Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
IGGY
I woke up feeling better than I had in ages. Like, genuinely better. My hip felt loose, cooperative, almost friendly, and I stretched without that familiar jolt of pain snapping me back into my body. I even groaned when my back popped a few times, the sound indulgent, pleased with itself.
All because of the Tramadol. An opioid. Stronger than the over-the-counter stuff I’d been surviving on.
In the end, I’d taken two. One to start, because that was sensible.
Medicinal. And then, when nothing really happened after an hour, when the ache still sat there, stubborn and loud, I took another.
That was still within reason, right? It wasn’t like I’d gone wild with it.
It didn’t take long after that for the pain to melt away, or for the heaviness to sink into my limbs.
I barely remembered lying down. I just knew I’d fallen asleep on top of the duvet, still wearing the flour-dusted clothes from the restaurant.
But waking up like this made it worth it.
Worth it to stretch without wincing. Worth it to swing my legs out of bed without bracing myself.
Worth it to walk to the bathroom without doing that stupid mental calculation of how much pain I could tolerate before it showed on my face.
Worth it to know I could get through the first Milan show without constantly looking for somewhere to sit down.
I took another pill after breakfast.
Just one this time. Not because I needed it, as such. Just to make sure the pain didn’t come back. To keep things steady. Controlled. I didn’t want the fogginess that came with two at once, just enough to hold onto this feeling. Just enough to stop the ache from creeping back in and ruining my day.
I hadn’t seen Bodhi this morning, even after insisting we sleep in our own beds last night. Instead, I woke up to a single text message, sent while I was still out cold.
Bodhi:
Band meeting this morning.
Will come and find you after.
If I didn’t know that was just how Bodhi texted—blunt, no fluff—I might’ve spiralled.
Might’ve convinced myself he was annoyed that I’d pushed for space.
But I felt too good to let my brain run away with me now.
Too calm. So, when there was a knock at my door an hour before we were due to leave for the venue, I didn’t hesitate to open it.
Bodhi stood there in grey sweats and a worn Noctis hoodie, looking comfortable in a way that made my chest feel tight in a good way.
His hair was a mess, like he’d run his hands through it too many times to count, and he was bouncing slightly on his heels.
If it weren’t for the relaxed set of his shoulders or the way his mouth curved when he saw me, I might’ve thought he was nervous.
But it wasn’t nerves. It was more like . . . excitement.
“You okay?” I asked, smiling despite myself.
I stepped aside, and he practically skipped into the room. He sat on the edge of my bed and held out his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Come sit with me.”
“Okaaay,” I said, dragging it out, suspicious.
I took his hand and sat down beside him.
But apparently, that wasn’t close enough.
Bodhi slid his hands under my knees and turned me sideways with surprising ease, draping my legs over one of his thighs.
My ass sank into the mattress, my feet dangling between his legs, my chest pressed against his side as his arm wrapped around me.
I didn’t protest. Didn’t even think about it.
“What’s up?” I asked again.
His free hand settled on my knee, thumb moving in slow, grounding circles that made me acutely aware of how good my body felt right now.
“Remember at the Willow,” he said, “when you cussed me out for being a wet blanket about the label?”
I frowned, digging through my memory. “I don’t think it was quite like that.”
He laughed softly. “You’re right. It was worse. You basically told me to grow some balls and stand my ground.”
I looked down, twisting a strand of hair around my finger. “Look, I’m sorry—”
“You don’t need to apologise.” He kissed the top of my head, warm and familiar. “You were right.”
I blinked and looked up at him.
“Huh?”
He grinned, and his hand left my knee to wrap around mine, gently tugging the strand of hair free from my fingers.
“I was scared when it came to the label,” he admitted with a shrug. “They kept taking more and more from us, but they also gave us so much in return that fighting back felt . . . ungrateful.”
Bodhi leaned forward until his forehead rested against mine.
“I stayed silent, and somewhere along the way, I lost sight of the Noctis I loved. I let them shape us into the version the world wanted, and the music stopped meaning what it used to.” He exhaled slowly. “It just wasn’t fun anymore.”
I threaded my fingers through his and squeezed, saying nothing. Just listening. Quietly supporting.
“The band had a meeting today,” he continued. “Just us. No Clara.”
I lifted my brows. “Really?”
He nodded. “Turns out we all feel the same way. We’re done pretending everything’s fine. We’re going to talk to the label after the tour.”
“A talk?” I echoed.
“Yeah.” His mouth curved. “We’re gonna figure out what we actually want and lay it all out for them.”
I huffed a laugh. “Sounds like a hostage negotiation.”
“Thump said the exact same thing,” he said, amused. “If they won’t meet us halfway, we walk.”
I jerked back slightly. “You’ll what?!”
“We’ll look at other labels,” he said, like the answer was simple. “Riff even floated the idea of going independent.”
“Is that even possible?”
He shrugged. “Apparently. We’ve built something big enough that we don’t need the label the way we used to.”
I smirked and bumped my shoulder against his chest. “Hey, if Taylor Swift can re-record her entire discography, I’m sure Noctis can survive on its own.”
He laughed and kissed my temple. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Iggy Pop.”
I really looked at him then.
He didn’t seem nervous. If anything, he looked lighter than I’d ever seen him. His shoulders weren’t drawn up around his ears anymore. His eyes were brighter, still tired, still marked by everything he’d been carrying, but no longer guarded. No longer braced for impact.
He looked happier.
And it suited him.
I imagined this was how he’d looked in the early days. Before contracts and expectations. Back when it was just him and Riff and the reckless idea to start a band. When it didn’t matter how many people were listening, only that someone was.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It felt gentler than anything we’d done before. Somehow more intimate than our heavier make-out sessions.
“I’m proud of you, Just Bodhi,” I whispered.
His hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair. The feel of his fingertips against my scalp sent a shiver down my spine.
“I was only brave because of you,” he said.
I smiled.
But my hands tensed slightly where they rested against his neck, my thoughts drifting to the bedside drawer. To the small orange bottle tucked out of sight.
And I wondered if he’d still say that if he knew what I was keeping from him.
Something about the Milan show felt different.
I couldn’t tell if it was because of the secret band meeting, or if they were just glad to be back onstage after a few days off.
But the performance crackled with energy, and the crowd fed on it like a live wire.
Riff and Mick played like their guitars were extensions of their bodies, headbanging so hard it gave me whiplash just watching them.
Ghost’s fingers flew across the keys, relentless and precise, while Thump battered the drums like they’d personally wronged him.
And Bodhi . . .
He threw himself around the stage like a man possessed. Even during songs I knew weren’t his favourites, the ones where his energy usually dipped, he went all in. By the middle of the set, he was drenched in sweat, his voice raw from screaming lyrics into the void.
But it was his face that held me.
His mouth was split into a wide, almost feral grin, blue eyes blazing under the stage lights.
During a song about burning out too young and surviving anyway, he dropped to his knees, and one of the artful rips in his jeans tore wider than it was meant to.
Blood welled from a small cut, darkening the denim, but he didn’t even flinch.
He just stomped his feet, clapped his hands, and kept moving like pain had no jurisdiction over him tonight.
“We were kings of the moment, till the moment broke us.
Back when we were loud, I thought I’d stay that young.”
He was exhilarated. High on adrenaline instead of chemicals. And he’d never looked more alive. More present. I wanted to run onto the stage, crash into his chest, and kiss him in front of the fifteen thousand fans packed into the Unipol Forum.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed.
Clara stood beside me in the wings, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
“Jesus,” she breathed. “I haven’t seen them play like this in . . . years.”
“They’re amazing,” I said, because it was the only word that fit.
She didn’t know about the meeting. Didn’t know what had shifted beneath the surface. And it wasn’t my place to tell her. For all I knew, this had nothing to do with plans or ultimatums. Maybe they were just in a good mood. Maybe the stars had aligned.
But when it came to Bodhi, I didn’t think it was accidental.
“If I could talk to that kid again, I wouldn’t tell him to slow it down.
I’d just say, ‘Hold on to something real before the noise drowns it out.’”
Watching him now, it felt like he’d woken from a long, heavy sleep. Like he wasn’t running on muscle memory anymore, wasn’t coasting through a set he’d played a hundred times before.
This wasn’t just a good show.
This was transcendence.