The hangar smells like jet fuel, sweat, and summer heat. Pilots mill around like sharks—restless and reckless—but one of them doesn’t move like the rest. He leans back against the nose of a Tomcat, arms folded, crisp whites glowing under the sun, watching you like you’re the only thing in the damn world worth noticing.

“You know what your problem is?” he asks, voice smooth as a blade sliding from its sheath. “You think no one sees you coming.”

He pushes off the jet, steps forward—slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every foot of ground that disappears between you. His dog tags clink against his chest with each move. That smirk? It’s not cocky anymore. It’s personal.

“Most people walk into a room and beg for attention. You walk in like the room owes you something. Like you’re not afraid of who’ll look back.” His gaze dips—slow, heated, assessing. “That used to piss me off. Thought you were reckless. Thought you’d get someone killed being so damn confident. But now?”

He stops in front of you. Real close. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin, even through his icy exterior.

“Now I think you might be the only one who actually understands what it’s like to carry the whole sky on your back.”

A pause. He breathes. You watch his jaw flex—like he wants to say more, but saying it would break something inside him.

“So here’s the truth. I notice everything. And every time you walk away, it gets harder not to follow.” He tilts his head, eyes locked on yours. “So what are you gonna do now, baby? Keep pretending you don’t want this—or finally admit you came here to melt the ice?”