“We are Noctis,” he announced, smooth and wicked. “And tonight...” He paused, letting the tension coil around the crowd. His smirk deepened. “Tonight, you’re ours.”
The crowd detonated, and Bodhi lowered his arm, slow and theatrical, like dropping the blade of a guillotine.
“Let us hear you scream!”
And then the lights exploded, the band launched in, and the arena went fucking feral.
For the next ninety minutes, I couldn’t tear my eyes off Bodhi. He owned every inch of that stage, leaping, growling into the mic, hair soaked as if he’d showered in his own sweat. He didn’t just endure the intensity, he fed on it, and I snorted when he shook his head like a drenched puppy.
My mind drifted, unbidden, to rehab. To the day he confessed that performing made him feel seen. And I realised: I was lucky enough to see him now too.
But not just the rock star, all swagger and sin. I saw the man behind the mask. The one with fragile edges and quiet fears. The boy who worried sobriety made him boring. The guy who adored his mum, never knew his dad, and tried, every damn day, not to fuck up his progress.
Knowing all that made something in my chest twist. I wanted to walk right onto the stage. Not to perform, because that wasn’t who I was anymore, but to stand beside him.
To tell him plainly,“I see you, Bodhi.”
And I just wished, for his sake, that could be enough.
CHAPTER
SIX
BODHI
There wasno chance to sleep in the next morning. Clara had us up at six to head for the airport and catch our flight to Amsterdam. We had plenty of time before take-off, but she wanted everyone awake and ready in case something went wrong. Usually, “something” meant dragging Ghost out of bed, since he was hopeless at waking up on time.
But apparently, this morning came with an extra complication Clara hadn’t accounted for.
Iggy.
Even back in rehab, he rarely emerged before ten. If there was a group session or activity before then, he’d either miss it entirely or have me pounding on his door until he crawled out from under his quilt. Re-entering the real world hadn’t magically fixed that.
By six thirty, the two sleepyheads still hadn’t shown up in the lobby. Clara grew more irritated by the minute, so Riff and I decided to intervene. As our manager, Clara had a spare key to everyone’s room in case of emergencies—even Iggy’s.
“Which one d’you want?” Riff asked, holding up the keys like playing cards.
I snatched Iggy’s and we headed back to the third floor. Riff veered left towards Ghost, while I took the familiar path to the right. I stopped outside four-oh-nine and pounded on the door.
“Iggy,” I called, like I’d done countless times before. “Time to get up. We gotta go.”
Silence.
I tried again, and by the third time, there was still nothing. If I kept it up, I’d be getting murderous looks from other nearby guests.
“Sorry, Iggy,” I muttered. “You’ve left me no choice.”
The lock beeped, and as soon as I stepped inside, I was hit with the soft sweetness of Iggy’s peach-scented world. The room was dark except for a pale stripe of early sunlight cutting through a gap in the curtains, illuminating the lump curled beneath the duvet. Pink hair spilled across the pillow; a purple-socked foot poked out at the bottom.
It was stupidly, achingly cute. My chest tightened with affection. My fingers almost twitched with the urge to draw him exactly as he was, curled up and soft and unguarded. But time was not on our side. If we didn’t get downstairs soon, Clara would go nuclear and make the rest of our day off unbearable.
I peeled back the duvet. Iggy groaned and curled deeper into himself, face squashed into the pillow, hands tucked beneath his chin.
“Waz goin’ on?” he mumbled.
“We’re heading to Amsterdam. You gotta get up.”
He made a noise—something between “too tired” and “go away”—and burrowed even further. One glance at my phone made the decision for me: he was getting dragged out of bed, one way or another.
