Because all I could think about was singing it to Iggy.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
IGGY
I wokeup feeling better than I had in ages. Like, genuinely better. My hip felt loose, cooperative, almost friendly, and I stretched without that familiar jolt of pain snapping me back into my body. I even groaned when my back popped a few times, the sound indulgent, pleased with itself.
All because of the Tramadol. An opioid. Stronger than the over-the-counter stuff I’d been surviving on.
In the end, I’d taken two. One to start, because that was sensible. Medicinal. And then, when nothing really happened after an hour, when the ache still sat there, stubborn and loud, I took another. That was still within reason, right? It wasn’t like I’d gone wild with it. It didn’t take long after that for the pain to melt away, or for the heaviness to sink into my limbs. I barely remembered lying down. I just knew I’d fallen asleep on top of the duvet, still wearing the flour-dusted clothes from the restaurant.
But waking up like this made it worth it.
Worth it to stretch without wincing. Worth it to swing my legs out of bed without bracing myself. Worth it to walk to the bathroom without doing that stupid mental calculation of howmuch pain I could tolerate before it showed on my face. Worth it to know I could get through the first Milan show without constantly looking for somewhere to sit down.
I took another pill after breakfast.
Just one this time. Not because I needed it, as such. Just to make sure the pain didn’t come back. To keep things steady. Controlled. I didn’t want the fogginess that came with two at once, just enough to hold onto this feeling. Just enough to stop the ache from creeping back in and ruining my day.
I hadn’t seen Bodhi this morning, even after insisting we sleep in our own beds last night. Instead, I woke up to a single text message, sent while I was still out cold.
Bodhi:
Band meeting this morning.
Will come and find you after.
If I didn’t know that was just how Bodhi texted—blunt, no fluff—I might’ve spiralled. Might’ve convinced myself he was annoyed that I’d pushed for space. But I felt too good to let my brain run away with me now. Too calm. So, when there was a knock at my door an hour before we were due to leave for the venue, I didn’t hesitate to open it.
Bodhi stood there in grey sweats and a worn Noctis hoodie, looking comfortable in a way that made my chest feel tight in a good way. His hair was a mess, like he’d run his hands through it too many times to count, and he was bouncing slightly on his heels. If it weren’t for the relaxed set of his shoulders or the wayhis mouth curved when he saw me, I might’ve thought he was nervous.
But it wasn’t nerves. It was more like... excitement.
“You okay?” I asked, smiling despite myself.
I stepped aside, and he practically skipped into the room. He sat on the edge of my bed and held out his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Come sit with me.”
“Okaaay,” I said, dragging it out, suspicious.
I took his hand and sat down beside him. But apparently, that wasn’t close enough. Bodhi slid his hands under my knees and turned me sideways with surprising ease, draping my legs over one of his thighs. My ass sank into the mattress, my feet dangling between his legs, my chest pressed against his side as his arm wrapped around me. I didn’t protest. Didn’t even think about it.
“What’s up?” I asked again.
His free hand settled on my knee, thumb moving in slow, grounding circles that made me acutely aware of how good my body felt right now.
“Remember at the Willow,” he said, “when you cussed me out for being a wet blanket about the label?”
I frowned, digging through my memory. “I don’t think it was quite like that.”
He laughed softly. “You’re right. It was worse. You basically told me to grow some balls and stand my ground.”
I looked down, twisting a strand of hair around my finger. “Look, I’m sorry?—”
“You don’t need to apologise.” He kissed the top of my head, warm and familiar. “You were right.”
