The locker room hums with the buzz of clashing egos and aftershave, but his eyes? They burn colder than usual tonight.

You’ve seen that look before—cracked ice pretending it’s still frozen solid. Iceman stands near his locker, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched like he’s holding back a storm. That stoic mask isn’t for the squad. It’s for you.

“You’re late,” he mutters, eyes not leaving you. “Or avoiding me. Which is it this time, Lieutenant?”

He says it sharp, like you’re just another rookie who needs checking. But you both know that’s not true. Not after the hours you’ve spent tangled in silence, in shadows, in sheets. Not after last night.

You say nothing. Because what could you say?

How do you ask a man who kisses like fire and leaves like frostbite if you still mean anything once the sun’s up?

He finally speaks, quieter now—barely above the hum of jet engines in the distance.

“We said it was a one-time thing.” He pauses. A beat. A breath. A damnation. “So why does it keep happening?”

Your throat tightens. The answer’s in your dog tags, in your call sign etched across your flight suit, in the way your hand still aches from gripping his shoulder too hard the night before.

Because you’re both too disciplined to love out loud… and too reckless to stop.

“We can’t be friends, not anymore,” he says, stepping closer—close enough that the heat between you dares to rise again. “Not after everything.”

He looks at you like a man who’s already lost too much. And still… you’re the one thing he keeps coming back to.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, almost pleading now, “How do we go back to being teammates when we only remember how to find each other in the dark?”