“Yeah. Why not?”
I glanced at Clara, who was face down on the table. “Am I allowed?”
She lifted her head just enough to answer. “Should be fine. Sit at the back. Stay quiet.”
“You might struggle with that,” Bodhi teased.
I flipped him off.
“So?” he asked. “Is that a yes?”
I searched Bodhi’s face, unsure what I might find. Regret, maybe. Or that stiff politeness people use when they’re trying to smooth things over.
But his expression wasn’t guarded. If anything, he looked... hopeful. Like he wanted me to go with him. It eased something in my chest, because this wasn’t a pity invite since I had nothing to do. He hadn’t asked out of some weird sense of obligation.
“Okay,” I said after a beat. “I’ll go.”
The photoshoot was chaos. Lights flashing, voices barking directions, assistants darting back and forth like headless chickens. But in front of the camera, Bodhi was effortless.
The shots were for a spread inRIOT, a German-based music magazine. A kind of get-to-know-you introduction. First came the shoot, then, once they wrapped, he’d sit down with the journalist in the café beneath the studio.
Wardrobe had pulled together three looks. A leather vest and tight jeans that echoed his stage wear, an immaculately tailored black suit worn shirtless, and finally, an obscenely tight blackcorset for something more artsy. Against the blood-red backdrop, every outfit only amplified Bodhi’s good looks, and I had to keep reminding myself not to openly drool.
“Ja, Bodhi, just like that,” the photographer called over the rapid click of the camera. “Chin up a little more,ja. A bit more... there.Sehr gut.”
He moved from pose to pose with barely any direction. Spending time with Bodhi offstage made it easy to forget he was a professional. This was his job, and fuck was he good at it. Just like when he stepped under stage lights, the person in front of me wasn’t my friend anymore.
This was Bodhi Hart, lead singer of Noctis. Someone men, women, and enbies all wanted a piece of.
And I’d been lucky enough to get a taste, even if it was only a sample.
He was in his third outfit, the corset, when he wandered over. I’d been leaning against a white brick wall at the back of the studio, keeping out of the way. No one seemed to mind that he’d brought me along, though the photographer had taken an alarming amount of pleasure in turning my face this way and that, complimenting my bone structure. Still, I’d stayed tucked into my corner, watching Bodhi work.
“What do you think?” he asked.
He offered me a bottle of water he’d snagged from the catering table. Because apparently rock stars got a full spread at photoshoots. Not that I was complaining. I’d already demolished several macarons and more tiny sandwiches than I cared to admit.
“It’s a lot,” I said, twisting the cap open. “But it looks fun. Andyoulook hot.”
He smiled, ducking his head, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.
“Favourite outfit?” he asked, gesturing to himself.
“The corset,” I said immediately. “Your waist?” I pinched my fingers together. “Chef’s kiss.”
He nudged my thigh with his foot. “What about the makeup?”
I frowned, tipping my head. “What about it?”
“You’re a makeup artist,” he shrugged. “I want your opinion. Especially since you’ve already established I’m hot.”
I laughed. “Shut up.”
He crouched in front of me, the tight trousers pulling across thighs built not from gym reps but years of throwing himself around onstage.
“Seriously,” he said. “Tell me.”
He tipped his head back to drink, and my eyes betrayed me, tracking the way his Adam’s apple moved. I forced myself to blink and meet his gaze.
