“Thanks, man,” I muttered, hoping he didn’t hear the crack in my voice.
He patted my back and drifted off to join the others, just as Iggy came back into the room.
I did a quick scan before I could stop myself. He looked fine. Clear-eyed. Present. I exhaled slowly in relief.
He rested his hands on my bare chest, his palms still cool and damp from washing them. “You okay?” he asked, tilting his head. “You seem a bit...” He waved a hand vaguely. “Off?”
I smiled, because that was the thing about Iggy. No matter how tightly wound my worry was, he made it loosen just by existing. I brushed a loose strand of hair behind his ear.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just tired.”
Which turned out to be true, because my mouth chose that exact moment to crack open in a yawn big enough to pop my jaw.
He laughed and patted my chest. “Almost bedtime, superstar.”
Not long after, Clara had us packed into a van and heading back to the hotel. We had an hour to grab our stuff before loading onto the bus for the short drive to Munich. I knew Iggy wouldn’t be thrilled about another night of broken sleep on the bus, but when we stepped into my room, he was still smiling.
Now that everyone knew about us, he hadn’t bothered going back to his own room when we’d arrived this morning. His stuff was already here. Scattered, really. Clothes draped over the chair, makeup bag half open on the desk, a tangle of jewellery by the sink. It made the room feel lived-in, like we’d been here longer than a day.
Meanwhile, my case was zipped and tucked neatly by the dresser.
The door clicked shut behind us, and something in the airshifted. The room felt heavier, like the walls had moved in an inch. Iggy didn’t seem to notice. He wandered around, scooping dirty clothes off the floor and shoving them into his suitcase, humming under his breath. It sounded like something we’d heard at the ballet in Milan.
My chest tightened. My palms were sweating. My breaths came a little too fast, a little too shallow.
We were finally alone.
“Iggy.”
My voice came out quieter than I meant it to, and he didn’t hear me. He kept packing, blissfully unaware, lost in his own little world.
I cleared my throat. “Iggy,” I said again, louder this time.
He looked up from where he was crouched on the floor and smiled. That smile faltered when he really looked at me, when whatever he saw in my face made concern crease his brow.
“Bodhi?” He stood quickly, crossing the room in a few long strides. “Are you okay?”
He dropped the clothes in his hands and cupped my cheeks, soft and warm, grounding without even trying.
“What’s wrong?”
My fingers circled his wrists, holding on to the steady thrum of his pulse like an anchor. I couldn’t quite bring myself to meet his eyes. Instead, I stared at the tip of his nose, afraid of what I might see if he was lying. Afraid of what I might see if he wasn’t.
“I spoke to Ghost earlier,” I said.
I felt it immediately. The way his arms stiffened. The sharp inhale he tried to hide.
“Oh.” His voice dropped. “What did he say?”
When Iggy tried to pull his hands away, my fingers tightened on instinct. Not to trap him. Just to keep him with me.
“He said he gave you painkillers,” I replied carefully, keeping my voice even. Neutral.
Accusation never helped. It made addicts clam up. Made them defensive and upset. Something I knew better than most.
“I know it wasn’t Oxy,” I added quickly. “He told me already. I just... I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
He giggled, but it wasn’t right. Not the bright, musical sound I knew so well. It was tight, strained, like he was forcing it past something sharp in his throat. This time, when he pulled his hands away, I let him. Not wanting to lose contact completely, I rested my hands on his hips instead, my fingers brushing the low-slung waistband of his shorts.
