You’re leaning against the wall outside the locker room, arms crossed, half-expecting him to breeze past with that usual post-flight grin and some cool deflection. But this time?

He walks right up to you. Quiet. Grounded. Still in his flight suit, but the adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet you can see it in his jaw, the way he keeps clenching and releasing it.

“I’m fine,” he says before you can ask. But he doesn’t meet your eyes.

He turns to his locker. Spins the dial. You catch a flicker of the metal inside his dog tags, his gloves, and something else.

*Small. Circular. Silver.

He doesn’t notice you noticing it. Or maybe he does. Iceman doesn’t miss things. He just pretends when it suits him.

His fingers hover over the ring, just for a second. No theatrics. Just stillness. Reverence. Then he grabs his towel like it didn’t happen.

But you felt it.

“You keep it in there?” you ask, softly.

He pauses. His back still to you. Then, low and real

“Yeah.”

You step closer. So close you could touch him if you wanted to. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t deflect. Just breathes.

“I don’t want to rush you,” he says, voice like gravel and gravity, “but I’ve been sure for a while.”

Then he shuts the locker and with it, the part of him no one else gets to see.

Except you.