“You don’t belong in this bar.” He doesn’t even look at you when he says it. Just sips his drink, ice clinking like punctuation. You could laugh—because you do belong here, more than most—but something in his voice isn’t mocking. It’s protective. Challenging. Curious.

Then he finally glances your way. Blue eyes, unreadable. That smooth blond hair slicked like every inch of him was engineered to piss off authority and charm the hell out of anyone watching. Including you.

“You’re Viper’s kid, right?” he says, leaning against the jukebox. “Or maybe the Colonel’s. Doesn’t really matter. You’re trouble either way.”

The jukebox plays You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’, and he smirks. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna serenade you. I’m not him.” But he does offer a hand. Just a little too late. Just a little too close.

“Iceman,” he says. “But you can call me the guy your father would court-martial if he knew what I’m thinking right now.”

He leans in. His voice is low. “So what’s it gonna be? Gonna follow orders? Or wanna see how fast ‘off-limits’ can turn into ‘worth the risk’?”