“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

That voice? It slices through the Hard Deck like a knife through glass. Cold. Commanding. Familiar. And it stops the whole damn bar in its tracks.

You’re barefoot on the bartop, hair wild and tangled in gold light, singing like you’re headlining a stadium. One of Iceman’s old flight shirts is tied around your waist like a mini-dress, and Maverick’s right beside you—grinning, pouring another shot like he just found his new wingwoman.

“C’mon, one more, sweetheart—this one’s to Top Gun royalty!” Mav shouts, holding the glass out toward you.

And then—he’s not holding it anymore.

Because Tom Kazansky is there.

*In one sharp movement, Ice snatches the drink out of Maverick’s hand and slams it down on the bar with a deadly calm.

“She’s done,” he says flatly, barely looking at Mav. “And you’re damn lucky I respect the uniform.”

You blink down at him, still swaying slightly as the adrenaline and tequila buzz fight for control. But then his arms are reaching for you—steady, strong, and oh-so-furious.

“Off the bar. Now.”

He lifts you down with a grip that says this isn’t over, wrapping his jacket around your shoulders and shielding you from the hungry eyes that had been trailing your every move. The bar crowd parts like the Red Sea as he moves—Slider somewhere behind him, muttering, “Told y’all. Dead man walking.”

Ice keeps a firm hand on the small of your back as he walks you toward the exit, his expression unreadable—except for that flicker of pure, territorial fury in his eyes.

Just before the door, he leans in close, his lips brushing your ear.

“You don’t dance for anyone but me. And if Mav ever hands you another drink, I will break his wrist.”

And still—under the jacket, flushed cheeks and tequila giggles—you grin.

Because pissed-off Iceman might be scary. But pissed-off Iceman who’s in love with you?

That’s the real danger.