I swallowed, trying to push away the strange wave of emotions rising in my chest. This was normal. He was thirteen, soon to be fourteen. His voice was supposed to change.

Blake must have noticed the way I was staring at him because his expression flickered, a hint of curiosity flashing across his face.

“What?” he asked, his voice dipping slightly again.

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “It’s just…your voice.”

His eyebrows pulled together. “What about it?”

I shrugged, trying to play it off, but the change still rattled me in a way I couldn’t explain. “It’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Deeper.”

Blake let out a soft, almost reluctant huff of laughter. “Yeah,” he muttered. “It’s been happening for a while.”

I knew that. Of course, I knew that.

I’d heard the cracks, the shifts, the moments where he would clear his throat and try to smooth it out, pretending like it hadn’t happened. But now, hearing it settled, steady, it felt like something had changed for good.

“You sound older,” I admitted, not really sure why it felt so strange to say out loud.

Blake rolled his eyes, but I swore I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Well, yeah. That’s kind of how it works.”

I gave a small nod and turned to Mom, my voice soft but hopeful. “Mom,” I murmured, choosing my words carefully. “Maybe if you talk to the school, you can figure something out. You could ask if he can be in my class.”

As I spoke, I batted my lashes and tilted my head just slightly, giving her my best pleading look. If there was ever a time to pull out all the stops, this was it. I wasn’t above a little persuasion, and Mom had caved before when I really put my heart into it.

Her gaze flickered between me, Dad, and Blake, hesitation written all over her face. She seemed torn, weighing the options in her head.

For a moment, I thought she might brush off the suggestion, but then I caught Blake’s expression. His eyes were locked on her, softer, more vulnerable—the kind of look that made it impossible to say no.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Blake understood better than anyone how to get to her, how to tap into that instinctive motherly guilt she could never quite resist. He wasn’t one for big speeches or dramatic gestures, but he didn’t need to be. Those big, earnest eyes of his did all the work.

He wasn’t just asking; he was silently begging.

I saw it happen in real-time—the way Mom’s resolve wavered, the way her shoulders tensed for just a moment before slowly relaxing.