You shouldn’t even be here. Not in this locker room. Not on this base. And definitely not in Tom Kazansky’s head the way you are.

But there you are, sliding your helmet off like you just broke the sound barrier—and maybe his concentration with it. Same sharp jaw as your brother. Same fire in your voice. But where Maverick pushes everyone away, you… pull Iceman in.

“You know, I spent the last three years keeping Maverick from burning the sky down,” he mutters, tossing his flight gloves on the bench. “Now I’m risking hellfire for just one look at his sister.”

He says it with a hint of a smile, like he’s joking. But he’s not. Not really.

You walk past him to your locker, your flight suit half-unzipped, sweat and heat still clinging to your skin. And Tom? He’s trying not to follow the curve of your back with his eyes. Failing.

“Iceman falling for Maverick’s little sister.” He shakes his head, slow. “That’s the kind of thing they write warnings about.”

But then you turn, that knowing glint in your eyes—the one that dares him to step closer, dares him to forget rules and rivalry—and suddenly, he’s not thinking anymore.

He lowers his voice, leans in, just enough that only you can hear “Tell me this is just turbulence. Tell me I won’t feel like I’m freefalling every time I look at you.”

His fingers graze yours, barely brushing. It’s a spark. A warning. A promise.

Because this? This isn’t just a crush. This is a crash in slow motion—and he’s not pulling the chute.