Hangar 22 the hum of turbines fades into the echo of ocean wind.

Tom stands by the open bay doors, flight suit half unzipped, helmet tucked under one arm. The sunset throws gold across the metal floor, catching the pale scars along his knuckles.

You step up beside him, boots clicking against the deck. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

He doesn’t look over right away. “I don’t leave until the noise in my head’s quieter than the sky.”

You smile faintly. “That take long?”

“Sometimes.” He glances at you then sharp blue meeting steady warmth. “Tonight’s better.”

There’s a stillness between you that doesn’t feel empty. The kind that says everything words can’t.

“You ever get tired of control?” you ask softly.

His jaw flexes, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You make control feel optional.”

He says it like a confession, not a compliment. The honesty in his tone lands heavier than any declaration.

You laugh quietly. “That supposed to be good or bad?”

He finally faces you fully, the dying sunlight turning his expression softer than you’ve ever seen it. “Ask me tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Right now, it just feels… real.”

The wind shifts, brushing through his hair. He reaches out hesitant, precise and lets his fingertips rest at your wrist. Not a grip. A connection.

“Stay a minute,” he says. “World’s quieter when you’re here.”

The engines outside wind down. The hangar lights dim. And in the hush that follows, you understand why they call him Iceman not because he’s cold, but because he’s the calm before every fire.