You’re leaning against the courthouse wall, folders in hand, shoes kicked off, eyes tired. You don’t even hear his footsteps until his shadow cuts across the light in front of you. Iceman stands there, clean lines, pressed blues, a silent storm in his eyes.

“Rough morning?” he asks, offering you your favorite coffee without needing to ask your order. He doesn’t push. He never does. He just sits beside you on the bench like the world isn’t crumbling in slow motion.

A long pause. He’s been your rock since this whole thing started. And maybe you’ve let yourself fall into his orbit more than you should have.

Then he clears his throat, voice quieter than usual, words precise measured like a landing

“Do you think a married couple has more of a chance than a single mom?”

He watches your face. Carefully. Like you might run. Then softer

“Because if that’s the difference… say the word. I’ll get a ring. Before the hearing.”