Sasha:
They look amazing! Knew you could do it, boo.
Me:
Thanks for believing in me.
Sasha:
Always. Love you, Iggs xoxo
I opened the photo again and zoomed in on Bodhi and me. We were both smiling. Like, really smiling. His head was tipped towards mine, resting lightly against it, his hand curled around my hip. And I was leaning into him, just a fraction, but enough that the camera caught it.
We never took pictures in rehab, because no phones allowed. The only proof I had that he and I had ever existed in the same orbit were the photos of my art on Bodhi’s face Darren had printed from our art therapy sessions.
But now I had a new one. A real moment of the two of us together. A damn good one too.
And despite everything we’d been through, individually and together... we looked happy.
I shoved my phone into my pocket as the support band left the stage. They exchanged a few words with the boys from Noctis before fleeing towards their own green room to relax. Probably have a drink. Maybe a smoke. Maybe a joi?—
“Ready to watch the show?” Clara asked, appearing out of nowhere. The woman moved like she existed in multiple places at once. There, gone, and back again, always on the verge of nagging someone into submission.
“Hell yeah,” I replied, watching Dylan hand Bodhi a microphone.
Beyond the wings, the crowd’s chants echoed through the arena. French, English, and sheer, untamed excitement. Even if I couldn’t make out every word, the mood was thick enough to choke on.
These boys were loved.
The five of them formed a tight circle, arms slung over shoulders. I leaned in just enough to catch Bodhi’s voice over the backstage noise.
“I think I said everything I needed to last night,” he began. “But tonight’s our last one in Paris before Amsterdam, so let’s get on that stage and give the French a good fucking show.”
The others cheered and stacked their hands in the centre. Bodhi inhaled to finish the pep talk, but Riff cut him off. “To me, to you, and the French girls who scream ‘Sacre bleu!’”
There was a beat of stunned silence, then they exploded into laughter, throwing their hands up with a shout.
“Sacre bleu!”
Then they were gone, swallowed by the blackness of the stage. The crowd seemed to sense what was coming, and silence fell like a curtain. Eerie, unnatural. If I’d dropped a pin, it would’ve echoed like a gunshot.
Suddenly, a soft, mournful violin note cut through the dark, and a warm spotlight bloomed over Ghost. His black violin glinted as he swayed, coaxing the melody into the air. A low, thrumming bass joined him, another spotlight revealing Mick. Thump followed with gentle taps to his cymbals, so delicate it barely fit him, and a third light flooded his elevated kit.
Then the guitar hit. Heavy and commanding. Riff’s head was thrown back when the spotlight caught him, making him look like he was born for his space on the stage.
And everything stopped.
Darkness swallowed the stage again, just for a breath.
Then a final spotlight ignited.
Bodhi stood alone at the front of the stage, arm raised to the heavens like a fallen god begging to be worshipped. The arena froze, every breath held hostage.
“Bonjour, Paris,” he purred into the mic, tilting his head forward to survey the audience. His smirk was wicked, hungry. And in that single second, I knew I wasn’t looking at Just Bodhi anymore.
This was Bodhi Hart. Lead singer of Noctis. An incubus onstage. Devourer of devotion.
And he was fuckinghot.
