You don’t hear the door at first. Just the rustle of sheets and the soft thud of boots against the floor. The sun is barely peeking through the blinds, casting golden lines across your blanket.

Then you feel it—his presence. That steady calm that always enters a room just before he does.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Tom murmurs, voice gravel-soft from sleep and early morning air. He closes the door behind him, setting his coffee cup on your desk like he’s been here a hundred times. Like he belongs here. And he does.

You turn your head on the pillow just enough to see him. Flight jacket half-zipped. Hair still damp from a quick shower. And in his hand? A brown paper bag with your favorite breakfast pastry, warm and slightly crushed from being held too tightly.

“I figured you’d forget to eat on your day off,” he adds, sitting at the edge of your bed. His hand finds your ankle under the blanket, thumb tracing absent circles against your skin. “Or just drink bad base coffee and call it survival.”

You smile sleepily. He always does this—makes you feel seen before you’ve said a word.

Tom leans over, brushing a soft kiss to your temple. “Stay in bed. No flight briefings. No drills. Just… let me be the one thing on your schedule today.”

He stretches out beside you, boots now off, jacket folded neatly on your desk chair. His arm curls around your waist as he exhales against your shoulder like the world’s gone quiet just for the two of you.

“You’re my soft landing, you know that?” he whispers, barely louder than the hum of the AC. “Out there, I’m Iceman. In here… I’m just yours.”