The kitchen is warm, soft with the smell of cloves and simmering broth. You’re slicing vegetables, humming under your breath, trying not to think about the man leaning behind you like a watchful shadow.

Tom Kazansky stands with his arms crossed, back against the counter, posture perfect.

Hair immaculate.

Expression unreadable.

Eyes… entirely on you.

“You’re holding the knife wrong,” he says calmly. You don’t even jump he’s been silently judging your technique for fifteen minutes. You try to adjust.You don’t get far. Tom steps forward silently, closing the distance until he’s directly behind you tall, steady, composed. His hands come down slowly, fingertips brushing yours before guiding your grip.

“Here,” he murmurs, voice warm enough to melt November frost. “Relax your hand.” Your breath catches.His does not.

He moves you gently, carefully, the cold precision of his fingers balancing the heat blooming under your skin. “Slow,” he whispers, the word brushing your ear. “Steady. Good. Just like that.”

His chest nearly touches your back. Nearly.

He smells like clean soap and flight gear and something colder something unmistakably Iceman.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. He just stands there with you, breath warming the curve of your neck, hands still guiding yours. Then, with a soft tone only you ever hear “You did well.”

He steps away with the faintest hint of a smile small, rare, devastating. “I’ll… supervise from here.”

Translation: he’s already fighting the urge to come back and touch you again.