Where The Ice Gives Way Chapter 109

**Charlotte**

I wake to a heavy hand spread across my waist. I lie there under it, staring at the pale wash of morning light stretching through Blake’s curtains and trying to work out if I’m imagining things. His arm feels heavier than it did yesterday. Warmer too, the weight of it pinning me in place in a way that should feel restrictive but somehow doesn’t. It feels safe. Carefully, I reach down and trace the line of muscle in his forearm with the tip of my finger. It’s firmer than it was two days ago. I follow it up to his bicep, then higher, my eyes catching on the shape of his shoulder where the sheet has slipped low enough to expose it. That definitely looks more defined. Maybe that’s just the hormones talking. 

*Or maybe,* Shanti supplies dryly, *he is growing into his role.* I bite back a smile.

I move slightly in his arms, turning enough that I can look at him properly. He’s still asleep, his face softer than it ever is when he’s awake, his mouth relaxed, his dark hair pushed in every direction from sleep. The bond hums quietly between us as I brush my fingers over the mark at his neck. His whole body tightens for half a second before he makes a low sound and pulls me closer. “Lotty,” he mutters, still half asleep. “You’re dangerous in the morning.”

I laugh softly. “You’re the one crushing me.” His eyes crack open slowly, followed by a smile that could melt a frozen sea.

“Morning.”

“Morning.” His hand slides once over my waist, and I swear the touch is heavier too, broader, like he’s still Blake and also somehow more than he was when we fell asleep. Shanti hums again, smug enough that I almost roll my eyes at her.

Growing into his role, apparently, also means growing out of his shirts—the first one tears when Blake tries to pull it over his shoulders too quickly. There’s a sharp rip just under one arm, and he freezes halfway into it while I stare at him and then at the torn seam and then back at him again. He looks down. I look at the shirt, and I can’t help it; I laugh.

“Don’t,” he warns. He yanks it off and tosses it onto the bed with a muttered swear before reaching for another one from the chair. “That one was old,” he says.

“Of course it was.”

“It was.”

The second shirt he gets over his head, one arm through before the stitching across the shoulder gives way with a sound that makes me clap a hand over my mouth and fall sideways into the pillow, trying not to lose my mind. Blake closes his eyes very slowly. “You done?”

“No,” I say honestly, already laughing again. His glare does absolutely nothing to help. He gives up and drags his hockey jersey over his head instead. I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed, wiping at tears from the corners of my eyes while he stands there looking deeply unimpressed with both me and, apparently, his own body. The jersey fits. Technically. It hangs looser than the school shirt did, but only just. The shoulders pull tighter than they used to, and when he moves, the fabric catches across his chest. He points at me, while I bite back a grin. “Not a word.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

I smile sweetly. “Would I do that?”

“Yes.” Fair.

Charlie looks like he’s about to burst into laughter the second we come downstairs, and he catches sight of Blake in the jersey. His mouth opens, and his eyes light up. Then Blake pins him with one hard look from across the room. Charlie shuts his mouth so fast it’s almost impressive. Mara, standing by the stove, turns with a plate in her hands and takes one look at Blake before her brows lift. “We can get you some new clothes before school, darling,” she says, setting the plate down in front of him before patting his arm.

Blake exhales hard through his nose as he sits, but smiles at her anyway. “Thanks, Mum.”

Charlie loses that battle now, snorting into his juice hard enough that some of it nearly comes back out his nose.

“Careful,” Blake says flatly. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Charlie points at the jersey. “Dude. It looks like you stole it off a middle schooler.”

“I hate this house.”

Breakfast moves quickly after that. Charlie talks. Mara reminds him to chew before speaking. Gareth asks what time school finishes and whether I’m still working this afternoon. When I tell him yes, he nods once and says patrol will be heavier around the diner again. Blake says nothing to that, but his fingers tighten briefly around his fork.

The rest of the day passes without too much drama, if you don’t include running commentary from Theo. Through all of it, Blake stays close, and I keep noticing how much more space he takes up now. Not just physically, but people move around him faster, almost instinctively. He still senses those little flickers before they break, the heat of tension in crowded hallways, the small moments before a shove or an argument or something stupid becomes something louder. Twice today, I feel him go still before anything happens, and both times, he’s already looking in the right direction before voices rise. No one else seems to understand what they’re seeing. I do. Or at least, I’m beginning to.

By the last bell, I’m wrung out from pretending I’m paying attention in class and trying not to stare at him every time he moves. When Blake drives me to work, the afternoon light is already thinning, turning everything outside the car windows pale and washed gold. He pulls up in front of the diner and kills the engine, but this time neither of us rushes to move.

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask him quietly.

His mouth curves a little. “You’ve asked me that about six times today.”

“I’m aiming for seven.”

He turns in his seat and pulls me towards him for a kiss. “I’ll be right here when you finish. Don’t worry about me.” He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering for a second along my jaw before he leans in again. By the time he pulls back, I’m panting.

“Good luck with training,” I whisper.

He huffs a quiet laugh against my mouth. “I don’t need luck when I have you.”

I open the door, step out, then lean back in just before I shut it. “Try not to launch anyone into another dimension.”

“No promises.”

I laugh, shut the door, and head toward the diner while his engine idles at the curb before the car finally pulls away. Then I turn, square my shoulders, and head inside—time to get back to normal things.