you—he'll leave you a mess and conflicted with your own thoughts, his charm makes you lose yourself for a second in time and once you return to reality, you're left wondering why you did what you did. Still, the thought of him makes me crack the tiniest smile.

I sigh and pick up my coat and my wallet. New York has been chilly lately and the subway can only provide the comfort of warmth for so long.

"Where are you going, uncle?" Zoe suddenly appears on my door. Smirking devilishly, she says, "Do you have a date?"

I raise my eyebrows as casually as possible. "None of your business, Zoe."

She pouts playfully at me. "Whatever. I'm doing my homework!"

"Good girl." I shake my head while chuckling.

She grins at me. "Say, when will you be back?"

"As soon as possible," I say as I adjust my clothing for the millionth time and walk to the front door.

Zoe follows my footsteps. "Can you be more...specific?"

I smirk. I know she's planning to "invite a couple of friends over" like the last time I did go out. It ended up with cops barging into my place and her friend Louise throwing up in my toilet. "Nope." I open the front door.

"Have fun doing homework!" I say and then shut it with a slight bang.

While waiting for the elevator to arrive, I take the time to check my phone. It's Saturday, but there are a lot of business e-mails arriving in my inbox. I groan and roll my eyes. There are also some text messages from Nicola, saying that she might return to New York in two weeks. I reply with a quick "can't wait!" message.

A new message notification appears on the screen. It's from Troye.

We've been chatting a lot today—but it's mostly just friendly banter between us. Mostly. A couple of his texts may or may not contain nicknames we used to call each other. Troye Sivan Mellet and Connie Frannie. Troye boy and Con da bon. Between press conferences and a high-profile magazine photo shoot happening today, I'm surprised he said he could still make it today.

I tap on the notification. The elevator dings, signaling that it's here. The door opens and I make my way in.

Troye: I really can't wait!

Connor: me too :) are you sure you're not too tired?

Troye: for you? Nah ;)

A winky face? What does it mean?

I haven't finished contemplating the meaning behind the emoticon, but the elevator has reached the ground floor. As I step out of the lobby, the first shivering blow of wind hits me. I chatter my teeth and put on my coat. I have lived in New York for the longest time, damn it. Still, I can't help the weather, especially the coming winter.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the same security guard who escorted us to Troye's dressing room the other night. What is he doing here? Did Troye send him to spy on me? How does he even know where I live?