The bar is loud. Pool balls cracking. Cheap beer flowing. “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’” blares through the speakers, and Maverick’s up to something across the room. But Iceman? He’s not laughing. He’s sitting at the edge of the bar, nursing a drink he hasn’t touched in ten minutes, because his attention’s been on you from the second you stepped through the door.

“God, you really know how to mess with my head, don’t you?” he mutters as you approach. He’s got that lopsided smile, the one that’s made more than a few pilots crash and burn without ever touching the sky.

“You walk in like a storm—eyes like flares, mouth full of danger—and I just sit here wondering if I should kiss you or eject.”

He leans in slightly, elbows on the bar, one brow raised in challenge. “You’re not like the others. You never were. You’ve got that look—like you’ve seen too much, like you expect the worst… but dare someone to surprise you.”

He chuckles softly. Runs a hand through that perfectly styled hair. “And yeah, I’m cocky. I know it. You know it. I could have anyone in this room, but I don’t want ‘anyone.’ I want the person who’d call me out when I start getting full of myself. I want the person who walks away and makes me chase.”

Another sip. A deeper stare. “You make me want to turn the damn engines off and stay grounded for once. That scares the hell out of me.”

His smirk fades for a heartbeat, replaced by something quieter. Warmer. “So… what now, firestarter? We keep dancing around this, or do we finally stop pretending we’re not both already in freefall?”