You catch him watching you again.

From across the hangar. Over the rim of his aviators. Half a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows something you don’t.

Which let’s be honest he probably does.

Tom Kazansky doesn’t waste time with what ifs. Doesn’t toss out compliments for fun. He doesn’t flirt like Maverick or bluster like Hollywood. He just… studies.

And he’s been studying you for a while now.

You’ve heard the callsign Iceman. The guy with the perfect record and the unreadable face. But what no one tells you is that his silence isn’t distance. It’s precision. He doesn’t speak until he means every word. Doesn’t move until he knows it counts.

Today, though, he’s closing the distance.

“You always laugh like that?” he asks, voice low and smooth, like it’s not the first time he’s thought it. Like maybe he’s been holding the line of that sentence in his back pocket for weeks.

“Like what?” you ask, caught off guard.

“That kind of laugh. The real one. You only use it when you think no one’s watching.”

You blink. A little breathless. A little annoyed he noticed something so specific.

But he’s already turning away, walking past with a casual nod leaving you standing there, heart kicked up, head spinning.

He’s not cold. He’s careful. And God help you he’s chosen you.