I took a step forward, panic flooding my veins. Then his head lolled to the side. His mouth curved into a smile that came on too slowly. Too wide.
“Bodhi,” he murmured, voice hazy. “Is that you?”
“Yeah, baby. It’s me.”
I approached the bed slowly, forcing myself not to rush him, not to spook him. My body shook, legs threatening to buckle with every step. I didn’t need the light on to know something was wrong. The stillness, the delayed movements. The loose, syrupy cadence of his voice. Every instinct I had screamed the same thing.
He was on something.
I flicked on the bedside lamp and sucked in a sharp breath, stumbling back a step.
Iggy’s pale skin, usually smooth and unmarked, was crisscrossed with angry red scratches. Lines down his arms, across his chest and stomach, along his thighs. None of them were deep enough to break the skin, but they were raw and vivid, the kind that would sting like hell once whatever he’d taken wore off.
He lifted his arms towards me, hands grasping at the air. When he realised I was too far away to reach, they dropped limply back to his sides.
“Bodhi,” he pouted. “Come kiss me.”
I didn’t move, so he did. He rolled onto his front and pushed himself up onto his knees, movements slow and lagging, like I was watching him through thick water. He crawled to the edge of the bed and straightened, swaying as he tried to balance. When he tipped forward, I lunged, catching him just in time.
He melted into me with a contented hum, pressing his cheek to my chest. His arms looped around my neck, clinging tight. I couldn’t tell if it was affection or the need for something solid to hold on to. I didn’t care. He was alive and breathing.
But he was nowhere near okay.
I slid my fingers through his hair, damp with sweat and still a mess, and gently tipped his head back so I could see his face. His cheeks were flushed, his green eyes glassy and unfocused. Hispupils were pinpricks, tiny and wrong against the colour of his irises.
“Iggy,” I murmured, rubbing slow circles into his back, my hand catching on the raised welts where he’d clawed at himself. “What did you take?”
No answer.
He just nuzzled back into me, breathing me in. Big, greedy inhales of cologne and fabric and me.
“Iggy,” I said again, firmer now, tapping his back to draw him out of wherever he’d drifted. “Please. Tell me what you took.”
He hummed and leaned back, glassy eyes finally finding my face. His hands slid up to cup my cheeks, thumbs brushing under my eyes.
“I missed you, Bodhi,” he whispered, teeth worrying his bottom lip.
My jaw clenched. Part frustration, part fear. The addict in me recognised it instantly. It wasn’t refusal or defiance. Just a brain moving too fast and too slow all at once, thoughts slipping away before they could land.
“Iggy—”
“Kiss me.”
He pulled me in before I could stop him. The kiss was clumsy and unfocused, nothing like the easy heat we usually shared. Teeth bumped and lips missed their mark. It was messy and desperate and wrong. And still, I didn’t pull away. Because a few hours ago, I’d been standing in the hallway, wondering if I’d ever get to kiss him again at all.
I could still smell the last traces of his peaches-and-cream scent, faint beneath sweat and the stale musk of someone who’d spent the entire day tangled in sheets. We kissed until my head started to spin, until the fear blurred with somethingdangerously close to relief. Only then did I pull back, forcing space between us so I could focus on the thing that actually mattered.
He leaned in again, restless, dazed. I caught his chin between my thumb and forefinger, holding his face still long enough to anchor his attention for half a second.
“Iggy,” I said, louder than before.
His glassy eyes widened, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
“Tell me what you took.”
He rolled his eyes so slowly it would’ve been funny in any other situation, then slapped my shoulders with lazy impatience.
“Jesus, Bodhi,” he sighed, like I was the inconvenience here. “I took some Oxy, okay?”
