A laugh burst from my chest, and I opened my mouth to ask if he was okay. But his hands moved before I could speak, cupping my face, palms warm and slick with sweat.
Then he kissed me.
Right there. In full view of everyone. No hesitation or restraint. Wolf-whistles cut through the air. Catcalls. Shouts. Someone might’ve even clapped.
It was all background noise.
All I could focus on was Bodhi’s mouth. The way his tongue brushed mine. His teeth catching my lower lip. His hands tangled in my hair. Our hard groins pressing together, separatedonly by fabric. Every brush of skin sparked, like flint striking stone, heat building fast enough that I half expected the whole arena to go up in flames.
I only pulled back because my lungs demanded oxygen. Bodhi’s hands tightened in my hair, like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.
But I wasn’t going anywhere.
He panted, his chest brushing mine with every rapid breath. Too fast. Enough to make me worry for a split second. But when I looked into his eyes, all I saw was startling clarity, edged with want, his pupils blown wide.
His mouth opened, words spilling out in a rush, tangled with laughter and swear words, tumbling over one another so fast they almost tripped.
“I don’t know when it happened,” he breathed. “I just—fuck—you make me feel things, Iggy. You make me feel safe. Grounded. You—” He shook his head, breathless. “You stormed into my life like a blaze of colour and forced me to look, and—Christ?—”
“Bodhi—”
“I love you, Iggy.”
Wait.
Did he just?—
“Stop,” I whispered, and his mouth snapped shut instantly.
Everything narrowed to those four words. Twelve letters. Five syllables.
My eyes burned, and I only realised I was crying when his thumb brushed the wetness from my cheek. His eyes went wide, the moment catching up to him all at once. Fingers tightening just slightly, tension bleeding into his grip as fear edged its way past the lust.
That was when I understood.
This wasn’t planned or rehearsed. It was a spur-of-the-moment truth. One that didn’t end in regret or shame or a morning-after apology.
No.
This was Bodhi losing control in the best possible way.
“Say it again,” I said, my voice rougher than I expected.
He blinked once. Twice. Like his system had overheated and was rebooting. The insecure part of me braced for him to backtrack. To laugh it off. To apologise and say he hadn’t meant it like that. I wasn’t sure which outcome would hurt more.
But neither came.
“I love you.”
This time, it landed.
Not like a punch or fireworks tearing the sky open. It settled instead, a warmth spreading through my ribs, slow and unfamiliar. Like something loosening that I hadn’t realised I’d been clenching my entire life.
I stared at him. At the way his chest still heaved. The sweat slicking his skin. The raw, unguarded look in his eyes. This man who stood in front of fifteen thousand people and screamed his heart out, then ran straight to me like I was the place he needed to land.
No one had ever said those words to me like this. Freely. Without obligation or expectation.
My parents had loved me in theory. In gestures that came with distance and conditions and cheques instead of hands on my back. A love that looked good on paper but felt hollow in practice. I’d learned early not to reach for it.
