Page 52 of Bloom in Darkness

His fingers close around mine, slow and careful. Caelan waits another beat before he speaks. “I can call Forrest. We'll put you in the private box, security on the back entrance, and you won't have to be on the floor.” Bryn looks at Caelan, then back at me, and finally nods.

Caelan points at me with the hand holding his phone. “You stay with me during the fight. If you want out, you tell me and we leave.” I agree and reach for my bag before either of them can add another condition.

Twenty minutes later I'm upstairs changing out of Bryn’s shirt and into dark jeans and a black sweater. My heel barely hurts, but I put shoes on before he can remind me, then pause over my open bag and deliberately slide the sketchbook inside. I’m not taking it because I expect to get bored; I want to draw the Forge and remember what Bryn looks like under those lights after tonight is over.

When I come back downstairs, Caelan’s pulling on his coat near the door and Bryn has changed into a black shirt, dark jeans, and boots. He looks ready without looking excited. I stop in front of him. “You're nervous.”

"Not about the fight," he says. His hand settles around the back of my neck and draws me forward into a hard, grounding kiss that lasts until I feel some of the tension in him ease beneath my palms.

When he pulls back, his thumb stays against my jaw. “If you hate what you see, tell me.”

“I will.” I leave my hand against his chest.

His thumb stays against my jaw. “If you never want to watch me fight again, tell me that too.”

I straighten his collar. “I know. I’m still coming.”

Bryn finally exhales, some of the tension leaving his hand where it rests against my neck.

Caelan

The back corridors of the Forge always smell like sweat, leather, and sharp liniment on fight nights, with a metallic edge underneath once the first bouts start. Upstairs, everything is polished wood, clean glass, and money; down here, there’s tape stuck to benches, ice buckets wedged under folding tables, and junior staff moving quickly enough to avoid being in anybody’s way.

Astra keeps pace beside me without hesitation. I’d expected the noise to hit him first, maybe the crowd or the fighters warming up behind open doors, but he’s more interested than overwhelmed, his eyes moving from the hands being wrapped near the medical station to the security checks at the steel access doors and then to the pair of younger fighters shadowboxing at the end of the hall. He watches feet, shoulders, the way fighters shift their weight, then looks back at their faces. “Is it always this loud down here?”

“Only on fight nights.” I steer him around a stack of equipment cases. “Most days it’s training, roadwork, people pretending they don’t need ice after sparring, and Forrest swearing at somebody’s paperwork.”

Astra glances toward an open doorway where one of the trainers is checking a fighter’s shoulder. “And you’re usually down here?”

We pass a cart stacked with fresh towels. “Depends on what Forrest needs and whether Bryn’s on the card.”

“You stay close when he fights.” Astra looks toward the corridor that leads to the ring.

“Yeah.” I keep pace beside him, already knowing where this line of questions is going.

He’s been in our house long enough to see the easy parts of us now: Bryn cutting fruit because Astra’s upset, me letting him work cream into my knee while I pretend the pain’s manageable, all three of us ending up in the same room without planning it. The Forge is different, stripped down to the part of our lives where people get hurt on purpose and everybody knows exactly what they’re being paid for.

Astra slows near another open training room. A fighter sits on a stool while his coach wraps both hands, and Astra studies the tension across the man’s shoulders, then the neat layers of tape over his knuckles.

“You brought the sketchbook, didn’t you?” I ask.

Astra gives me an innocent look that lasts less than a second. “I wanted to see the place. Not just the ring.” He looks toward the next training room.

We round the corner toward the private boxes and nearly walk into Forrest. He has a clipboard tucked against one forearm, a phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, and the expression of a man who’s already solved six problems today and resents the existence of a seventh.

Forrest ends the call with a curt promise to deal with something after the second bout, then looks from me to Astra. “So this is Astra.”

Astra looks Forrest over once. “Depends. Have you heard flattering things?”

“Mixed reports.” Forrest offers his free hand.

Astra takes it. “Astra.”

Forrest grips his hand once and lets go. “Forrest.” Then he looks at me. “You’re in box three. I moved security because Halden brought more people than he cleared, so don’t take Astra onto the floor unless you tell me first.”

“Wasn’t planning to.” I tuck my hands into my coat pockets.

Forrest nods like that’s beside the point. “I know. I’m saying it because if I don’t, Bryn will ask whether I said it. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall, red doors are emergency exits, and if you need anything, ask the guard outside the box instead of wandering. Fight night makes people stupid.”