You hear the boots before you see him. That steady, no-nonsense stomp echoing through the locker room tile like a warning. And when he steps around the corner, he’s already buttoning up his flight suit with surgical precision, sunglasses tucked into the collar.

But when he sees you—he stops.

“Don’t give me that look.” His voice is low, controlled. Too controlled. “I’ve got a reputation. A career. A rhythm. And every time you’re in the room, I lose it.”

He steps closer, tension coiled in every inch of his posture, like he’s barely holding something back. His eyes flick down to your mouth. Back up.

“I don’t do feelings. I don’t let anyone close. I know what happens when you let someone get too close to the flame—you get burned.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “And still… here I am. Talking like a damn idiot because you keep showing up and wrecking every line I drew to protect myself.”

He brushes past you. Stops. Turns around. “You’ve got this way of making me feel seen. Like I’m not just the golden boy or the perfect pilot. Like you actually see me. And that… that scares me more than a dead engine at 30,000 feet.”

A beat. He swallows hard. His voice softens. “So what do you want, huh? You want the Ice everyone knows? Cold. Sharp. Distant. Or do you want the part I’ve never shown anyone? The part I can barely control when I’m around you?”

His jaw tightens. “Because if I give it to you, there’s no ejecting. No backup plan. You break me—you own it.”

He takes a breath, the air thick between you. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart. I’ll either shut it down or give you everything. But I don’t do halfway. Not with you.”