“No,” I said. “Like us.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
BODHI
I’m pretty surethe show was beautiful. But honestly, I spent most of it watching Iggy.
The way he smiled when a line of male dancers, wrapped in white feathers, leapt across the stage. The sharp gasp he sucked in when the prince mistakenly professed his love for the Black Swan. The quiet, helpless tears when the leads met their tragic end.
I only knew the broad strokes of the story because I’d done a frantic Google search in the bathroom during intermission. Considering there were no words, I figured it didn’t matter that we were watching it in Milan. Ballet was universal. Still, I had no idea what the fuck was going on, and the awareness made me feel like an uncultured swine.
But Iggy was enthralled, and that made the confusion worth it.
I had to admit, the male dancers were hot. Shirtless and slick with sweat, bodies stacked with muscle. They were the opposite of Iggy’s lean, elegant frame. He looked closer to the female dancers, gliding and spinning in tutus, all grace and control. Still just as stunning, only different. And I foundmyself wondering where he’d fit when he danced with his company.
Though, knowing Iggy, there was no real doubt. He would’ve stood out like a beacon. Commanded the stage. Pulled every eye towards him without even trying.
“That was incredible,” Iggy breathed when the final curtain fell. “The dancers were amazing.”
We rose with the rest of the audience and flowed towards the lobby, carried along by the tide of bodies.
“They really were,” I said, trying to summon memories of the performance beyond Iggy’s rapt expressions. “Did you ever performSwan Lake?”
He nodded. “A few times. Never as one of the swans, though.” He lifted an arm and gave it a mock flex. “Not muscular enough.”
I slid an arm around his waist and tugged him into my side. “Still pretty.”
He ducked his head, but not before I caught the blush spreading across his cheeks. “Shut up,” he muttered, though his mouth betrayed him with a smile.
He laced his fingers through mine and tugged me towards the exit, swinging our linked arms between us. We hadn’t gone far before I stopped short.
Iggy turned, brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?” He glanced around. “Why’d you stop?”
I pulled him back against my chest and leaned in close, my lips brushing his ear. “Come with me.”
He looked up through his lashes, a slow smirk curling his mouth. He didn’t argue as I steered him away from the exit and deeper into the building. The further we went, the quieter it became, the murmur of the crowd fading until the only sound left was the echo of our footsteps on marble.
“Where are we going?” Iggy asked, trailing just behind me. “Are we looking for another maintenance cupboard? Because I feel like that’s becoming a pattern. Or do you have a kink I don’t know about?”
“No kinks,” I said, laughing. “And no maintenance closets. You’ll see.”
We moved down the corridor, Iggy pointing out various alcoves we could use for a make-out session if the mood struck. His commentary cut off when I stopped in front of a plain black door.
“Why are we here?” He glanced at the sign—“Stage Door”—then back at me. “Bodhi?”
Instead of answering, I kissed the tip of his nose. Then I opened the door, and we stepped into an entirely different world. Gone was the polished luxury. In its place was organised chaos. Set pieces stacked haphazardly. Costume racks crowded with tulle and feathers. Cables snaked across the floor. The space was empty now, dancers and crew gone for the night, stealing a few hours of rest before returning to do it all again.
I guided Iggy towards the wings, sections divided by long strips of dark fabric. The final set piece still stood in place, a painted moonlit lake mirroring the one from the poster outside. But where the audience had been a short time ago, the red velvet curtain was lifted, revealing row upon row of empty seats. With the house lights on, the theatre looked impossibly vast. The stage felt smaller without the magic of spotlights, stripped back to its bones, yet the charm remained.
I was used to oversized stages in arenas, filled with instruments, amps, and mic stands. With my band.
This, though . . . this was Iggy’s domain.
He stood beside me in the wings, staring at the set the way achild stared at their favourite food. Or the way an antique dealer looked at a rare treasure.
“What are we doing here, Bodhi?” he whispered, like the space was sacred.
