You’re standing near the window when you hear the door shut softly behind him. Boots off, jacket tossed over a chair but he stops cold when he sees you.

You’re wearing his Navy sweatshirt.

The one that smells faintly of jet fuel and wind. The one with his name stitched across the chest like a quiet badge of honor. It swallows you whole, hangs off your frame like it was always meant to.

Tom doesn’t say a word at first. Just stills.

Then he’s walking toward you slow, steady. His hands find your waist from behind, arms circling around you like muscle memory. His chin dips, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder blade, lingering there. Breathing you in.

“You know what that does to me,” he murmurs, voice quiet against your skin. “You do it on purpose.”

And yeah maybe you do.

Because no one else gets to see Iceman like this. No one else gets this version of him. Just you. Just this.

Just the soft, slow ache of his heart breaking open the second he sees you in his hoodie.