But I couldn’t find it.
Iggy was Iggy. Teasing the guys, fixing someone’s hair when they messed it up, talking with his whole body like words aloneweren’t enough to express his feelings. Bright and sharp and unapologetically here. If something was wrong, it was hidden deep. Too deep for me to reach from the outside.
It made me wish, irrationally, for superpowers. For the ability to look inside his head and just know. To be sure. I told myself it would be for his own good. That it wouldn’t be invasive if the intention was love. I repeated that until it almost sounded true.
When we went onstage, he was still there. Not physically, but in my head. A constant low hum under everything else. It didn’t mess with my performance. I knew how to do this in my sleep. Muscle memory, adrenaline, instinct. The fans never noticed. The band didn’t notice. But for the first time I could remember, I found myself counting down the set. Waiting for the lights to go out. Waiting to get offstage so I could find him, touch him, prove to myself he was solid. Still whole. Still here.
The show blurred. Sweat, noise, motion. We bowed, waved, and I smiled like I always did. I’d spent years perfecting the art of hiding my own mistakes, so it was easy to fall back into that habit and mask the anxiety creeping up on me.
I barely made it into the wings before Iggy hit me. He wrapped himself around my torso like gravity had finally claimed him, chin tipped up, eyes bright under the low backstage lights. Smiling. Always smiling. And I hated myself for the way my gaze immediately started scanning him anyway. For fractures or something off. For proof of a fear I didn’t want confirmed.
“You were amazing,” he said, hands sliding down my back to cup my ass like we weren’t surrounded by people. “But how could I expect anything less?”
My arms came up without thinking. One around his back, the other to his face. I cupped his cheek, thumb brushing carefully over his highlighted cheekbone so I wouldn’t smudge hismakeup. His hair was pulled back into a messy bun, his slender neck bare, exposed, and I leaned in before I could stop myself.
I pressed my face into the place where his neck met his shoulder and breathed him in.
Peaches and cream.
Just like that, the tension drained out of me. The hours of watching. The weight of Ghost’s words. The responsibility I’d quietly taken on when we’d made our pact. All of it loosened its grip. With Iggy pressed against me, arms tight, body warm and real, nothing else seemed to matter. I wanted to stay there, in that pocket of safety. Where he was laughing and alive and unapologetically himself. Where nothing could touch him.
Then he pulled back.
And the world rushed in again, fast and loud, like a dam breaking. The worry snapped back into place. The questions I hadn’t asked yet. The conversation waiting for us when we were finally alone.
“C’mon,” Iggy said, tugging on my hand. “The guys are waiting.”
I let him lead me down the hall towards the green room, listening to him babble about his favourite moments from the show. About how loud the crowd was, how feral the energy felt, how Noctis was apparently in danger of replacing his favourite K-pop group in his personal rankings.
“You’ve converted me,” he said, pushing open the green room door. “Does that make me an emo kid now?”
I huffed a laugh and slung an arm around his shoulders. “Listening to one rock band doesn’t make you emo,” I said. “It’s a lifestyle.”
He held up his hand, fingers forming a set of horns. “It’s not a phase, Mom,” he teased, in what I assumed was meant to be my accent.
“Was that supposed to be American?” I ruffled his hair, knocking his bangs into his eyes. He squealed and swatted at my hands. “Because it sounded Scottish. Maybe Irish. Honestly, I’m not convinced it was a real accent at all.”
“Fuck off,” he giggled, shoving my stomach. “I’m going for a piss.”
I opened my mouth to say I’d go with him. Not because I thought he wanted company, but because a part of me wanted to watch him walk there. To make sure he really was heading for the bathroom and not somewhere else. Not doing something that could undo everything he’d fought so hard for.
I closed my mouth instead.
Because I trusted him. Ihadto trust him.
So I stayed where I was and watched him saunter off down the hall, hoping I’d made the right call.
Ghost nudged my arm, snapping me out of it, and I realised I’d been staring at the door like a lost puppy waiting for its owner to come home.
“You good?” he asked quietly, just for me.
I glanced towards the others. Riff and Mick were leaning against the tall fridge, laughing over a shared beer. Clara was scolding Thump for whatever dumbass thing he’d done this time. It made my chest warm, the familiar sight of them like this. Relaxed. Together. Still here, after everything.
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“We’ve got your back,” Ghost said. “And Iggy’s too, if he ever needs it.”
Something in his voice made my eyes burn. I wanted to hug him, even though he’d probably hate it. Wanted to thank him, thank all of them. But I just looked down and shoved my hands into my pockets instead.
