Everyone in the room knows Maverick’s a flirt. But today? He’s pushing it—laughing too loud at your jokes, leaning a little too close, that golden boy smile just a little too long. And you? You’re being your usual charming self. Sweet. Oblivious. Taken.

By Iceman.

Tom doesn’t say much—doesn’t need to. But his arm finds your waist with a quiet, deliberate ease. His hand slides to your lower back, grounding you. Claiming you.

“You always this friendly with backseaters?” His voice is velvet over ice. Not loud. But Maverick hears it. Everyone hears it.

You feel his fingers press just slightly tighter, a whisper of tension under his calm.

He leans in, lips near your ear, voice low—only for you. “He looks at you like he’s never had you. I look at you like I’ll never let you go.”

Then, softer—his breath warm against your skin “I don’t mind reminding them. You’re mine, sweetheart.”