CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
IGGY
“Iggy.”
Something brushed my face. I wanted to sink back into sleep, let exhaustion pull me under again, but the sensation wouldn’t let go.
“Iggy.”
The voice wrapped around me, warm and steady. Safe. Somewhere deep in my chest, something loosened. A distant part of my brain recognised it as Bodhi, and my heart reacted before logic could catch up, reaching for him, pleading silently for him to stay. Because Bodhi shouldn’t be here. Not after last night. Not after he’d walked away. Not after he’d seen what a mess I really was.
And yet my heart kept beating in time with his voice.
My eyes fluttered open.
He was lying beside me, bathed in soft morning light, the sun turning his dark hair gold at the edges. He was smiling, and it took a second to realise the tickling sensation was his fingers, tracing my lips, my brows, the bridge of my nose. Like he was mapping me by touch alone, committing me to memory.
“Is this a dream?” I asked quietly. Because Bodhi shouldn’t be smiling. Not after everything.
His smile widened, and he shook his head before leaning in to kiss my forehead. The warmth of it spread through me, down my spine and into my hands and feet, grounding me in my own body again.
“It’s not a dream, Iggy Pop.”
He kissed my forehead again. Then my nose. My cheek. My eyelids. And finally my lips, slow and careful, like he was afraid I might disappear.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered against his mouth. “I’m sorry for disappointing you.”
His arm slid around my waist and pulled me closer until we were pressed together, chest to chest, legs tangled. He rested his forehead against mine, blue eyes steady and bright in the daylight, anchoring me.
“You didn’t disappoint me,” he said. “You fell. And then you got back up.” A soft kiss followed. “You asked for help. I’m proud of you.”
My eyes burned. I didn’t know how I still had tears left after the last few days, but they came anyway, spilling over at the words. No one had ever said that to me before. Not like this. Not meaning it.
I tucked my face into the hollow of his neck and breathed him in. “Thank you.”
Fully awake now, the memories returned in pieces. Crying on the shower floor when the comedown hit. Bodhi stepping in fully clothed, wrapping himself around me without hesitation. Holding me while I fell apart. Riff crouching nearby, quiet and kind, telling me he was glad I was okay.
And admitting, finally, that I wasn’t.
That I wasn’t ready yet.
That I couldn’t do this alone.
That I needed help.
I’d cried. Bodhi had cried. Riff had cried, which apparently qualified as a minor historical event. And once the tears had finally dried and we’d laughed weakly at the sheer absurdity of it all, they helped me out of the shower.
Riff disappeared and came back with clean, dry clothes. Bodhi stayed, towelling my hair and gently working a comb through the tangles like it was the most natural thing in the world. After that, the three of us went to Clara’s room.
She hadn’t been thrilled to see us at four in the morning. But Bodhi sat her down and told her everything. How we’d met. Why we’d lied. That I was an addict too. That I’d relapsed.
At first she was angry. Hurt, and rightfully so. But when Bodhi explained why I’d needed to be Iggy the person, not Iggy the addict, something in her shifted. Her frustration softened into something more practical. More human.
That was when the planning started.
I told Bodhi that if I was going back to rehab, it had to be the Willow. I knew it and trusted it. I knew the counsellors, the routines, Dr Williams. It was familiar and safe. A place I could restart my recovery surrounded by memories I’d made with Bodhi.
